w2s x fem reader where shes out w maybe talip freya etc and shes so drunk and she just wants harry and he has to come get her and shes just so in love
Drunk in Love - Harry Lewis
description: you should know better than to drink on an empty stomach, and you should really stop telling everyone about what you let Harry do to you as soon as you've had a glass of wine.
warnings: none really, mainly fluff, kind of suggestive
It was Freya’s birthday, and the four of you had started the night with the best intentions. A nice dinner, a few drinks, maybe some dancing. That plan lasted exactly until the first round of shots hit the table and you realised you’d forgotten to eat anything since breakfast.
Big mistake.
Two hours later you were absolutely steaming. The club lights were spinning, the bass was in your bones, and your filter had completely disappeared.
You were clinging to Talia’s arm, eyes glassy, voice overly sweet as you told her, “You’re so pretty, Talia. Like… I get why Simon can’t keep his hands off you. If I were him I’d be all over you too.” You giggled, then immediately added, “But I want my Harry. He’s the only one who gets to put his hands where he wants.”
Talia burst out laughing, patting your head. “You’re a menace when you’re drunk.”
“I’m not a menace,” you protested, swaying into her. “I’m just honest. And horny. And I miss Harry’s hands. They’re big and warm and they do that thing on my waist that makes my brain go fuzzy… and then there’s the thigh thing. God, the thigh thing…”
Freya and Faith were losing it nearby, barely holding back tears of laughter.
“Mate, she’s gone,” Faith grinned, phone out. “This is gold.”
You pointed dramatically at the ceiling. “Why isn’t Harry here? It’s Freya’s birthday and my boyfriend isn’t here to… wish you happy birthday or…to pin me against a wall.”
The girls howled.
You were mid-rant about how Harry’s hoodie smelled like home and how you wanted to steal it and wear nothing else when you accidentally backed into someone.
“Oi, watch where you’re— oh. It’s you lot,” Simon laughed, steadying you.
Talia lit up. “Babe!”
You squinted at Simon, then at Talia, then back at Simon. Your bottom lip wobbled.
“Simon… you get to go home with Talia and do all the couple things. That’s so unfair. I want Harry.” Your voice cracked. “It’s been six months and I still get stupidly turned on when he says my name and he’s not here and I’m drunk and empty-stomach emotional and I just want him to come drag me home and do whatever he wants with me.”
Simon blinked, fighting a laugh. “Whatever he wants, eh?”
“Don’t encourage her,” Talia muttered, rubbing your back while clearly amused.
You were in full sappy-horny drunk mode now. “Harry’s so lovely. He pretends he’s all calm and tough but when we’re alone he’s not calm at all. He gets this look and his hands go everywhere and— and then he does the thigh thing and I can’t even think straight. I just really love him, okay? Like, I want to climb him like a tree right now. Tell him I want to climb him. No, don’t. I’ll tell him. But he’s not here!”
Faith was nearly crying. “I can’t breathe.”
Simon pulled his phone out, still chuckling. “Right. I’m calling Harry before you start offering to demonstrate the thigh thing on the dance floor.”
You gasped. “I would never. I’m classy.”
Simon stepped away. “Mate… yeah, it’s me. Your girl is hammered. Forgot to eat, gone full emotional and very… suggestive. She’s currently telling everyone how much she loves you and how she wants you to do ‘the thigh thing’ and drag her home. Yeah. Proper lovey and handsy. You might want to come get her before she tries to hump something in public.”
There was a pause, then Simon laughed. “She’s safe, just very affectionate. Alright. See you soon.”
He hung up and grinned at you. “Harry’s on his way. Sounded equal parts worried and amused.”
You perked up. “He’s coming? Really?”
“Yeah. To stop you from climbing random tall objects, apparently.”
You beamed and hugged Talia again. “See? He’s the best. I’m gonna marry him one day. After he’s done the thigh thing a few more times.”
The girls were still giggling when Harry appeared twenty minutes later, cap pulled low, looking half-amused, half-exasperated. The second you saw him your face lit up.
“Harry!” You launched yourself at him. He caught you with both hands on your waist, steadying you as you pressed yourself against his chest.
“There’s my girl,” he murmured, voice low. “Jesus, you’re pissed.”
“I missed you,” you mumbled into his hoodie, hands already sliding under the hem to rest on his warm skin. “You smell like home. And I want your hands on me. All over me. Right now. Please? Especially the thigh thing…”
Harry’s grip tightened slightly, a quiet laugh rumbling in his chest as he glanced at the girls. “What the fuck have you done to her?”
“She’s been like this for the last hour,” Talia grinned. “Very… descriptive about what she wants you to do when you get her home.”
“Oi, don’t encourage her,” Harry said, but his ears were a little pink. He tilted your chin up gently. “Come on, love. Let’s get you food and water before you start negotiating in public.”
You grinned up at him, eyes heavy-lidded and playful. “Negotiating? I’m just saying I wouldn’t mind if you carried me home and reminded me why these thighs are your favourite.”
“Christ,” Harry muttered, but he was smiling as he guided you towards the exit, one strong arm wrapped securely around you. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
You leaned into him, whispering far too loudly, “Good death. The best death. With your hands and your mouth and the thigh thing—”
“Food first,” he cut in, laughing. “Then we’ll see about the rest when you can stand straight.”
Sunlight filtered softly through the curtains the next morning. Your head was pounding, mouth dry, and you were tangled in Harry’s sheets wearing nothing but one of his oversized hoodies and your underwear.
Harry was already awake, propped up on one elbow beside you, watching you with a soft, amused smile. His hair was messy, and there were faint marks on his neck that made your cheeks heat up.
“Morning, trouble,” he said quietly, voice still rough with sleep.
You groaned, burying your face in the pillow. “Please tell me I didn’t embarrass myself too badly last night.”
Harry chuckled, reaching over to tuck hair behind your ear. “Depends on your definition of embarrassing. You told everyone you wanted me to ‘do the thigh thing,’ offered to climb me like a tree, and spent ten minutes describing exactly how my hands make your brain go fuzzy.”
You peeked up at him, mortified but laughing. “Oh god. Did I really?”
“Mm. Very detailed.” He leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then just below your ear. His voice dropped lower. “You also said you wanted me to carry you home and remind you why these thighs are my favourite.”
Your face burned. “I hate drunk me.”
“I don’t,” he murmured, hand sliding under the hoodie to rest warmly on your bare thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles. “Drunk you is very honest. And very… enthusiastic.”
You shivered at his touch, shifting closer. “And sober me?”
“Sober you is still enthusiastic,” he said, smirking. “Just slightly less likely to announce it to the entire club.”
You laughed softly, rolling onto your side to face him properly. “Sorry for making Simon call you. And for being a sappy, handsy mess.”
“Don’t apologise.” He pulled you in, kissing you properly this time—slow and deep. When he pulled back he rested his forehead against yours. “I like knowing my girl wants me that much. Even when she’s absolutely battered.”
Your phone buzzed repeatedly on the bedside table. Then it buzzed again. And again.
Harry raised an eyebrow. “That’ll be the group chat.”
You grabbed it with a sense of dread and opened the messages.
Faith
Morning legend 😂 How’s the head? And more importantly… what the fuck is the thigh thing???
Freya
I’ve been wondering the same since 3am. You kept saying it like we were supposed to know. Is it a sex thing? A massage thing? Harry’s signature move?? Spill.
Talia
Simon won’t stop laughing about it. He said you offered to demonstrate it on the dance floor 😂 Harry came to collect you looking traumatised but also very pleased with himself.
Simon
Mate I’m just the messenger. But yeah… the thigh thing has been mentioned approximately 47 times. Talia keeps asking me if I have a thigh thing. I feel inadequate now.
Faith
^ Same energy. Ethan just raised an eyebrow at me when I brought it up this morning. We need details or we’re never letting this go.
Freya
I’m making it my new personality trait until you explain. “The Thigh Thing™” – patent pending.
You groaned loudly and showed Harry the screen. He read it and immediately started laughing, shoulders shaking.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered. “They’re never gonna drop this.”
You quickly typed a reply, cheeks flaming.
You
I hate all of you. And drunk me. The thigh thing is none of your business 😂 Go away.
The replies came instantly.
Faith
TOO LATE. We’re invested now.
Talia
Harry’s probably smirking right next to you isn’t he? Tell him Simon says well done on the thigh thing.
Freya
If it’s that good you should write a review. 10/10 would recommend to a friend (but not actually because he’s taken).
Harry leaned over, still chuckling, and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “You gonna tell them?”
“Absolutely not,” you said, locking the phone and tossing it aside. “They can wonder forever.”
He grinned, rolling you gently beneath him, careful of your hangover. His hand slid back to your thigh, thumb brushing the same spot that had you weak last night. “Good. Because that one’s just for us.”
You bit your lip, already feeling the familiar flutter. “Though… you could refresh my memory again. Just so I remember exactly what they’re teasing me about.”
Harry’s eyes darkened playfully. “Only if you eat something first. Can’t have you passing out before round two.”
“Deal,” you whispered, pulling him down for another kiss. “But tell the group chat to shut up.”
He laughed against your lips. “They won’t. But I don’t mind them knowing I’ve got you this whipped.”
You swatted his arm, laughing. “Shut up and do the thigh thing.”
The party thrummed withfamiliar energy, a big rented house in East London packed wall-to-wall. The usual lot were all there—George and Chris holding court by the drinks table, Arthur and Bach in a loud debate about the Premier League, a few other creators scattered around. Mixed in were loads of randoms you barely recognised: mates of mates, some TikTok lads, girls who seemed to know everyone, and a group of rowdy guys in the kitchen who were clearly on another level.
You’d been chatting with Will most of the night. It was easy with him, always had been. He looked sharper than usual tonight, wearing dark slim jeans that hugged his legs just right and a fitted black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the top couple of buttons undone. It made him look annoyingly put together for a house party, the fabric stretching slightly across his shoulders when he moved. His hair was still that signature messy style, but the smarter look suited him more than he probably realised.
He was leaning against the wall near you now, cup in hand, shooting you that half-smirk as you bantered back and forth.
“Oi, you’re drinking that like it’s water,” he teased, nodding at your cup. “Pace yourself or you’ll end up on the table doing karaoke again.”
You laughed and nudged his arm. “Says the bloke who was singing Wonderwall last time. Badly.”
He grinned wider, eyes lingering on you a second longer than usual. “Fair. But you were laughing the hardest, so who’s the real winner?”
You took another sip. The drink tasted a bit sweeter than before, almost syrupy, but the music was loud and the vibe was good, so you didn’t think much of it. Across the kitchen, one of the random lads was laughing with his mates as they passed cups around, but you paid them no attention.
At first, nothing felt off. Maybe twenty minutes later you noticed a gentle warmth spreading through your chest, like a slow sip of whiskey on a cold night. Your skin felt a little more sensitive, the bass from the speakers vibrating pleasantly through you. Will had moved closer without you really noticing, his shoulder brushing yours as you both watched George try (and fail) to do a trick shot with a ping pong ball.
“You look good tonight,” Will said casually, voice lower than before. His eyes flicked down to your outfit and back up, then lingered on the way your top sat. “Proper nice. That shirt’s doing things for me.”
You felt a small flutter low in your stomach. “Cheers. You’re not so bad yourself. Jeans and a proper shirt? Didn’t know you owned anything that wasn’t joggers.”
He chuckled, but his gaze stayed on your lips a beat too long. “Thought I’d make an effort. Glad you noticed.”
The warmth grew gradually, like a slow tide. Your cheeks felt flushed. Every time Will laughed, the sound seemed richer, sending a little spark down your spine. You found yourself stepping closer, your arm brushing his. He didn’t pull away.
Another ten minutes and the heat had settled deeper—low in your belly, a lazy, building ache. Your nipples had grown sensitive, brushing against your bra with every small movement. Will shifted his weight, clearing his throat as he adjusted the front of his jeans subtly. His cheeks were pinker than the alcohol alone could explain.
“Bit warm in here, innit?” he muttered, tugging at the collar of his shirt. His eyes met yours and held. There was something heavier in them now.
“Yeah,” you agreed, voice softer. “Really warm.” You bit your lip without thinking, and his gaze dropped straight to it.
The flirting shifted, growing thicker, slower, more intentional. He leaned in a little, voice dropping. “You know… I’ve been thinking about kissing you for the last half hour. Proper distracted by it.”
Your breath caught. The heat between your legs pulsed gently at his words. “Yeah? What’s stopping you?”
Will’s smirk turned crooked, almost shy for a second. “Dunno if I’d be able to stop at just kissing right now. Not with how you’re looking at me.”
You laughed breathily, but it came out more like a soft exhale. Your hand found his arm, fingers tracing lightly down the rolled-up sleeve, feeling the warmth of his skin. He shivered visibly.
You and Will eventually drifted over to the big corner sofa, away from the thick of the crowd. The music was still loud, but the space around you felt more intimate. His thigh pressed against yours, the denim of his jeans warm and solid, and neither of you moved it away.
“You’re staring,” you murmured, turning to face him.
“Can’t help it,” Will replied, voice rougher now. His hand rested on your knee, thumb stroking slow circles that felt electric through your clothes. “You feel it too, don’t you? This… whatever it is. Like my whole body’s humming.”
You nodded, leaning closer until your lips were inches from his. “Feels really good. Dangerous good.”
His fingers slid higher up your thigh, slow and deliberate, tracing the seam of your bottoms. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
“Don’t stop.”
The kiss started soft—testing, lingering, his hand coming up to cup your jaw. Then it deepened, slow and hungry, tongues brushing lazily as the heat between you built like a slow-burning fire. Will’s other hand slid to your waist, then higher, thumb grazing the underside of your breast through your top. You gasped quietly into his mouth, and he groaned low in his throat.
“Fuck,” he whispered against your lips. “You taste so good. I’ve wanted this for ages, but this feels… different. Stronger.”
You shifted, swinging a leg over to straddle his lap slowly. The position pressed you right against the growing bulge in his jeans, the hard line of him obvious through the denim. His hands settled on your hips, gripping but not rushing, guiding you into a gentle rock against him. You could feel him throb beneath you as you ground down lazily, savouring the friction.
That was when Chris appeared beside the sofa, eyebrows raised but trying to keep a straight face. He leaned in close so only the two of you could hear him over the music.
“Alright, lovebirds,” he said, voice low and amused. “Those random lads in the kitchen were spiking random drinks with some proper dodgy horny pills. They thought it’d be hilarious. Looks like you two drew the short straw.”
Will pulled back from your neck just enough to blink at him, flushed and breathing hard. “You’re joking.”
“Nope. And it’s only gonna get worse from here. Come on” Chris jerked his head toward the stairs. “I’ll usher you upstairs before the whole group clocks what’s happening and starts filming. Bedroom at the top on the left should be empty. Door locks. Sort yourselves out in private, yeah?”
You felt your face burn hotter, but the slow, insistent heat pulsing through your body made arguing impossible. Will muttered a quick “Cheers, mate,” already standing and pulling you up with him, his hand firm on your lower back.
Chris walked ahead, clearing a casual path through the crowd like it was nothing, shooting a couple of knowing glances at George and Arthur on the way but saying nothing. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, giving you both a quick nod and a barely suppressed grin.
“Go on. I’ll make sure no one follows for a bit. Try not to break the bed.”
Then he was gone, melting back into the party.
The second the bedroom door clicked shut behind you, Will turned the lock with a decisive click. He didn’t even give you time to catch your breath before he had you pressed against the door, kissing you deep and filthy. His tongue slid against yours, slow but hungry, while his hands roamed, sliding under your top, pushing it up and off in one smooth motion. He tossed it aside and immediately cupped your breasts, thumbs circling your already hard nipples through your bra.
“Been dying to do this properly,” he murmured against your mouth, voice rough with need. “You feel so fucking good already.”
You tugged at his shirt, fingers fumbling with the remaining buttons until you could shove it off his shoulders. It fell to the floor, revealing the lean muscle underneath. Your hands explored his chest, nails dragging lightly down his skin as he unclasped your bra and let it drop. The cool air hit your sensitive skin, making you shiver, but Will’s mouth was there instantly—kissing down your neck, sucking a mark into your collarbone before closing his lips around one nipple. He sucked hard, tongue flicking, while his hand pinched and rolled the other.
You moaned loudly, arching into him, your hips grinding against the thick bulge still trapped in his jeans.
Will groaned, the vibration sending sparks through you. “That’s it. Let me hear you.”
He dropped to his knees, hands working your bottoms and underwear down your legs until you kicked them off. Without warning, he hooked one of your legs over his shoulder and leaned in, licking a slow, broad stripe up your soaked folds. You cried out, fingers threading through his messy hair as he devoured you—tongue circling your clit with deliberate, teasing pressure, then dipping inside you, fucking you with it in long, lazy strokes.
“Will—fuck—” you gasped, hips rocking against his face.
He hummed in approval, the sound vibrating right against your most sensitive spot. Two fingers joined his tongue, sliding deep and curling perfectly while he sucked your clit into his mouth. The slow build from the pills made everything feel amplified; every lick, every thrust of his fingers pushed you closer in luxurious, rolling waves. He kept the pace torturously slow, drawing it out until your thighs trembled and you were babbling his name.
Only when you were right on the edge did he pull back, lips shiny and eyes dark with lust. He stood, shoving his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock—thick, hard, and leaking at the tip. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly, thumb spreading the precum as he hissed through his teeth.
“Bed,” he growled, lifting you effortlessly and carrying you over.
He laid you down on the mattress, crawling over you. Instead of rushing, he took his time—kissing every inch of you, biting gently at your inner thighs, sucking marks into your hips. When he finally lined himself up, he rubbed the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing your clit until you were whimpering.
“Please, Will—”
He pushed in slowly, inch by thick inch, stretching you open with a deep, guttural moan. Once buried, he stayed there, grinding in slow circles, letting you feel every ridge and pulse. “So tight… so fucking wet for me.”
Then he started moving—long, deep, rolling thrusts that dragged against every perfect spot inside you. The pace stayed deliberately slow at first, building the pleasure gradually, his hips snapping harder only when you begged for more. One hand pinned your wrist above your head; the other rubbed tight circles on your clit. He leaned down to kiss you messily, swallowing your moans as he fucked you deeper, harder, the bed creaking under you.
“Gonna come for me?” he rasped, voice breaking. “Want to feel you squeezing my cock.”
You shattered first, orgasm crashing over you in powerful, drawn-out waves that had you crying out his name, walls pulsing around him. Will followed seconds later, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a choked groan, hips stuttering through the aftershocks.
But the pills weren’t done. The heat lingered, slow and insistent, already stirring again as you both panted on the sheets. Will stayed buried inside you, pressing lazy kisses along your neck while his hand lazily stroked your side.
“Fuck, that was intense,” he murmured, a lazy grin spreading across his face. He pulled out slowly, only to flip you onto your stomach and pull your hips up. “But I’m nowhere near finished.”
He entered you again from behind in one smooth thrust, this time setting a filthier rhythm—deeper, faster, one hand fisting your hair gently while the other reached around to rub your clit. The angle hit even better, making you moan into the pillow as he fucked you through a second, even stronger orgasm, then a third, until you were both slick with sweat and trembling.
Only when the slow-burning need finally began to fade did you collapse together, tangled in the sheets, his arm draped over you and his lips brushing your shoulder.
“Remind me to thank Chris for the rescue,” Will whispered, voice husky and satisfied. “Then maybe kill those randoms downstairs. But definitely after a few more rounds… whenever this kicks in again.”
You smiled, pressing back against him as the faint warmth promised the night was far from over.
part 1: https://www.tumblr.com/ellietriesless/809924571529723904/wrong-number-chris-dixon-description-what
The morning after the long night of sexting feels surreal.
You wake up to a simple text from Chris at 9:17 a.m.:
Chris
Morning.
You survive?
You reply with barely and leave it there. He doesn’t push for more. The daylight version of everything that happened last night already feels heavy and awkward.
Around 11 a.m., Arthur texts the group chat:
Arthur
Drinks at mine tonight
7:30
Nothing fancy, just bring whatever
Becky’s coming, George is already here, Chris is coming after editing
Don’t flake
Your stomach twists. Part of you wants to make an excuse and stay home. The smarter (or more masochistic) part knows that would look suspicious. So you reply with a simple I’ll be there.
You spend the rest of the day anxious — changing outfits three times before settling on black jeans and a soft cropped hoodie.
You arrive at Arthur’s flat at 7:50, bottle of wine in hand.
The second you walk through the door, the atmosphere shifts.
George is sprawled on the sofa with a beer. Becky is sitting cross-legged next to him, laughing at something on her phone. Arthur is in the kitchen pouring drinks. And Chris is leaning against the counter talking to Arthur… until he sees you.
His eyes lock onto yours for a beat too long. The easy smile he was wearing fades into something quieter, more intense. He quickly looks away, but not before you notice the way his fingers tighten around his bottle.
Arthur looks up. “Finally! Thought you were ditching us.”
“Traffic,” you mumble, setting the wine down.
Becky grins and pats the spot next to her. “Come sit! I haven’t seen you properly in ages.”
You sit down, heart already racing. Chris is directly across from you in the small living room. Every time your eyes accidentally meet, the tension crackles. You both try to act normal, but it’s painfully obvious something has changed.
George notices almost immediately.
He glances between you and Chris, one eyebrow slowly lifting. Then he gives Chris the smallest, knowing smirk. Chris shoots him a subtle warning glare. George just takes a sip of his beer, clearly enjoying himself.
Becky, thankfully, is still completely in the dark.
“So,” she says, turning to you, “how have you been? Arthur mentioned the breakup. Are you doing okay?”
“Yeah… getting there,” you reply, forcing a smile. “Retail therapy helped a bit.”
The second the words leave your mouth, Chris almost chokes on his drink. George has to turn his head to hide his grin.
Becky frowns. “What’s funny?”
“Nothing,” you say quickly.
Chris clears his throat. “Just… went down the wrong way.”
The awkwardness settles in thick.
The conversation moves on — football, upcoming videos, random gossip — but the undercurrent never goes away. Chris keeps stealing glances at you when he thinks no one’s looking. You catch yourself doing the same, remembering the photos, the messages, the way he sounded when he came last night.
At one point Arthur goes into the kitchen to grab more ice.
The moment he’s out of earshot, George leans forward, voice low and amused.
“You two are being so obvious it hurts,” he mutters. “The staring contest is actually painful to watch.”
Chris glares at him. “Shut up, George.”
George just smirks wider. “I’m just saying. If you’re trying to keep whatever this is a secret, you’re both terrible at it.”
You feel your face burn. Becky looks between the three of you, confused.
“Wait… what am I missing here?”
You hesitate for a second, then lean closer to Becky and speak quietly so only she can hear.
“I… kind of accidentally sent Chris some very revealing photos last night.”
Becky’s eyes go wide. “No way.”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
You bite your lip. “And things… escalated. A lot. We were texting until really late.”
Becky’s mouth drops open in delight. She squeezes your arm. “Oh my god. Tell me everything later. Are you two…?”
“Not officially,” you whisper. “But… yeah. Last night got pretty intense.”
She grins, barely containing her excitement, and keeps glancing between you and Chris like she’s watching her favourite reality show.
Across from you, Chris is having his own quiet conversation with George. You catch fragments — George saying “I knew something was off with you yesterday” and Chris muttering “just don’t make it weird tonight.”
The sexual tension is suffocating.
Every time Chris speaks, your mind flashes back to his messages. Every time your eyes meet, the memory of him telling you to come for him, of the photos he sent, of how hard he was… it all comes rushing back.
You press your thighs together under the table.
Chris notices. His jaw tightens slightly, and he has to look away for a moment.
George catches the whole exchange and shakes his head with a quiet, knowing chuckle.
Arthur comes back with more drinks, completely unaware of the storm happening right in front of him.
The night has barely started, and you’re already not sure how much longer you can keep pretending nothing happened between you and Chris.
The tension is thick.
And getting worse by the minute.
Chris keeps stealing glances at you when he thinks no one is looking. You catch yourself doing the same. The air between you feels thick — every shared look, every accidental brush of hands when reaching for drinks, every time your eyes meet across the room.
George keeps smirking quietly to himself, clearly enjoying the show.
Around 10:30 pm, people start getting ready to leave. Arthur is in the kitchen tidying up. Becky is grabbing her coat. George is already by the door.
You’re pulling on your jacket in the hallway when a hand gently grabs your wrist from behind and pulls you back.
You turn.
It’s Chris.
He’s standing close — too close — in the dim hallway, away from the others. His hand is still loosely around your wrist. Both of you are a little awkward, a little unsure, the tension so high it feels like the air might snap.
“Hey,” he says quietly, voice low. “Can we… just talk for a second?”
You nod, heart hammering.
He doesn’t let go of your wrist. His thumb brushes lightly over your pulse point. His eyes drop to your mouth, then back up. The awkwardness is palpable — you’re both nervous, both hyper-aware of how close you are, both remembering everything from last night in vivid detail.
“I’ve been trying really hard not to look at you all night,” he admits, voice rough. “It’s not working.”
“Me neither,” you whisper.
He steps a little closer. The space between you shrinks until you can feel the warmth of his body. His free hand comes up slowly, hesitating just before he cups the side of your face. His thumb brushes your cheek.
For a moment, everything else disappears.
He leans in slowly. You tilt your head up. Your eyes flutter closed.
His lips are barely a centimetre from yours when —
“Chris? You still here?” Arthur’s voice calls from the kitchen, getting closer. “I need help with these bottles—”
You both jerk apart instantly.
Chris drops his hand like he’s been burned and takes a quick step back. You turn away, pretending to adjust your jacket, cheeks flaming.
Arthur appears at the end of the hallway a second later, completely oblivious.
“Oh, there you are. You two okay?”
“Yeah,” Chris says, voice slightly strained. “Just… saying goodbye.”
Arthur nods. “Cool. See you tomorrow, yeah?”
Chris gives a tight nod. His eyes flick to you one last time — dark, frustrated, full of everything he couldn’t say.
Then he turns and heads for the door.
You stay frozen in the hallway for a few seconds longer, heart racing, lips still tingling from the almost-kiss, the ache between your legs worse than ever.
A few days have passed since the drinks at Arthur’s, and things have been… weirdly silent.
You and Chris haven’t spoken at all. No texts. No “hey, how are you?” Nothing. Every time you thought about messaging him, the awkwardness stopped you. You had no idea how to act normal after everything that happened — the photos, the sexting, the almost-kiss in the hallway. Apparently, he felt the same way.
You’re currently at Becky’s flat for a much-needed catch-up. You’re both on the sofa with mugs of tea, legs tucked under you, when she finally brings it up.
“So… have you heard from Chris yet?” she asks, trying (and failing) to sound casual.
You shake your head, staring into your tea. “No. Nothing. I think we’re both too awkward to start the conversation. It’s like we both know something huge happened but neither of us knows how to bring it up in daylight.”
Becky sighs. “That’s annoying. You two were so close to kissing the other night. The tension was actually painful to watch.”
You groan and cover your face with your hands. “Don’t remind me.”
Just as Becky opens her mouth to say something else, there’s a loud knock at the door.
Becky frowns. “I’m not expecting anyone…”
She gets up and opens the door.
George is standing there with a big grin, holding a six-pack of beers. Behind him are Chris, Bach, Liv and a few others.
“Surprise!” George announces cheerfully. “We were in the area and thought we’d pop round for a spontaneous catch-up.”
Becky’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “You were ‘in the area’? You live on the other side of London.”
George shrugs, completely unbothered. “Details.”
You freeze on the sofa as your eyes meet Chris’s.
He looks just as caught off guard as you are. His expression is a mix of awkwardness and something warmer when he sees you. He gives you a small, hesitant nod.
“Hi,” he says quietly.
“Hi,” you reply, voice equally soft.
Becky steps aside to let them in, shooting you a quick, knowing look that clearly says I had nothing to do with this… maybe.
As everyone piles into the living room, it becomes very obvious that this wasn’t spontaneous at all.
George immediately makes himself comfortable, handing out beers like he owns the place. Bach and Liv settle on the other sofa, chatting casually. But George keeps glancing between you and Chris with that same smug, satisfied smirk he had at Arthur’s.
You catch Becky giving George a subtle death glare. He just grins wider.
Clearly, Becky and George had set this whole thing up.
The group chat starts flowing — easy conversation about videos, upcoming collabs, random gossip. But the tension between you and Chris is impossible to ignore.
He’s sitting on the armchair across from you. Every time your eyes meet, the air feels thick. He keeps looking at you when he thinks no one is paying attention — soft, lingering glances that make your stomach flutter. You’re doing the same, remembering the hallway, the messages, how close you came to kissing.
Everyone settled in with drinks. As the alcohol kicked in, the group got louder and looser. By the time everyone was nicely tipsy, George clapped his hands.
“Alright, Never Have I Ever. Proper version — let’s get spicy.”
The game started off fun and chaotic, but it didn’t stay innocent for long.
George leaned forward with a mischievous grin.
“Never have I ever sent a nude to the wrong person.”
Almost everyone drank.
You took a sip.
Chris drank.
Becky drank.
George drank with a proud smirk.
Even Bach and Liv drank, laughing about old stories.
The room filled with chuckles and teasing, but the energy had already shifted.
A couple rounds later, George went again, eyes sparkling.
“Never have I ever had a wet dream about someone in this room.”
The room went quieter.
Bach and Liv drank, as expected.
You drank — trying to make it look casual.
Chris drank a second after you.
George and Becky didn’t drink.
Bach raised his eyebrows. “Wait, really? You two had wet dreams about someone here?”
Liv looked amused and slightly surprised. “Okay, now I’m curious.”
You avoided everyone’s eyes, cheeks burning. Chris stared down at his bottle, jaw tight. The tension between you two thickened instantly.
George just smirked, clearly enjoying himself.
The game continued, the alcohol making everyone bolder.
Then Becky, now properly tipsy and grinning, leaned forward.
“Never have I ever seen anyone in this room naked.”
The question landed like a bomb.
You drank.
Chris drank.
George drank.
Bach drank.
Liv drank.
Becky was the only one who didn’t drink.
The room went dead silent for a second.
Bach blinked, looking confused. “Wait… Becky, you didn’t drink?”
Liv turned to her, equally surprised. “Yeah, what? You’ve never seen any of us naked?”
Becky shrugged, trying (and failing) to look innocent. “Guess I’m the only pure one here.”
Bach and Liv burst out laughing, clearly assuming it was just a funny coincidence. But George was grinning like an idiot. You and Chris avoided looking at each other completely.
The tension skyrocketed.
Chris’s hand was gripping his drink a little too tightly. His jaw was clenched. He looked like he was struggling just as much as you were.
George leaned back, clearly loving the chaos he’d created.
“Wow,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for you and Chris to hear. “This game got interesting fast.”
The group kept playing, but the air between you and Chris had become almost unbearable. Every new question felt loaded. Every shared glance felt dangerous.
You were both a little drunk, a lot turned on, and doing a terrible job of hiding it.
And the night was still going.
“I’m gonna get some fresh air,” you muttered, standing up quickly.
You slipped out onto Becky’s small balcony and closed the sliding door behind you. The cool night air felt nice against your warm skin. You leaned on the railing, trying to calm your racing heart and the heat still pulsing through your body.
A minute later, the door slid open again.
Chris stepped out.
He closed the door quietly behind him and paused a couple of feet away. The balcony suddenly felt very small and private. The muffled sounds of the group laughing inside felt far away.
Neither of you spoke at first.
Chris shoved his hands into his pockets, looking a little awkward and a lot tipsy.
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” he said quietly. “But I didn’t know what to say. Everything’s felt… weird since that night.”
“Yeah,” you admitted softly. “Same here.”
He took a small step closer, then another, until he was standing right beside you at the railing. The city lights glittered below, but neither of you was looking at the view.
Chris turned to face you. His voice dropped lower.
“I keep thinking about those photos you sent. About the messages. About how you sounded when you told me you were close.” He swallowed. “And about how badly I wanted to kiss you in that hallway.”
Your breath caught. The tension snapped tight between you.
You turned toward him. “I wanted you to kiss me that night.”
His eyes darkened. He stepped even closer, one hand coming up to gently cup the side of your face. His thumb brushed your cheek, hesitant but warm.
“Then can I kiss you now?” he whispered.
You nodded, barely able to speak.
Chris leaned in slowly. His nose brushed yours for a second, giving you one last chance to pull away.
You didn’t.
His lips met yours.
The kiss started soft — tentative, almost careful, like both of you were still a little awkward and unsure. But the second you kissed him back, something shifted. The kiss deepened quickly, turning hungry and needy. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. Your hands found his chest, fingers curling into his shirt.
He tasted like beer and mint, and the way he kissed you made your knees feel weak. A quiet sound escaped your throat. Chris responded with a low hum, pressing you gently back against the railing as the kiss grew more heated.
For a few perfect seconds, the rest of the world disappeared. It was just his mouth on yours, his body warm against you, the cool night air doing nothing to cool the fire between you.
Then —
The balcony door rattled loudly as someone slid it open.
You and Chris broke apart instantly, breathing hard.
George poked his head out, clearly drunk and grinning like an idiot.
“Oi! You two coming back in or are we playing the game without you?”
Chris stepped back quickly, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah… we’re coming.”
George’s eyes flicked between the two of you, his grin widening as he clearly clocked your flushed faces and slightly swollen lips.
“Cool. Don’t take too long. Becky’s making everyone do shots.”
He disappeared back inside, leaving the door open.
Chris looked at you, chest still rising and falling fast. His eyes were dark, lips a little red from the kiss. He looked like he wanted to pull you back in and keep going.
“We should probably go back,” he said, voice rough.
You nodded, trying to catch your breath. “Yeah.”
He hesitated for one more second, then turned and went inside.
You stayed on the balcony for a few moments longer, heart racing, lips tingling, the ache between your legs even stronger than before.
When you finally stepped back into the living room, Chris was already sitting down again. His eyes found yours immediately — full of heat, frustration, and the promise that this wasn’t over.
The rest of the night passed in a haze of drinks, laughter, and unbearable tension.
George and Becky kept exchanging knowing looks, clearly pleased with their setup. Bach and Liv were too drunk and wrapped up in their own conversation to notice the storm brewing between you two.
Eventually, the energy started to wind down.
Liv yawned first. “Alright, I think we’re tapping out. Bach, you ready?”
Bach nodded, standing up unsteadily. “Yeah, let’s go. Thanks for having us, Becky.”
George stretched dramatically. “I should head off too. Early start tomorrow… or something.”
One by one, everyone began gathering their things. Becky walked Bach and Liv to the door, giving you a quick, excited hug and a whispered “Text me later” on the way.
George was the last to leave. He clapped Chris on the shoulder a little too hard, smirking.
“Walk her home safely, yeah?” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Chris shot him a look but didn’t argue.
Soon it was just you, Chris, and Becky left in the flat.
Becky smiled knowingly as she started tidying up empty bottles. “I’m wrecked. You two heading off?”
Chris glanced at you, then back at Becky. “Yeah. I’ll walk her back to her flat. It’s on my way.”
Becky nodded, trying (and failing) to hide her grin. “Safe walk, you two.”
You said your goodbyes and stepped out into the cool night air with Chris.
The walk back to your flat was quiet at first. The streets were mostly empty, the city lights soft around you. The tension from the night still hummed between you, now mixed with the memory of the kiss on the balcony.
After a couple of minutes, Chris reached over and gently took your hand.
His fingers laced with yours naturally, like it was the most normal thing in the world. You didn’t pull away. Instead, you squeezed his hand lightly, and he squeezed back.
You walked like that for a while, hand in hand, the silence feeling surprisingly nice.
Eventually, Chris spoke, his voice calm and low.
“How are you feeling about everything?” he asked, glancing over at you. “Be honest.”
You thought for a moment, then answered truthfully.
“I’m good,” you said softly. “Really good, actually. I’ve been over my ex for a long time now. That breakup felt like it happened a long time ago in my head, even if it was only a few months on paper. Plus, I've been a little distracted.”
Chris went quiet for a second.
Then you felt his hand tighten around yours, warmer and more confident. When you looked at him, there was a small, genuine smile on his face — the kind that reached his eyes.
“Yeah?” he asked, sounding lighter than he had all night.
“Yeah,” you replied, smiling back. “It feels good.”
That seemed to give him a boost. His shoulders relaxed, and he walked a little closer to you, thumb gently brushing over the back of your hand as you continued down the street.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward anymore. It felt easy. Comfortable.
After another minute, Chris spoke again, voice soft but sure.
“I’ve been overthinking it for days,” he admitted. “Worried I’d scared you off or that it was all just the heat of the moment. Hearing you say that… It means a lot.”
You gave his hand another gentle squeeze.
When you finally reached your building, Chris slowed to a stop outside the entrance. He turned to face you, still holding your hand.
“I had a really good night,” he said. “Even with George being a menace.”
You laughed softly. “Me too.”
He looked at you for a long moment, then asked gently, “Can I walk you up?”
You nodded, a small smile playing on your lips.
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
Chris smiled back — warm, confident, and a little relieved — and followed you inside.
When you reached the entrance to your building, Chris slowed to a stop, still holding your hand.
He looked down at you, a small, warm smile on his face.
There was a comfortable pause. The cool night air felt nice after the warm, stuffy flat. Chris’s thumb brushed gently over the back of your hand.
You took a small breath and asked, “Do you want to come up for a drink? Nothing crazy… just something to wind down.”
Chris’s eyes lit up a little. He nodded without hesitation.
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
You led him inside and up to your flat. The second you opened the door, your dog — a small, usually very grumpy rescue named Luna — came trotting over.
Luna hated men. She barked at delivery drivers, growled at male visitors, and generally acted like every man was a personal threat. You’d warned Chris about it on the walk up, half-joking that he might get barked at.
But the moment Luna saw Chris, something completely unexpected happened.
Instead of barking or growling, Luna stopped, tilted her head… and then her tail started wagging like crazy. She walked straight up to Chris, sniffed his hand once, and immediately flopped onto her back for belly rubs, making happy little grumbling noises.
Chris laughed softly, crouching down to scratch Luna’s belly. “Well, hello to you too.”
You stood there in shock.
“She hates everyone,” you said, genuinely surprised. “Especially men. She’s never done that before.”
Chris looked up at you with an amused grin, still rubbing Luna’s tummy. “Guess I’m special.”
Luna let out a contented sigh and rolled even closer to Chris, clearly smitten.
You shook your head, smiling. “Traitor.”
You poured two glasses of wine and brought them over to the sofa. Chris joined you after giving Luna one last scratch behind the ears. Your dog actually followed him and curled up at his feet, looking more relaxed than you’d seen her in months.
You finished your glass of wine and glanced at Luna, who was still happily curled up at Chris’s feet like he was her new favourite person.
“I should probably put her to bed before she gets too comfortable,” you said with a small laugh.
Chris smiled and gave Luna one last gentle scratch behind the ears. “She’s been great company.”
You scooped Luna up and carried her to her little dog bed in the corner of the living room. She gave a dramatic sigh but settled quickly, clearly worn out from all the unexpected belly rubs.
“Night, traitor,” you whispered fondly.
When you turned back around, Chris was standing near the hallway, looking around your flat with quiet curiosity.
“Want a quick tour?” you offered.
“Sure,” he said, his voice warm. “I’d love that.”
You showed him around the small flat — the cosy living room, the tiny kitchen, the bathroom. When you reached your bedroom door, you hesitated for half a second, then pushed it open.
“This is my room,” you said, flicking on the soft bedside lamp.
Chris stepped in behind you, taking it in. The room was dimly lit, comfortable, with a few personal touches scattered around — clothes draped over a chair, books on the nightstand, and a couple of drawers slightly open from when you’d been getting ready earlier.
As he walked further in, his eyes caught something on your dresser.
The room felt smaller the moment Chris’s eyes landed on the open drawer.
He stood still for a long second, gaze fixed on the sleek black vibrator and the rose-coloured suction toy sitting right on top. The soft bedside lamp made everything look even more intimate than it was.
Chris’s breath deepened.
“You left those out,” he said, voice low and rough around the edges.
You felt a rush of heat flood your face, but you didn’t move to close the drawer. Instead, you met his eyes.
“Yeah… I did.”
He took one slow step closer, then another, until he was right in front of you. His hand came up to rest lightly on your waist, thumb brushing over the fabric of your top. His eyes flicked back to the toys for a moment before returning to your face.
“I’ve been trying not to think about you using those,” he murmured. “But now that I’ve seen them… it’s all I can picture.”
The air between you crackled.
You reached up and slid your hands up his chest, feeling the steady but quick beat of his heart under your palms.
“Then stop trying,” you whispered.
That was all it took.
Chris leaned in and kissed you — deep, hungry, and nothing like the careful almost-kiss on the balcony. His hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him as the kiss quickly turned heated. You kissed him back just as eagerly, fingers threading into his hair.
He walked you backwards until your legs hit the bed. You both tumbled onto it, mouths never parting. Clothes started coming off in a rush — his hoodie, your top, his shirt. Every new inch of skin revealed made the heat between you burn hotter.
Chris kissed down your neck, teeth grazing lightly as his hands explored. When he reached your jeans, he looked up at you, eyes dark.
“Can I?” he asked, voice husky.
You nodded. “Yes.”
He stripped the rest of your clothes off slowly, reverently, until you were bare beneath him. His gaze raked over you, hungry and appreciative.
“Fuck… you’re beautiful,” he breathed.
He kissed his way down your body, taking his time. When he settled between your thighs, he glanced at the open drawer again, then back at you with a small, wicked smile.
“Want me to use one of those on you?” he asked, voice low. “Or should I just use my mouth first?”
Your answer came out breathless. “Mouth first… please.”
Chris didn’t need telling twice.
He lowered his head and licked a slow, broad stripe up your centre. You gasped, back arching off the bed. He took his time — teasing, exploring, learning exactly what made you moan and tremble. When he added two fingers, curling them just right while his tongue worked your clit, you had to bite your lip to keep from being too loud.
He brought you right to the edge, then eased off, only to build you back up again. By the time he finally let you come, you were shaking, fingers twisted in his hair, his name falling from your lips.
Chris kissed his way back up your body, smiling against your skin when he reached your mouth.
“You’re so fucking hot when you come,” he whispered.
You reached down between you, palming him through his boxers. He was rock hard.
“Your turn,” you murmured.
You pushed him onto his back and stripped off the last of his clothes. When you took him in your mouth, Chris let out a low groan, one hand gently threading through your hair.
You took your time too — teasing him the way he’d teased you — until he was breathing hard and gripping the sheets.
Eventually he pulled you up, voice strained. “I need to be inside you.”
You nodded, reaching over to the drawer and grabbing a condom. Chris rolled it on quickly, then pulled you on top of him.
You sank down onto him slowly, both of you moaning at the feeling. Once he was fully inside you, you started moving — rolling your hips in deep, steady motions. Chris’s hands gripped your waist, guiding you, eyes locked on your face the entire time.
“Fuck… you feel incredible,” he groaned.
The pace gradually picked up. He sat up, wrapping his arms around you so your chests were pressed together, kissing you deeply as you rode him. The new angle made you both gasp.
When you got close again, Chris reached between you, thumb finding your clit.
“Come with me,” he whispered against your lips.
You did — hard, clenching around him as pleasure crashed over you. Chris followed right after, burying his face in your neck with a deep groan as he came.
You stayed like that for a long time afterwards — tangled together, breathing hard, skin slick with sweat.
Chris kissed your shoulder, then your neck, then finally your lips — slow and sweet this time.
“Stay the night?” you asked quietly.
He smiled against your mouth.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Let me know if you want a part 3!!!!!
💬 5 🔁 1 ❤️ 84 · Wrong Number - Chris Dixon
description: what should you not do just after a messy break-up? sext your cousin's best frien
description: you’re a crew member who’s had enough of making sure harry doesn’t burn the place down, however this time he almost did.
warnings: smut
——————————————————————————
The set was pure Sidemen chaos from the second Harry decided today’s video needed “artistic flair.”
He’d dragged in a massive white canvas, five industrial spotlights, and an entire crate of spray paint like proper banksy shit. The rest of the boys were scattered around: You were on boom mic, headset on, standing just off-frame in your standard black crew hoodie and jeans, trying not to roll your eyes every time Harry shook another can like it was a maraca.
“Oi, careful with that one,” you snapped when he grabbed the neon pink. “The label literally says ‘highly flammable, do not shake aggressively.’”
Harry didn’t even look at you. Just grinned that infuriating half-smirk and gave the can three extra violent shakes. “Relax, love. I know what I’m doing.”
“You know what you’re doing?” You adjusted the boom pole, voice dripping venom. “Last time you ‘knew what you were doing’ you set the green screen on fire with a lighter and hairspray.”
“That was one time.”
“Twice.”
“Details.” He finally glanced over, eyes flicking up and down your frame with deliberate mockery. “You’re just mad because you have to stand there holding that stupid stick while I create.”
“Create? You’re spray-painting a canvas that costs more than my rent while the rest of us clean up your mess. Again.”
Ethan cackled from behind his camera. “She’s got you there, Haz.”
Harry ignored him, stepping closer to the canvas, still shaking the can. “Keep talking, sweetheart. Your voice is proper grating today. Makes me want to—”
The can exploded.
Not a gentle hiss. A full-on violent POP like a shaken champagne bottle. A thick jet of hot neon pink shot out sideways in a perfect arc. It slammed into Harry’s chest first—splattering across his black hoodie, up his neck, into his hair, down his arms. The overspray caught you full-force a split second later: face, hair, hoodie, jeans, even the boom mic. Thick, gloopy, chemical-smelling pink paint coated everything.
The entire set went dead silent for half a beat.
Then absolute bedlam.
“OH MY GOD—” Ethan screamed, half-laughing, half-horrified.
JJ was already waving his arms. “FUMES! FUMES! That shit’s toxic! Health and safety are gonna kill us!”
Vik ripped his headphones off. “Producer! Producer! We need the eyewash station—now!”
Tobi was already backing up. “Mate, your face is literally melting pink.”
You stood frozen, paint dripping from your lashes, stinging your eyes, burning where it touched bare skin at your collar and wrists. It smelled like chemicals and regret.
Harry wiped his face with the back of his hand—only smearing it worse. Pink streaked down his cheeks like war paint. “Fuck—fuck—fuck—it’s in my eyes!”
“Both of you—shower block! NOW!” the producer bellowed from the side, already herding you like panicked cattle. “That paint’s solvent-based. Get it off your skin before it burns. Don’t touch anything else!”
Harry was already moving, yanking his hoodie over his head as he power-walked toward the corridor. Pink paint flew everywhere. “This is your fault,” he threw over his shoulder at you. “You distracted me with your constant nagging.”
“My fault?” You stormed after him, peeling your own soaked crew hoodie off mid-stride and flinging it at the floor. It landed with a wet slap. “You shook the can like a fucking idiot after I literally warned you!”
“Warned me? You were just being a miserable cow as usual.”
You kicked your trainers off outside the changing-room door, hopping on one foot. “Miserable? I’m the only one on this set who stops you from accidentally killing yourself every week!”
He shoved the inner door open so hard it bounced off the wall. “Yeah? Well today you failed spectacularly.”
Inside the tiled changing area the air was cooler, but the paint was already starting to prickle and burn wherever it touched skin. Adrenaline was flooding your system—heart hammering, breath short, every nerve screaming get it off get it off get it off.
You didn’t even think.
Harry was already tearing at his jeans, hopping on one leg. “Hurry up—my skin’s on fire!”
“Yours is on fire? I’ve got it in my hair, you absolute twat!” You ripped your jeans down, kicking them away, then yanked your sports bra off without a second thought. The paint had soaked straight through everything. Underwear went next—sodden, sticky, disgusting. You left the pile on the tiles and bolted for the open shower cubicle at the far end. The only working one.
Harry was right behind you.
Both of you slammed under the spray at the exact same time.
You cranked the dial to full hot with one hand while Harry spun the second shower head on full blast. Water exploded over both of you—scalding, pounding, rinsing pink in swirling rivers down the drain.
“Scrub harder!” Harry barked, already clawing at his own chest with both hands. “It’s not coming off!”
“I’m trying!” You raked your nails through your hair, pink water streaming into your eyes. “This stuff’s like glue—why the hell did you buy industrial paint, you moron?”
“Because it looks better on camera, obviously!” He spun, back to you, scrubbing his shoulders. “And stop hogging the water pressure!”
“You’re the one who caused this! Move over!”
He elbowed you sideways—bare skin on bare skin—but neither of you registered it. The adrenaline was too high. Paint still burning. Fumes still sharp in your nose. You both just kept scrubbing frantically: arms, chests, stomachs, thighs, anything the paint had touched. Water cascaded over you in sheets. You even turned your back to him at one point so he could rinse the worst of it out of your hair without thinking twice.
“Fuck, that’s better,” you gasped after a solid minute, tilting your face into the spray. The stinging was finally easing. Most of the thick gloopy layer had washed away, leaving only faint pink streaks on your skin that were slowly fading.
Harry let out a long breath beside you. “Yeah… yeah, it’s coming off. Thank God.”
The water ran clearer now. No more neon rivers swirling at your feet. Just two bodies under two separate but overlapping sprays.
And then the adrenaline crash hit.
You blinked the last droplets from your lashes.
Harry turned at the exact same moment.
Your eyes met.
Then dropped.
Then snapped back up.
You were both completely, utterly naked.
No towels. No underwear. No nothing.
Just skin, water, steam, and the sudden, deafening realisation that you were standing inches apart in a shared shower, dripping wet, every inch of you on full display.
Harry’s gaze dragged down—slow, involuntary—taking in the water sliding between your breasts, over your stomach, down your thighs. His jaw slackened. Pupils blown wide.
You couldn’t stop your own eyes from doing the exact same thing: broad shoulders glistening, chest rising fast, the sharp cut of his abs, the trail of hair leading lower, the very obvious, very hard evidence that the adrenaline had shifted into something else entirely.
For three full heartbeats the only sound was the hiss of the water.
Then Harry’s voice came out rough, low, almost accusatory.
“…You’re naked.”
Your mouth opened. Closed. Heat flooded your face, your chest, lower. “So are you, genius.”
He swallowed hard. Water streamed down the side of his neck. “We… we just stripped in front of each other.”
“Adrenaline,” you managed, voice shaky. “Paint was burning. Didn’t… didn’t think.”
His eyes flicked back to your chest, then forced themselves up to your face. “You’re still staring.”
“So are you.”
Another beat.
The air thickened—steam, heat, something far more dangerous than chemical fumes.
Harry’s hands flexed at his sides like he was physically stopping himself from reaching out. “This doesn’t change anything,” he said, but the words were hoarse. “I still think you’re the most annoying person on the planet.”
Your heart was hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat. “Good. Because I still hate you. With every fucking cell in my body.”
His gaze dropped again—lingered—then snapped back. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He took one tiny step closer. Water from his spray now mixed with yours. “Then why aren’t you running?”
You didn’t move. Couldn’t. “Why aren’t you?”
His throat worked. “Because I’ve spent eighteen months wanting to shut that smart mouth up. And right now… right now it’s really fucking hard to remember why I shouldn’t.”
Your breath hitched. “Try it. I dare you.”
Harry’s control snapped like a tripwire.
One hand shot out, fingers curling around your waist, yanking you forward until your wet bodies collided. The other tangled in your soaked hair, tilting your head back.
“Then shut up,” he growled.
And crashed his mouth down on yours.
The kiss was pure fire—angry, desperate, teeth clashing, tongues fighting for dominance. You kissed him back just as viciously, nails digging into his shoulders, hips rolling against his in a shameless grind that made you both groan into each other’s mouths.
He spun you until your back hit the cold tile wall.
You gasped.
He swallowed the sound, biting your bottom lip hard.
“Still hate me?” he rasped against your throat, already sucking a mark there.
“Yes—God, yes—”
His hand slid between your legs, fingers finding you already soaked for reasons that had nothing to do with the shower.
“Liar,” he growled, and pushed two fingers inside you without warning.
You arched, swearing, hips chasing his hand.
He fucked you with his fingers while his mouth worked down your neck, your chest, water streaming over both of you like a second skin.
When you were trembling, right on the edge, he pulled his hand away.
You actually whimpered.
Harry’s grin was feral against your collarbone. “Beg.”
“Fuck you.”
“Say it.”
You grabbed his hair, yanked his head back so you could glare into his eyes—both of you naked, panting, paint long gone.
“Fuck me, Harry,” you snarled. “Fuck me like you’ve wanted to every single time you’ve called me annoying for the last year and a half.”
His eyes went almost black.
He hooked one of your thighs over his hip, lined himself up, and thrust in so deep your head fell back against the tile with a thud.
The rest was a blur of steam, slapping skin, curses and moans echoing off the walls.
You came first—clenching around him so hard your vision whited out, crying his name like a curse and a prayer at the same time.
He followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt with a broken groan that vibrated through both of you.
For a long minute there was only the sound of the water and two people trying to remember how to breathe.
The water finally ran clear, but the air in the shower block still felt thick—steam clinging to the tiles, the faint chemical tang of the paint lingering under the soap. You stepped out without a word, grabbed a towel, wrapped it tight around yourself, and walked straight past Harry like he wasn’t even there. No eye contact. No goodbye. Just the wet slap of your feet on the floor and the door banging shut behind you.
Your clothes were fucked—pink-soaked, sticky, probably ruined beyond saving. You didn’t bother sorting through the pile. You went straight to the spare kit cupboard, yanked it open, and pulled out the first hoodie and trackies that looked like they’d fit. The hoodie was Harry’s. You recognised the signature blue. You hesitated for maybe two seconds—long enough to feel stupid—then pulled it over your head anyway.
It was too big. Sleeves past your knuckles, hem hitting the tops of your thighs even after you tugged the trackies on underneath. It smelled like him: faint cedar, whatever deodorant he used, a trace of mint. You hated that you noticed. Hated more that it felt warm against skin that still prickled from the hot water and everything that had happened under it.
You cinched the hood up, shoved your hands in the sleeves, and walked back to the set like you were daring anyone to say something.
They did.
Ethan saw you first. He was leaning against a light stand, scrolling on his phone, but his head snapped up and he actually choked on the sip of water he’d just taken.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, loud enough for the whole room. “Is that Harry’s hoodie?”
You didn’t slow down. “It was in the cupboard. Drop it.”
JJ looked over from where he was packing cables. His eyebrows climbed. “Nah, that’s definitely his. Look at the cuff—same fray from when he caught it on the van door last month.”
Vik glanced up from his laptop. “She’s swimming in it. Sleeves are basically mittens.”
Tobi just smirked, arms crossed. “You two were in there a while.”
You stopped walking. Turned slowly. “The paint was burning my fucking skin off. We scrubbed for ten minutes straight. That’s it.”
Ethan grinned wider. “Ten minutes straight? In a shared shower? With one working head?”
“Fuck off, Ethan.”
Harry came through the door then—hair still damp, fresh tee, clean trackies. He stopped a few paces away when he saw you. Didn’t say anything at first. Just looked.
His eyes went from your face to the hoodie, down to where the hem brushed your thighs, then back up. Slow. Not leering, just… taking it in. Like he was trying to decide whether he liked what he was seeing or hated it. Maybe both.
You met his stare. “What?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Nothing. Looks comfortable.”
“It’s the only thing that wasn’t covered in toxic pink sludge because of you.”
“Fair.” He took a step closer. His Voice dropped so the others couldn’t quite hear. “You didn’t have to pick mine.”
“There wasn’t a label saying ‘Property of Annoying Bastard’ on it.”
His mouth twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. “You could’ve taken one of the plain ones at the back.”
“Didn’t see them.” You lied. You’d seen them. You’d chosen his anyway. You weren’t about to admit why.
He studied you for another beat. “You gonna keep wearing it?”
“Until I get home and can burn it, yeah.”
Another almost-smile. “Sure.”
Ethan, who’d clearly been eavesdropping, let out a low whistle. “Bro. The tension. I can taste it from here.”
“Shut up,” you and Harry said at the same time.
The boys laughed—quiet, knowing. JJ shook his head. “You two are weird as fuck.”
You turned away from Harry, grabbed your bag from the chair near the door, and headed for the exit. “I’m out. See you idiots tomorrow.”
You didn’t wait for replies.
Outside the air was cold, sharp against damp hair and bare ankles where the trackies dragged. You leaned against the wall for a second, breathing. The hoodie still carried his warmth, his smell. You tugged the collar up over your nose without thinking—inhaled once—then dropped it like it burned.
Footsteps behind you.
Harry.
He stopped a metre away. Hands in his pockets. No smirk this time. Just quiet.
“You all right?” he asked.
You didn’t look at him. “Fine.”
“You stormed out like you weren’t.”
“I needed air.”
He nodded once. “About earlier—”
“Don’t.” You cut him off. “Don’t make it a thing. It happened. Adrenaline. Paint. Whatever. It’s done.”
He exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. Sure.”
Silence stretched.
Then, quieter: “You’re still wearing my hoodie.”
You finally looked at him. “And?”
“And you look…” He paused. Searched for the word. “Good in it.”
You laughed—short, bitter. “Don’t.”
“I’m not trying to—” He stopped. Ran a hand through his damp hair. “Fuck it. Forget I said it.”
You pushed off the wall. “Already forgotten.”
You started walking toward the car park.
He didn’t follow.
But you felt his eyes on your back the whole way—steady, unreadable, heavy.
You hated it.
Hated how part of you wanted to turn around.
Hated how the hoodie felt less like borrowed clothes and more like something you weren’t ready to take off.
You got in your car, slammed the door, gripped the wheel until your knuckles went white.
Still hate him.
Still.
But the word felt thinner now.
And when you finally started the engine, you left the hoodie on.
A few days later—Thursday night—the Sidemen house felt more like a proper hang than a shoot aftermath.
You walked in feeling sharper than usual. Black jeans that actually hugged instead of hung off you, a fitted dark green long-sleeve top with a subtle neckline, hair down and actually brushed instead of scraped back.
Vik spotted you first from the sofa.
“Oi, look who’s actually dressed like a functioning adult,” he said, grinning as he paused his phone scroll. “What’s the occasion? Got a date after this?”
You dropped your bag by the door and rolled your eyes. “No occasion. Just felt like not looking like I rolled out of a laundry basket for once.”
Tobi looked over from the kitchen, beer in hand. “Respect. You clean up nice.”
“Thanks, Tobs.” You grabbed a cold bottle from the fridge, twisted the cap off. “Where’s everyone else?”
“Scattered,” Ethan called from the games room doorway. “JJ’s outside on a call, Simon’s showing someone his new watch collection like it’s the Crown Jewels, and Harry’s…” He trailed off, smirking. “Harry’s being Harry.”
You didn’t ask where. Didn’t need to.
He was in the living room corner, leaned against the arm of the sectional, talking low to a girl you vaguely recognised—friend of a friend, dark hair, easy laugh, dressed in something effortlessly cool. She was sitting on the edge of the coffee table facing him, knee brushing his as she gestured with her drink. He was listening, nodding, that small half-smile on his face that made him look interested without trying too hard.
Your stomach twisted. You hated how quickly it happened now.
You turned away, walked over to Vik and dropped onto the sofa beside him.
He side-eyed you. “You good?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You just glared at the fridge like it owed you money.”
You took a long sip. “Long week.”
“Uh-huh.” He didn’t push. Just went back to his phone.
The night rolled on slow. People drifted in and out of conversations. You talked to Tobi about the new gym he was trying, laughed when Ethan tried (and failed) to do a handstand against the wall for no reason. JJ came back inside eventually, complaining about some sponsor email, and you ended up in a corner debate with him and Vik about whether they do too many among us videos.
Somewhere in the middle of that, Ethan shouted from across the room: “Spin the bottle! Who’s in?”
Groans. Laughs. Someone threw a cushion at him.
“Come onnnn,” Ethan insisted. “It’s nostalgic. We’re all adults. What’s the worst that happens? A cheek kiss?”
“Famous last words,” Tobi muttered, but he sat down anyway.
The circle formed on the floor—maybe ten people total. You ended up between Vik and the crew guy from editing (the quiet one who always had good headphones). Harry was opposite you, the girl from earlier right beside him.
The bottle spun lazily on the carpet.
First few turns were boring: Ethan kissed JJ on the cheek “for the content,” Tobi pecked one of the girls politely, Simon refused and took a shot instead.
Then it landed on you.
Pointing straight at the editing guy—mid-twenties, nice smile, zero ego. He looked genuinely startled, then laughed under his breath.
“Uh… okay,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
You leaned in without hesitation. Kept it simple—soft lips, three seconds, hand resting lightly on his knee for balance. Nothing dramatic. But deliberate.
When you sat back, you felt Harry’s eyes on you like a physical weight.
You didn’t look.
Your spin.
The bottle slowed. Stopped.
On the girl next to Harry.
The room did the obligatory “oooh.”
She laughed, glanced sideways at Harry—who gave the tiniest shrug, mouth twitching like he was trying not to react—then leaned toward you.
You met her halfway. Light, playful kiss—nothing heavy, but you let it linger just long enough that it wasn’t forgettable. When you pulled back you smiled at her, tucked your hair behind your ear.
Harry’s beer bottle was gripped so tight the label was creasing.
The game carried on.
A few more turns. Someone dared Ethan to chug whatever mystery shot was left in a random cup. He did. Regretted it immediately.
You talked quietly to the editing guy beside you—asked about the new software he was messing with, laughed when he showed you a dumb meme on his phone. You touched his arm once, just above the elbow, when you agreed with something he said.
Harry’s gaze kept flicking over.
Every time.
Eventually the bottle got kicked aside, game fizzled. People started drifting—some to smoke outside, some to raid the fridge again, some disappearing upstairs.
You stayed on the sofa, legs crossed, sipping your drink slower now.
Harry stayed across the room. Laughed louder than usual at Ethan’s dumb story. Let the girl lean against his shoulder while she scrolled through her phone. Rested his arm along the back of the couch behind her—casual, almost natural.
You finished your drink, stood up.
“Heading out,” you said to the room in general. Quick hugs, see-you-laters. No eye contact with him.
You slipped out the front door.
The drive home was quiet. Flat dark when you got in. You flicked the kitchen light on, poured water, stood at the counter for a minute trying to shake the low buzz of tension that had followed you like smoke.
A knock.
Sharp. Purposeful.
You walked over. Peephole.
Harry.
Hands shoved in pockets, hair messy like he’d dragged his fingers through it the whole drive. He looked restless. Like he’d been pacing in his head for the last twenty minutes.
You opened the door halfway.
“Bit late for a house call.”
“Can I come in?” No smirk. No charm. Just quiet.
You stared at him another second.
Then stepped back.
He walked past. You closed the door, leaned against it, arms crossed.
He turned. Looked you over—the green top, the jeans, the way you’d actually made an effort.
“You looked different tonight,” he said.
“I dressed up. So what?”
“So you looked good.” He paused. “And you knew it.”
You raised an eyebrow. “That why you’re here? To compliment my outfit at half-two?”
“No.” He exhaled. “I’m here because I spent the whole night watching you. Watching you kiss him. Watching you kiss her. Watching you act like I didn’t exist.”
“You seemed occupied,” you said evenly. “Didn’t look like you were short on company.”
“I wasn’t into it.” He met your eyes. “And it pissed me off. How much it got to me.”
You didn’t reply right away.
He took a small step closer. “You did it deliberately, didn’t you? The kisses. Letting him sit close. Laughing like it was nothing.”
“Maybe,” you said. “Maybe I wanted to see if you’d care.”
“I cared.” His voice dropped. “More than I wanted to.”
The kitchen light cast long shadows across the floor.
You uncrossed your arms. “What do you want me to say, Harry?”
“Nothing.” Another step. “I just needed to know if I was imagining it. If the whole night was just… noise. Or if there’s actually something here.”
You studied him—the tension in his jaw, the way his hands stayed in his pockets like he didn’t trust them loose.
“There’s something,” you said quietly. “I don’t know what it is yet. But yeah. It’s there.”
He nodded once. Like that was enough.
Then he reached out—slow—brushed his knuckles down your bare arm.
“No hoodie tonight,” he murmured.
“Didn’t feel like hiding.”
His thumb traced back up to your shoulder. “Missed seeing you in it.”
You let out a small breath—half laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah.” His hand settled at the side of your neck. Thumb over your pulse. “But I’m here.”
You looked at his mouth.
Then his eyes.
“I still don’t like you very much,” you said.
His thumb pressed just a fraction harder. “Same.”
A beat.
You leaned in first.
The kiss was slow. Careful. Like testing water that might still be cold.
He kissed back the same way—gentle at first, then deeper when you didn’t pull away.
When you broke apart, foreheads resting together, breathing uneven:
“Stay?” you asked.
He nodded.
You took his hand.
Led him down the hall.
And for once, neither of you bothered pretending the hate was still the main story.
You’re Arthur’s younger cousin — 26 and now living in London, loosely woven into the extended crew. Sidemen shoots, Burnt Chip chaos, random pub nights with the lads — you roast them, they protectively tease you back. You’re family, which makes what’s about to happen feel like walking into a minefield.
Three weeks post-breakup. You impulse-bought lingerie to claw back some confidence: black lace bodysuit, sheer cherry-red babydoll, emerald-green strappy set that hugs like it was made for sin. You told yourself it was self-love. You told Christina it was “new era”.
Ring light on, timer set, playlist low. Mirror shots — arched back, soft glow, one with a strap slipping just enough. You pick the three strongest ones and open messages.
To: Christina 🫶
me trying to convince myself life is worth living again
rate the recovery drip pls
Send.
Except… no.
The chat header reads Chris.
Just Chris. The way you saved him after one of Arthur’s group hangs a couple years back, one of Arthur's best friends.
Photos delivered. Tasteful, but very much thirst traps. Read receipt: Seen instantly.
Your soul evacuates.
You type like your life depends on it:
You:
OH MY GOD CHRIS
WRONG CHAT
I’M SO SORRY
those were for my friend Christina
please delete them right now
I’m actually begging
I will never show my face at another shoot again
Dots. Long dots. Torture.
Chris:
…shit haha
okay first of all breathe
second — yeah, definitely accident
third — uh… you look really good
like unfairly good
sorry if that’s weird to say right now but deleting in 3…2…1
Your stomach flips at the compliment. You hate how it lands.
You:
thank you but also please actually forget you ever saw them
I’m dying a little
like full-body cringe
Chris:
Already forgotten. Scout’s honour.
You okay though? Like… after the breakup and everything?
Haven’t seen you around much lately.
Even in a disaster, he’s checking in. Classic.
You:
yeah I’m… getting there
retail therapy was supposed to help
clearly it backfired spectacularly
sorry again
Chris:
Nah don’t apologise. Accidents happen.
And for what it’s worth the therapy looks like it’s working pretty well 👀
You stare at the eye emoji. Heat creeps up your neck.
You:
stop that
you’re making it worse
Chris:
Making what worse? 😇
Kidding. I’ll behave.
Promise the pics are gone.
You exhale. Try to laugh it off. Fail.
You put your phone down. Make tea. Doom-scroll for twenty minutes. Tell yourself it’s over.
1:58 a.m. Buzz.
Chris:
Hey… can I be completely honest with you for a sec?
No pressure. You can tell me to fuck off and I will.
Your heart kicks.
You:
go on
Chris:
I deleted the photos. Swear.
But I can’t stop thinking about them.
Like… at all.
Been hard ever since and it’s actually ridiculous how much they got to me.
Sorry if that’s too much.
Just didn’t want to sit here pretending I’m chill when I’m really not.
You read it three times. Throat dry.
You:
Are you serious?
Chris:
Dead serious.
Tried to ignore it. Watched three episodes of something stupid. Didn’t help.
You can tell me to shut up now. I get it.
You bite your lip. The emerald set is still on — never changed. Flat quiet except the fridge hum.
You:
don’t shut up
Honestly?
knowing that is doing something to me too
Chris:
Yeah?
Fuck. Okay.
That’s… good to know.
Long pause. Dots flicker.
Chris:
What now then?
You swallow. Type before overthinking wins.
You:
show me
please
Another wait. You almost regret it.
Chris:
You sure?
You:
100%
A minute drags.
Photo arrives.
Low bedroom light. No shirt. Gray joggers pushed down just enough. One hand wrapped around himself — thick, hard, flushed. Not stroking yet, just holding. Other hand in his hair like he’s fighting for control. Face half-turned, eyes closed, lips parted. Vulnerable. Devastating.
No caption.
You stare until the screen dims.
You:
jesus chris
Chris
Told you.
Can’t fake that reaction.
You:
I can see that
fuck
Chris
Your turn?
Only if you want.
No hesitation.
You stand, fix the light, let one strap fall completely. Hair messy. Lip between teeth. Hand trailing down your stomach, stopping just above the lace. Eyes locked on the lens like a dare.
Send.
His reply hits fast.
Chris:
Fuck me.
You’re unreal.
This is probably crossing every line Arthur would kill me for.
You:
probably
Chris:
…but I don’t want to stop.
You:
me neither
Chris:
Then don’t.
The chat goes quiet for a beat.
Then another photo from him — same grip, but now mid-stroke, slow and deliberate.
Heat pools low.
You:
keep going
show me what you’d do if I was there
Chris:
Careful what you ask for, love.
Another photo lands — same angle, but now his hand is moving properly: slow, deliberate strokes, tip glistening, veins standing out. His abs are tensed, a faint sheen of sweat on his chest from how worked up he is. Face still half-turned, jaw clenched like he’s holding back a groan.
Chris:
That’s what I’d do.
Start slow.
Tease until you’re begging.
Your breath hitches, thighs pressed together, aching.
You type with one hand, the other slipping under the lace.
You:
then what?
keep describing
Chris:
I’d pin your wrists above your head with one hand.
Kiss down your neck, bite just hard enough to make you gasp.
Other hand sliding between your legs, feeling how wet you already are.
Circling slow at first.
Then faster when you start squirming.
Fuck. Your fingers mimic the rhythm he’s describing, circling your clit through the fabric before pushing it aside.
You:
I’m touching myself reading that
keep going
Chris:
Good girl.
I’d push those straps down, take one nipple in my mouth.
Suck hard while my fingers slide inside you.
Two at first.
Curl them just right until your back arches off the bed.
You whimper quietly, slipping two fingers in, thumb still working your clit. The stretch feels good, but not enough.
You:
more
tell me how you’d fuck me
Chris:
I’d flip you over.
Ass up, face down.
Spread you open with my thumbs.
Tease your entrance with the head of my cock until you’re pushing back trying to take me.
Then I’d sink in slow.
All the way.
Hold there for a second so you feel every inch.
Photo comes through — he’s gripping himself tighter now, stroking faster, pre-cum slicking his hand. The flush on his chest has spread to his neck.
Chris:
Like this.
Deep.
Hard.
Pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in.
Hand in your hair, pulling your head back so I can kiss you messy while I rail you.
Your hips buck against your hand. You add a third finger, chasing the fullness he’s describing.
You:
I’m so close
don’t stop
Chris:
Fuck
I’d reach around, rub your clit in tight circles while I pound into you.
Feel you clench around me.
Hear you moan my name.
Fuck, I want to hear it.
You bite your lip hard to keep quiet, fingers moving frantically.
You:
chris
fuck chris I’m gonna come
Chris:
Come for me.
Let go.
I want to see you fall apart.
You do. Hard. Legs shaking, back arching off the mattress, a choked moan slipping out despite your best efforts. Waves crash through you, clit pulsing under your fingers, walls fluttering around nothing.
You ride it out, panting.
A minute later, another photo from him — hand still wrapped around his cock, but now cum is streaked across his abs, thick ropes from base to tip. His chest is heaving, head tipped back against the headboard.
Chris:
Just came thinking about you clenching around me.
Fuck. That was intense.
You stare at the photo, aftershocks still tingling.
You:
holy shit
you’re covered
Chris:
Yeah.
Your fault.
Worth it.
You laugh breathlessly, wiping your hand on the sheet you’ll wash tomorrow.
You:
that was… a lot
in the best way
Chris:
Same.
You okay? Like… really okay?
You:
yeah
floaty. good floaty.
you?
Chris:
Same.
Brain’s mush.
In a good way.
A soft pause.
Chris:
Should probably clean up.
And sleep.
Before we start round two and neither of us functions tomorrow.
You:
probably smart
night chris
don’t overthink this
Chris:
Night, love.
I won’t.
Promise.
You:
sweet dreams
or filthy ones. your choice
Chris:
Already planning the filthy ones.
Talk tomorrow?
You:
yeah
tomorrow
You set your phone down, heart still racing but calmer now. The room smells faintly of sex and satisfaction.
description: you and your best friend go on a trip to paris, only for her to ditch you for a guy at a bar. You're alone at night and have no idea where you are. What happens when you bump into a familiar face?
warnings: smut, unprotected sex, very minor violence.
note: I don't speak french so please blame google translate if any of this is incorrect!!
The city lights of Paris blurred through the thin mist of early February as you stood on the narrow pavement near the Pont Neuf, arms wrapped tightly around yourself against the chill. Your so-called best friend Mia had disappeared around nine-thirty with a quick wave and a promise of “just one drink with this guy from the bar—he’s harmless, I swear.” That was over three hours ago now. No texts, no location pin, no “sorry I’m late.” Your phone was down to 12%, the Airbnb address was saved only in her notes app, and the map you’d pulled up earlier had stopped refreshing properly. You didn’t even know which bridge you were standing near anymore; every stone arch and river reflection looked the same in the dark.
You tried calling her again. Straight to voicemail. “Mia, seriously, pick up. I’m freezing and I have no idea where I am.” You hung up, breath fogging in front of your face, and leaned against the cold stone balustrade. Panic sat low in your stomach—not full-blown terror yet, but the slow, creeping kind that made your palms sweat despite the cold.
That was when someone bumped into you from behind.
“Pardon—sorry,” a low voice muttered, British accent clear even in the single French word. A hand steadied your elbow for half a second—warm fingers against the thin sleeve of your coat—before dropping away almost reluctantly. “You alright? You look proper lost. And freezing.”
You turned, blinking up at him in the dim streetlight. Tall, dark beanie pulled low, blue eyes that crinkled at the corners with immediate concern. Recognition hit you quietly: Harry Lewis.
He tilted his head, studying you. “You okay? You’re shaking.”
You exhaled shakily. “Not really. My friend ditched me for some guy she met tonight. She’s got the Airbnb address, the keys, everything. She’s not answering. Phone’s dying. And I’m… yeah. Completely out of my depth.”
He winced, genuine. “That’s rough. How long’s she been gone?”
“Over three hours.” You glanced at your screen—still nothing. “I feel ridiculous. I’m twenty-six. I should be able to handle this.”
“You’re not ridiculous. You’re cold, pissed off, and stuck on a bridge in Paris at night. Anyone would be rattled.” He rubbed the back of his neck, breath visible between you. His gaze flicked down to your trembling hands, then back to your face. “Look… I was heading back anyway. There’s a little crêperie still open just down there—warm, decent food, open late. Come sit for a bit. Charge your phone if they’ve got a plug. Wait and see if she texts. My treat. No pressure.”
You searched his face. No smirk, no bravado—just quiet sincerity and a flicker of something warmer in his eyes when they lingered on yours a second too long.
“…Okay,” you said, voice softer than you intended. “Thank you.”
He gave a small, relieved smile, the corner of his mouth lifting in a way that made your stomach flip despite everything. “Good. I’m Harry.”
“I know.” It slipped out. You winced. “Not like—I don’t follow you religiously or anything. My brother used to watch your videos. Your face just… stuck.”
His laugh was low, almost private. “Come on. Before you freeze solid.”
As you walked, he stayed close—close enough that his arm brushed yours once, twice, accidental but electric. The crêperie was small and golden: fairy lights strung across the ceiling, wood smoke, the smell of buckwheat and melting cheese. Harry spoke quick French to the waiter—fluent, effortless—then turned back to you, voice dropping to that low, gravelly English that felt like it was meant only for you.
“What do you want? Savoury? They do a cracking galette complète.”
“Anything hot,” you said. “Savoury. Haven’t eaten since lunch.”
He ordered for both of you—ham, cheese, egg, a carafe of red—and when the plates arrived he pushed yours closer, watching you take the first bite like he needed to see the tension leave your shoulders. The food was perfect: crispy edges, gooey center, warmth spreading through you like a slow unfurling.
Conversation started slow, then deepened. You told him about the trip—saving for months, Mia’s impulsive streak that used to feel exciting but now just left you holding the bag. How you’d wandered the Louvre earlier that day feeling small and anonymous among the crowds. He listened—chin on fist, eyes steady on yours—nodding in the right places, asking quiet follow-ups that made you feel seen.
He told you he was in Paris for forty-eight hours: sponsor shoot tomorrow afternoon, then back to London. “Solo trips are strange,” he said, tearing a corner off his galette. “All this freedom, but half the time you just want someone to turn to and say ‘look at that ridiculous thing’.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Yeah. I keep seeing stuff I want to send Mia—like those stupid heart-shaped locks on the bridge—and then remember she’s probably snogging a stranger right now.”
He snorted. “Romantic.”
By the time the restaurant had quieted. Your phone buzzed once—low battery. No Mia.
You rubbed your temples. “She’s not coming back tonight.”
“Doesn’t look like it.” Harry leaned forward, elbows on the table. Your knees brushed under it. Neither of you moved away. “I’ve got a suite at the hotel across the road. Two bedrooms. Living room with a sofa if you’d rather that. You can charge your phone, get warm, sleep somewhere safe.” He swallowed, voice quieter. “I’m not—I wouldn’t—I just don’t want to walk away and leave you out here. That’s all.”
Your pulse kicked up. His eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second—maybe watching the way your lips parted—before flicking back up. The air between you felt thinner, charged.
“I’d be stupid to say yes to anyone else,” you murmured.
“Probably.” He chuckled.
“But I’d be stupid to say no and freeze on a bench.”
He exhaled through his nose, small smile tugging. “Logical.”
You held his gaze. “Okay. But if this is a terrible idea, I’m blaming the wine.”
“Fair.” He stood first, offering his hand. His fingers closed around yours—warm, steady—and he didn’t let go right away. Not until you were outside again, walking shoulder to shoulder, the brush of his sleeve against yours sending small sparks up your arm.
The streets were quieter now, the cold sharper. You turned down a narrower alley—shortcut, he said—when a man stepped out from a shadowed doorway. Mid-thirties, reeking of cheap aftershave and too much wine, eyes glassy. He grinned at you, slurring something in French, then reached out—fast—grabbing your wrist.
“Viens avec moi, jolie—”
You froze. Before you could react, Harry was there—stepping between you and the man in one fluid motion, shoulders squared, voice dropping into sharp, commanding French.
“Lâche-la. Tout de suite.”
The words were low, dangerous. The man blinked, grip loosening. Harry didn’t raise his voice, didn’t shove—just stared him down, body angled protectively in front of yours, one hand hovering near the man’s chest like he was seconds from making contact if needed.
“Je ne le répéterai pas. Dégage. Maintenant.”
Something in his tone—the calm certainty, the edge beneath it—made the man falter. He muttered something under his breath, released your wrist, and stumbled back into the shadows, disappearing around the corner.
Harry turned to you instantly, eyes scanning your face, your wrist. “You okay? Did he hurt you?”
You shook your head, heart hammering. Heat flooded your cheeks—sudden, uncontrollable. Your breath came a little faster, your skin prickling under his gaze. You couldn’t quite meet his eyes.
He noticed. Of course he did. His expression shifted—concern softening into something darker, more knowing. He stepped closer, voice dropping even lower. “You’re blushing.”
“I’m… fine,” you managed, but your voice came out thinner than you wanted. The flush crept down your neck. You swallowed hard, trying to play it off. “Just… adrenaline. From earlier. The whole thing.”
He didn’t buy it for a second. A slow, devastating grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. His hand found your waist—gentle, but firm—thumb brushing the edge of your coat in a slow, deliberate stroke.
“Adrenaline,” he repeated, soft, teasing. His eyes flicked to your lips, then back up. “Right.”
He didn’t push. Didn’t call you out directly. Just held your gaze a beat longer, letting the silence stretch until the air between you felt thick with unspoken things. Then he leaned in—just enough that his breath ghosted your ear.
“Come on. Hotel’s close.”
The walk the rest of the way was charged. Every brush of shoulders, every shared glance felt deliberate. In the elevator up to the suite, he stood behind you—close enough that his chest brushed your back when the doors closed. Neither of you spoke. The silence was thick, electric.
The suite was obscene: floor-to-ceiling windows, the Eiffel Tower glittering gold outside like it was showing off just for the two of you. He showed you the spare room, lingered in the doorway while you plugged in your phone.
“Tea?” he asked, voice rougher now.
“Please.”
He made two mugs. When he handed yours over, your fingers brushed—deliberate this time. He didn’t pull away. Neither did you.
You sat on the sofa, knees touching. The tower sparkled. Conversation drifted—his shoot tomorrow, your flight home the day after—but the words felt secondary. His hand rested on the cushion between you. Slowly, his fingers found yours, thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles.
“You’re still flushed,” he murmured, eyes dark.
You bit your lip. “It’s warm in here.”
He laughed under his breath—low, knowing. “Sure it is.”
He shifted closer, arm stretching along the back of the sofa behind you. “So… where’s home for you, then? When you’re not getting abandoned in Paris.”
“London,” you said. “Tiny flat, terrible neighbours, love it anyway.”
His eyebrows lifted, surprise flickering across his face. “No way. I’m in London too. Small world.”
You laughed softly. “Very small. Never thought I’d run into a Sidemen there either.”
He grinned, leaning in a fraction. “You should’ve said. I’d have bought you a pint at the pub near mine instead of dragging you to a fancy hotel.”
“I’m not complaining about the fancy hotel,” you teased, voice quieter now. The space between you had shrunk again. His knee pressed lightly against yours.
“Good,” he said, eyes dropping to where your fingers were still tangled with his. “Because I’m not complaining about the company.”
The flirting crept in slowly, like the city lights outside—soft at first, then brighter. You asked about his French—how he’d picked it up, why it sounded so effortless. He shrugged, sheepish.
“Grew up in Guernsey. French was just… around. School, telly, holidays to France with mates. It stuck. Never thought it’d come in handy for scaring off creeps in alleys, though.”
You raised an eyebrow. “It worked pretty well.”
He looked down at your joined hands, thumb still moving in lazy circles. “Yeah, well. Didn’t like the look of him near you.”
Your cheeks warmed again. He noticed—of course he did—and his grin turned a little wicked.
“You do that a lot,” he said quietly. “Blush when I say something like that.”
“Do not.”
“Do too.” He tilted his head, studying you like he was trying to memorise the exact shade of pink on your cheeks. “It’s cute.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile wouldn’t leave your face. “Flattery’s not going to get you anywhere.”
“Liar,” he murmured. Then, quieter, almost testing the waters: “What if I told you I like making you blush?”
Your breath caught. The room felt smaller, warmer. His free hand lifted—slowly—brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering against your cheek.
“Still think I’m full of it?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
You swallowed. “Maybe not.”
He held your gaze, thumb tracing the line of your jaw now. “Can I kiss you?”
You nodded, heart thudding.
He exhaled shakily, like he’d been holding his breath. “Good. Because I’ve been trying not to kiss you since the crêperie.”
“Then don’t try so hard,” you whispered.
He closed the distance—slow, deliberate. His lips brushed yours once, twice—testing—before he deepened it, hand sliding to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. The kiss was unhurried at first, exploratory, tongues brushing in lazy strokes that made heat coil low in your belly. When you sighed into his mouth he groaned softly, free hand sliding under your coat to grip your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make you arch against him.
You broke apart only long enough for him to murmur against your lips, voice rough and teasing, “Does me speaking French turn you on?”
Your breath hitched. The flush returned full force, spreading down your chest. You couldn’t deny it—not when he was looking at you like that, eyes dark and knowing.
“Maybe,” you breathed.
He smirked, leaning in to nip at your earlobe. “Maybe’s not an answer, love.”
You shivered. “Yes. It does. A lot.”
His low chuckle vibrated against your skin. “Noted.”
“Bedroom?” he rasped.
You nodded, breathless.
He lifted you effortlessly—your legs wrapping around his waist, thighs squeezing his hips as he carried you down the short hallway. He kicked the bedroom door shut, pressing your back against it for a moment so he could kiss you harder, deeper, hips rocking forward once so you could feel exactly how hard he already was through his jeans.
Clothes came off in a tangle of impatient hands. Your coat hit the floor, his hoodie followed, your shirt yanked over your head so fast your hair crackled with static. His mouth was on your neck the second your bra was unclasped—hot, open-mouthed kisses trailing down to your collarbone, then lower. He sucked a mark just above your breast, teeth grazing the sensitive skin until you whimpered his name. His hands were everywhere: sliding down to grip your ass and grind you against the hard length straining against his zipper.
You tugged at his belt, desperate. “Off,” you breathed.
He chuckled—low, wrecked—helping you shove his jeans and boxers down in one go. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking once, slow and firm. He hissed, head dropping to your shoulder.
“Fuck—careful, or this’ll be over too quick.”
You smirked, “Then you’d better hurry up.”
He growled—actually growled—and spun you around, bending you over the edge of the bed. Your palms hit the sheets as he kicked your legs apart, one hand sliding between your thighs to find you already soaked. Two fingers pushed inside without warning.
“Jesus,” he muttered against your spine, kissing down your back while he worked you open. “So fucking wet for me. Been like this since the alley, haven’t you?”
You could only moan in response, pushing back against his hand. He added a third finger, stretching you, scissoring until you were trembling, thighs shaking.
When he finally pulled out, you whined at the loss. He lined himself up. The stretch burned so good you gasped, nails digging into the duvet.
“Fuck,” he groaned, bottoming out, hips flush against your ass. “So tight—feel so fucking good.”
He gave you a moment to adjust, then started moving—deep, measured thrusts that hit every sensitive spot inside you. The angle was brutal in the best way; every snap of his hips drove you higher, the room filling with your broken moans and his filthy praise.
“Like that?” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Like me fucking you like this?”
“Yes—God, yes—harder—”
He obliged, pace turning punishing, bed creaking under the force of it. You came first—hard, sudden, clenching around him so tightly he swore in French under his breath. He fucked you through it, drawing it out until you were oversensitive and shaking, then pulled out, flipped you onto your back, and slid back in with one smooth thrust.
Face to face now, he hooked your legs over his shoulders, folding you in half so he could go deeper. His mouth crashed into yours—messy, desperate—while he pounded into you, chasing his own release. You scratched down his back, hard enough to leave marks; he bit your bottom lip in retaliation.
“Come for me again,” he panted against your mouth. “Want to feel you come on my cock one more time.”
You did—shattering around him with a cry that echoed off the high ceilings. He followed seconds later, burying himself deep, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you with a long, guttural groan of your name.
He collapsed on top of you, both of you slick with sweat, breathing ragged. After a minute he rolled to the side, pulling you against his chest, still half-hard inside you as he softened.
“Fuck,” he whispered, kissing your temple. “That was…”
“Yeah,” you agreed, voice hoarse. “Yeah.”
He stayed like that for a long while—tracing lazy patterns on your back, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder—until sleep finally pulled you both under.
The next morning—sunlight filtered through the curtains in pale winter streaks. You woke slowly, tangled in sheets that smelled like him, his arm heavy across your waist. Your phone buzzed insistently on the nightstand. You reached for it, squinting at the screen.
Mia. FaceTime.
You groaned, swiping to answer before you could think better of it.
Her face filled the screen—hair a mess, eyes wide with guilt and panic. “Oh my God, finally! Where the hell are you? I’ve been texting you since like 3 a.m.! Are you okay? I’m so sorry, I—”
You cut her off, voice still rough from sleep and last night. “I’m fine. Safe. In a hotel.”
Mia’s eyes narrowed, scanning what she could see of the background—the ridiculous luxury of the suite, the Eiffel Tower still glittering faintly in the distance through the window. “A hotel? Which one? Wait—whose bed are you in? That looks way too nice to be our Airbnb.”
Before you could answer, Harry stirred behind you. He stretched, arm tightening around your waist for a second before he realised you were on a call. He propped himself up on one elbow, hair a disaster, sleepy grin spreading across his face when he saw the screen.
“Morning,” he mumbled, voice gravelly and low. He pressed a lazy kiss to your bare shoulder, completely unbothered that Mia could see him.
Mia’s jaw dropped. The phone wobbled in her hand. “Is that… Harry? W2S Harry? In bed with you? Naked Harry?”
You felt your face heat again. Harry just chuckled, chin resting on your shoulder so he could wave lazily at the camera. “Hey. She’s safe. I’ve got her.”
Mia blinked rapidly, processing. “You… you picked her up? Like, literally picked her up? In Paris? And now you’re—oh my God, I’m the worst friend ever but also this is iconic. Are you two…?”
Harry’s hand slid possessively over your hip under the sheet, out of frame but unmistakable. He smirked at the camera. “We’re figuring it out.”
You elbowed him lightly, mortified but smiling. “Mia, I’ll explain everything later. Just… don’t freak out.”
“Too late,” she said, half-laughing, half-horrified. “I’m freaking out. Call me when you’re… dressed. And not in bed. Happy Valentine’s Day, I guess?”
She hung up before you could respond.
Harry flopped back onto the pillows, pulling you down with him. “She’s gonna tell everyone.”
“Probably,” you sighed, but you were already curling into his chest again.
if you want, could you please do a harry lewis x singer oc—she’s at taylor swift level of fame. if you want, you could potentially make this a full-fledged fic if you want!
(lowkey typing this out cringed me a bit LOL. but i’ve been wanting to read a fic like this!)
thank you diva x
Encore - Harry Lewis
This definitly has the potential for a longer story so let me know if anyones interested in that? Hope you enjoy!
Harry wasn’t planning on getting starstruck. He’d been around fame long enough, footballers, musicians, the occasional actor through Sidemen events that it rarely hit him anymore. But Lila Kane’s music had quietly become part of his routine over the past year. Her songs weren’t just radio hits; they had hooks that lodged in your brain and lyrics that felt personal even when they shouldn’t. When his management sent over Wembley tickets for her sold-out show, he shrugged and said yes. “Might be a laugh,” he told Chris. “Haven’t done a proper gig in ages.”
They drove up on a Friday evening, Chris filming bits for his story. Harry wore a black hoodie and cap pulled low, hoping to blend in. VIP parking, quick security check, then into the stadium. The energy was already electric—90,000 people buzzing, merch stands selling glittery hoodies and light-up wristbands.
Their seats were decent: close enough to feel the bass, far enough that he didn’t have to pretend he knew every lyric. The lights dropped, the intro video played—clips of Lila busking as a teenager, first festival slots, then stadiums. The beat for “Pulse” hit and she rose from under the stage in a silver outfit that caught every light.
Harry was in awe. She moved like the stage was hers forever—sharp choreo, voice cutting clean through the mix. During “Faded Lights” she sat at the piano, the whole stadium singing back. He felt it in his chest: that rare moment when a performance feels real.
By “Neon Heartbreak” he was on his feet, singing along without shame. Chris elbowed him, grinning. “You’re into this.”
“Shut up,” Harry muttered, but he was smiling.
After the encore fireworks, management texted: Afterparty Suite 7. You and Chris are on the list.
The suite overlooked the empty pitch—champagne buckets, low lighting, a DJ playing remixes. Harry grabbed a drink, made small talk with a couple of producers, then slipped out to the balcony when the noise got too much. London glittered below, cool air cutting through the sweat and perfume.
The door opened behind him.
“Already hiding?”
He turned. Lila Kane. Hoodie over her stage clothes, hair tied back, holding a bottle of water. No security, no glam squad. Just her.
“Needed air,” he said. “Show was unreal. You absolutely smashed it.”
She stepped beside him, leaning on the railing. “Thanks. Crowd was mental tonight. You’re Harry Lewis, yeah?”
He blinked. “You know who I am?”
“Sidemen fan by proxy. My brother forces me to watch. That 24-hour horror house one had me crying.” She laughed.
Harry laughed, relaxing. “That was grim. JJ’s snoring was scarier than the ghosts.”
They talked. Easily. No agenda. She asked about Guernsey, about why he still got nervous before big videos. He asked about the pressure of headlining Wembley at twenty-five, about writing songs at 3 a.m. when everything felt too loud. She admitted she’d watched his old videos on long flights—“the pure rage was oddly comforting.”
Time disappeared. The party noise faded behind the glass. When her manager appeared to say the car was ready, she hesitated.
“This was nice,” she said. “Didn’t expect to actually talk to someone tonight.”
“Same.”
She pulled a pen from her pocket, wrote her number on the inside of his wrist. “If you’re around tomorrow… text. No pressure.”
He stared at the smudged ink long after she left.
The next morning Harry woke with a dull headache and the faint smell of last night’s gin. He made coffee, scrolled Twitter—fans going mad about the show—then the intercom buzzed.
“Security for Mr. Lewis. From Ms. Kane.”
He opened the door to a broad-shouldered man in black. “Ms. Kane would like to see you. Car’s downstairs.”
Harry’s brain lagged. “Now?”
“Now.”
Half an hour later he was in a tinted SUV, pulse loud in his ears. The hotel was discreet; private lift straight to the penthouse. Security swiped in and left.
Lila was curled on the sofa in joggers and an oversized tour hoodie, hair damp from a shower. Breakfast trays everywhere—coffee, pastries, fruit.
“You came,” she said, smiling.
“Wasn’t gonna ignore a summons from the headliner.”
She patted the cushion. “Sit. I’ve got nothing until tomorrow’s flight. Thought we could just… exist. No cameras, no schedules.”
They did.
Breakfast turned into coffee on the balcony, then back to the sofa. They talked rubbish—football (she’s Arsenal, he gave her grief), worst travel stories, favourite takeaways. She played him rough phone demos; he showed her old Sidemen clips she’d missed. They ordered burgers when hunger hit again.
The vibe shifted slowly. Her knee brushed his. A look lingered. During a quiet moment she turned, eyes searching.
“This is weird, right?” she said softly.
“Yeah. Good weird.”
She kissed him first—tentative, then sure. Lips soft, tasting of coffee. His hand found her waist, hers slid under his hoodie.
After, they lay tangled, breathing steadying.
“Not bad,” she teased.
“You either.”
She wore his hoodie now, sleeves too long. They ate crisps on the bed, talked deeper. She admitted tour loneliness, the way fame made real connection feel impossible. He told her about creator burnout, the fear that one day the views just stop.
Afternoon blurred. A nap turned into lazy kissing, then more.
Later they stood on the balcony, her back to his chest, watching the sun drop. London lights flickered on.
“This feels dangerous,” she murmured.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want it to end.”
He kissed her temple. “Then don’t let it.”
Evening brought pizza, wine, more rounds.
They talked until late. Dreams, fears, stupid hypotheticals.
When sleep finally came, she curled into him, head on his chest.
Morning arrived too soon. Light through the curtains, her flight looming.
They showered together, got dressed in silence. She packed while he watched, feeling the weight of goodbye.
At the door she kissed him—long, lingering.
“Text me when you land,” he said.
“I will.” She smiled. “This isn’t a one-off, yeah?”
“Definitely not.”
He left the hotel, London morning bright and ordinary. In the car he stared at his phone, her last text already there: Miss you already. Call later? x
Harry smiled. Whatever this was, it had started on a balcony and somehow felt like the realest thing in a long time.
Three months had passed in a strange rhythm of texts, late-night FaceTimes, and the occasional stolen day when her tour routed close enough to London. It wasn’t enough. Never enough. The distance wsa making Harry’s heart ache. Her voice through a phone speaker didn’t carry the same warmth as her laugh against his neck, and grainy tour-bus selfies couldn’t replace the way she looked when she was half-asleep and stealing the covers.
Paris in late April was soft and rainy. Lila’s European leg had just hit its stride: sold-out arenas, glowing reviews. He’d booked the flight on impulse two days earlier, telling only Chris. He scoffed at the romantic gesture before wishing him luck.
He landed in the late afternoon, cap low, hoodie up, blending into the stream of travellers. A black cab took him straight to the arena. The show wasn’t starting for another two hours, but he’d already arranged the important part through her tour manager—a quiet favour, no questions asked.
Security recognised him at the artist entrance. A quick nod, a wristband, and he was waved through corridors. Someone led him to a spot in the upper tier, far stage left—obscured enough that no one in the crowd would clock him, close enough that he could see her properly.
The arena filled fast. Twenty thousand voices chanting her name before she even appeared. When the lights dropped and the intro synths rolled in, Harry felt that same pull he’d felt at Wembley months ago. She walked out in black sequins and thigh-high boots, hair loose, mic already to her lips.
She looked unstoppable.
When the encore ended and the house lights rose, he slipped away before the rush. A runner met him backstage and walked him through the labyrinth to the loading bay. Her tour bus was already there—sleek black, windows tinted, engine idling.
“Door’s unlocked,” the runner said. “She’ll be another twenty, maybe thirty. Hair and makeup, quick debrief. Make yourself comfortable.”
Harry stepped inside.
The bus smelled like her: vanilla candle, her perfume, a faint trace of coffee and leather. Fairy lights strung along the ceiling, a tiny kitchenette, a sofa that folded out into a bed, racks of stage clothes still hanging. He dropped his backpack by the door, sat on the sofa, and waited.
His phone buzzed—her, post-show.
Lila: Just finished. Exhausted but buzzing. Wish you were here x
He smiled, didn’t reply. Not yet.
Minutes stretched. He heard voices outside—crew laughing, her manager giving instructions—then the door hissed open.
She stepped in backwards, still talking to someone on the steps. “Yeah, tell them I’ll do the radio thing tomorrow morning, not tonight. I’m dead.”
The door closed. She turned.
Froze.
Harry stood up slowly, hands in his pockets, trying to look casual even though his heart was hammering.
“Surprise.”
For a second she didn’t move—just stared, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. Then she laughed, the sound half disbelief, half joy, and crossed the small space in three steps.
She threw her arms around his neck so hard he stumbled back a step. He caught her, lifting her off the ground, her legs wrapping around his waist like they’d never been apart.
“You absolute idiot,” she whispered against his ear, voice thick. “You flew all the way here?”
“Couldn’t wait anymore.”
She pulled back just enough to look at him—cheeks flushed from the show, eyeliner slightly smudged, still wearing the glitter from the stage. She cupped his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.
“I was literally texting you five minutes ago saying I missed you.”
“I know.” He grinned. “Saw it. Didn’t reply. Wanted to see your face when you walked in.”
She kissed him then—hard, needy, tasting of salt and adrenaline and the cherry lip balm she always wore on stage. He kissed her back like he’d been starving for it, hands sliding under the hem of her cropped jacket, finding warm skin.
When they broke apart, both breathing uneven, she rested her forehead against his.
“You watched the show?”
“From the gods. Didn’t want to distract you.”
“You could never distract me.” She smiled, small and soft. “You being here is the best part of the night.”
He carried her the few steps to the sofa, sat with her still wrapped around him. She stayed in his lap, arms looped loosely around his neck.
“How long are you staying?” she asked quietly.
“Flying back Sunday evening. Got to film on Monday. But I’m all yours till then.”
She traced his jaw with her fingertip. “Two whole days?”
“Two whole days. No plans. Just you, me, and whatever hotel room we can find that doesn’t have your tour manager banging on the door at 7 a.m.”
She laughed, then kissed him again—slower this time, deeper, the kind of kiss that said everything they hadn’t managed to say over spotty hotel Wi-Fi.
When she pulled back, her eyes were bright.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispered.
“Me too.”
She rested her head on his shoulder, breathing him in.
For the first time in months, the distance was gone.
And neither of them was in a hurry to let it come back.
Hey! I love your stuff! Sooo what about a Harry fic where no one knows you're dating like maybe you're a youtuber too. And you are out with maybe like Faith or something on a shopping day and maybe something happens like you get hit by a car oe bike or something and she doesnt know who to phone your parents dont stay anywhere near london and you tell her to phone Harry and she's so confused but phones him and he like literally drops everything and meets you at the hospital. And before harry gets there Faith finds out that he is your emergency contact anyway. And him and Ethan get there and it comes out that yous have been secretly dating for like 6 months. But you just wanted it to be your secret for now. Sorry for the ramble I hope that made sense? ❤️
Stolen Moments, Shattered Secrets - Harry Lewis
I love this idea, this was a good one to write, hope you enjoy!
Warnings: Mentions of hospitals, blood. Apart from that mainly fluff.
You and Harry had been secretly together for just over four months, ever since that quiet October night on the garden wall when everything shifted.
The party noise had faded into the background, leaving just the two of you under the faint city stars. Harry had sat beside you, close enough that your arms touched, and after a long stretch of comfortable silence he’d taken your hand.
“I’ve been wanting to do this for ages,” he’d said, voice low. “Every time we end up talking like this… I just want more. I like you. A lot. More than mates. More than I’ve let myself admit.”
You’d felt your pulse jump. “I like you too. More than a lot.”
He’d kissed your knuckles softly, then leaned in—slow, careful, giving you space to stop him. You closed the gap instead. The kiss was gentle at first, then deeper, like something you’d both been waiting for without knowing it. When you pulled apart, foreheads together, he’d smiled.
“Just us for now?” he’d whispered.
“Just us.”
Four months of secrets followed: stolen kisses, late-night drives, texts that made your heart race. The thrill of almost being caught mixed with the growing ache of pretending. Lately, the hiding had started to feel exhausting. You both wanted more.
That Saturday afternoon you were shopping with Faith on Oxford Street. Cold air, sale crowds, bags swinging. Faith was trying on trainers.
“Black,” you said. “Ethan ruins white ones instantly.”
She laughed. “You’re right. You’ve been glowing lately, though. Secret boyfriend?”
You smiled. “Maybe.”
She didn’t push.
Outside, the street was packed. You reached the crossing. The streets were packed and you couldn’t see the road very well.
“Light’s red,” Faith warned.
“Traffic’s slow. Let’s go.” You stepped off.
The car didn’t stop.
First came the Impact. Then pain, everywhere. Pavement. Screams. Bags flying.
She held your hand, shaking. “Stay with me. Don’t move. There’s blood. Hey, look at me. Can you hear me?”
Sirens approaching.
“Who do I call?” she asked, voice breaking.
“Harry,” you managed.
Faith’s eyes widened. “Harry? Our Harry?”
“Please.”
She dialled.
At the Sidemen shoot, laughter filled the room—blindfolded cooking chaos. Harry’s phone buzzed. Faith.
He stepped away. “Hey”
“Harry” Faith’s voice cracked. “It's Y/N, She got hit by a car. We're on the way to the hospital. She’s hurt. She asked for you—said your name twice. She kept saying "you.”
Harry froze. “What?” His voice was thin. “Hit by a car? How bad?”
“She’s conscious. In a lot of pain. Bruised, bleeding. They’re taking her now.”
“Fuck.” He was moving. “I’m coming. Tell her I’m coming.”
He hung up. The room had gone quiet.
JJ frowned. “Mate? What’s wrong?”
Harry grabbed his jacket, didn’t answer.
Ethan stepped forward. “Harry—what happened?”
“Y/N’s been in an accident, I need to go to the hospital now” Harry rushed.
Tobi looked up. “Wait what?”
Vik called, “Bro, talk to us—”
Harry shook his head, already heading for the door. “I have to go.”
The others exchanged looks, murmuring questions, but Harry didn’t stop.
Ethan caught up fast, keys in hand. “I’m driving. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
Harry didn’t argue. Just nodded.
In the car, silence. Harry stared ahead, hands clenched.
Ethan glanced over. “She asked for you. Specifically.”
Harry exhaled. “Later.”
“Alright,” Ethan said. “But she’s gonna be okay. And whatever this is… we’ve got you.”
In the hospital bay, monitors beeped. Painkillers dulled the worst of it—cracked ribs, bruising, concussion, stitches—but you still felt every breath.
Faith waited outside.
Harry burst through the curtain, breathless. He stopped when he saw you, then crossed the room and dropped into the chair, taking your hand immediately.
“Hey,” he said, voice rough. “Hey. You’re okay.”
“Trying to be,” you whispered.
He squeezed your hand, fingers shaking. “Faith called. I thought—” He swallowed. “I thought my heart stopped. All I could think about was getting here. Seeing you breathing.”
“I’m breathing,” you said softly. “Hurts, but I’m here.”
“You asked for me,” he said, eyes searching yours. “In the ambulance. Faith said you kept saying my name.”
“I didn’t want anyone else.”
He leaned closer, careful of the bruises. “I love you.” The words came out quiet, steady. “I love you so much. I should’ve said it sooner. Every time we were together, every time I left your flat at dawn, I wanted to. I was scared—scared it’d make it too real, scared the world would ruin it. But I’m not scared anymore. I love you.”
Tears slipped down your cheeks. “I love you too. I’ve loved you for months. I just didn’t want to say it first and freak you out.”
He laughed softly, relieved. “You couldn’t freak me out.”
He kissed you slow, gentle, full of everything you’d held back. When he pulled away, he stayed close.
“No more hiding,” he murmured.
“Good,” you whispered.
After a while, Harry stepped out to update Faith and Ethan.
“She’s alright,” he told them. “Bruised, cracked ribs, concussion, stitches. But alright.”
Ethan exhaled. “Thank fuck.”
They both gave Harry a knowing look before he came out with it.
Harry rubbed his neck. “And… we’re together. About four months now. We kept it quiet. Didn’t want the mess, but that doesn’t matter now”
Faith smiled. “I figured. The way she said your name. And you being her emergency contact.”
Ethan clapped his shoulder. “You sneaky bastard. Happy for you.”
Harry chuckled. “Come in. She’s awake.”
They followed him back into the bay.
Faith stepped in first, eyes soft. “Hey, trouble. You look like you’ve been through a war.”
You managed a weak laugh. “Feels like it.”
Ethan hovered by the door, arms crossed, smirking. “So… four months, eh? You two have been playing spy games right under our noses.”
Harry sat back down, still holding your hand. “Yeah. We were good at it.”
“Were,” Faith echoed, grinning. “Until you decided to make your grand entrance by having her get hit by a car just to blow the cover.”
You groaned. “Not my finest plan.”
Ethan snorted. “Mate, you should’ve seen him at the shoot. Phone rings, face goes white, bolts for the door like the building’s on fire. Wouldn’t answer anyone. Just ‘hospital now.’ I had to practically tackle him into the car.”
Harry rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “You offered to drive.”
“Because you looked like you were about to hyperventilate,” Ethan shot back. “And now I know why. You were having a full romantic crisis in the passenger seat.”
Faith leaned against the wall, smirking. “I mean, the second she said your name in the street, I knew. Emergency contact? Harry Lewis? He’s no good in an emergency, something’s up here.”
You laughed softly, wincing. “Busted.”
Harry squeezed your hand. “Worth it.”
Ethan pointed between you two. “So, no more disappearing into dark corners. We’re all watching now. No more sneaky hand brushes under the table.”
Faith nodded. “And if you try, I’m telling everyone you cried when you saw her in the hospital bed.”
Harry scoffed. “I didn’t cry.”
“You were two seconds from it,” Ethan said. “Eyes all glassy. Proper romantic.”
You looked at Harry, teasing. “Did you?”
He groaned, but his smile was soft. “Maybe a little.”
Faith laughed. “Cute. You two are disgustingly cute.”
Ethan grinned. “Yeah, well… happy for you both. Just don’t make us watch, please.”
“No promises,” Harry said, lifting your hand to kiss your knuckles.
You smiled up at him. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” he said quietly, not caring who heard.
Faith made an exaggerated aww sound. “Okay, we’re leaving before it gets too mushy.”
Ethan chuckled. “Get better soon. And Harry—next time something happens, maybe text the group chat first? Save us the panic.”
Harry laughed. “Deal.”
They slipped out, leaving the two of you alone again.
Harry leaned close. “They’re never gonna let us live this down.”
The physio room carried the faint, sharp tang of liniment oil mingled with the clean cotton scent of freshly laundered towels, a sterile calm that usually grounded him but today only amplified the restless hum beneath his skin. Harry hated being here more than ever, not because of the space itself, but because of her. The way the air seemed to shift whenever she stepped close, charged and heavy, like the moment before a storm breaks.
He had spent months finding excuses to skip her sessions, rescheduling at the last minute or claiming a tweak had magically healed overnight. It wasn’t that she was unskilled; quite the opposite., but every time she leaned in to work a knot in his shoulder or the tight band along his hamstring, he caught the subtle warmth of her breath against his neck, the faint citrus trace of her shampoo drifting down, and his body betrayed him before his mind could catch up.
Today there was no dodging. Mike was down with a fever that had swept half the house, and the lads were already out on the pitch, their distant shouts filtering through the thin walls like background static. Harry pushed the door open with his shoulder, hoodie pulled up, the rubber soles of his trainers squeaking faintly against the cool tile. The sound felt embarrassingly loud in the quiet room.
She glanced up from her clipboard, dark hair swept back into a loose ponytail, sleeves rolled to her elbows, exposing the smooth line of her forearms. Her eyes met his for a beat longer than necessary before she offered that same calm, professional smile she gave everyone.
“Harry. Didn’t expect you to actually turn up.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the heat crawl up under his collar. “Yeah… uh. Mike’s out sick. So. Here I am.”
She nodded once, gesturing to the table. “Hop on. Face down to start. We’ll keep it quick, you’ve got warm-ups soon.”
He stripped without looking at her, movements mechanical: hoodie tugged over his head, T-shirt following, trackies shoved down and kicked aside. The cool air prickled across his bare skin as he wrapped the towel low around his hips, the thick cotton suddenly feeling paper-thin. He climbed onto the table, the paper sheet crinkling sharply beneath him, and pressed his face into the padded cradle, grateful for the small shield it offered.
Her hands settled on his shoulders first, warm, steady, palms broad and sure. She began with long, gliding strokes down either side of his spine, thumbs sinking into the tight ridges of muscle along his scapulae. The pressure was perfect, almost too perfect, unraveling knots he hadn’t realised were there until they gave way with a dull, satisfying ache. He tried to keep his breathing even, measured. Failed. Each exhale came a little rougher than the last.
“You’re carrying a lot today,” she murmured, voice low and close enough that he felt the vibration of it against his ear. “Shoulders feel like iron.”
“Game nerves,” he mumbled into the cradle, words muffled. “Big one later.”
“Mmm. Breathe through it. Let the table take your weight.”
Easier said than done.
She worked lower, elbows digging into the thick slabs of his lower back, then slipping beneath the towel’s edge to knead the curve of his glutes. The fabric shifted with her movements, cool air kissing the newly exposed skin. He shifted his hips once, subtle, instinctive, trying to ease the growing pressure without drawing attention. It only made things worse.
Hamstrings next. Her fingers traced the backs of his thighs, thumbs pressing into the meaty cord of muscle just below the crease. When her knuckles grazed the sensitive inner line, accidental or not, electricity snapped up his spine. He jolted, small, involuntary.
“Too much pressure?” Her voice stayed even, but there was the faintest catch at the end.
“No,” he managed, throat dry. “Just… ticklish. Sort of.”
A pause. “Tell me if anything feels off.”
Everything felt off. Everything felt too good.
She switched to the front of his thighs, quads, palms gliding upward in slow, sweeping arcs, then drifting inward. The towel rode up slightly with each pass, the hem brushing higher against his skin. Heat gathered low in his belly, insistent, traitorous. He was hard now, achingly so. The outline is unmistakable even to his own mortified awareness.
“Okay,” she said after what felt like an eternity of silence broken only by their breathing and the soft rustle of paper. “Time to turn over. We need the front.”
His heart slammed against his ribs. “Uh… can we maybe skip that bit today?”
A small beat. “It’s important. You’ve been avoiding it for months.”
He had. Because of exactly this moment.
He swallowed thickly. “Just… give me a second.”
She stepped back, giving him space. The absence of her hands felt colder than the room itself.
He rolled over slowly, like every movement might shatter something fragile. The towel tented obviously, the thick cotton doing nothing to hide the rigid length beneath.
He flung an arm across his eyes, heat flooding his face in a violent rush. “Fuck. I’m so sorry. This is Jesus Christ. Just pretend you didn’t see it. Or I’ll go. I can go.”
The silence stretched, thick and electric. The faint hum of the air-con was suddenly deafening.
He parted his fingers just enough to peek.
She hadn’t moved. Stood rooted, cheeks stained a deep rose, gaze locked on the obvious swell beneath the towel. Her lips parted on a soft, unsteady exhale. She bit the inside of her cheek, hard, then took one small, deliberate step closer.
Her hand lifted, hovering near the folded edge of the towel. Close enough that he could feel the radiant warmth of her palm without contact. Trembling, just enough for him to notice.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.
She hooked one finger beneath the fold. Paused. Eyes lifting to meet his, dark, searching, pupils blown wide.
He gave the smallest nod, barely perceptible.
She drew the towel aside with aching slowness, the fabric whispering against skin. Cool air rushed over him; he hissed through clenched teeth, hips twitching once.
Her gaze dropped. Fixed. Lips parting further on a quiet, involuntary breath. The flush on her cheeks deepened, spreading down the column of her throat.
Her hand hovered again, fingers curling slightly, trembling. Then, finally, she wrapped around him. Warm. Firm. Careful.
A low groan tore from his throat before he could stop it. His head fell back against the padded cradle. Arm flung over his eyes once more, not hiding now, just bracing against the sudden flood of sensation.
She stroked once, long, slow, exploratory. Thumb swept over the sensitive head in a lazy circle. His hips jerked upward into her grip.
She paused. Breath audibly catching.
He parted his fingers again. Found her watching his face intently. Cataloguing every flicker of his expression, every tense line of his jaw, every ragged inhale.
She resumed. Firmer this time. Pace building in tiny, torturous increments. Her free hand braced on his thigh, fingers digging in just enough to anchor them both. The paper sheet crinkled rhythmically beneath him. The room held nothing but their uneven breathing, hers quick and shallow, his rough and broken, layering over each other like a shared secret.
He reached down blindly. Found her wrist. Held on, not guiding, just anchoring. His thumb pressed against the frantic flutter of her pulse.
She leaned closer. Strands of her hair slipped free, brushing feather-light across his stomach. Her breath ghosted over the head of him hot, teasing. The scent of her citrus and clean skin and the faintest trace of arousal filled his lungs.
“Fuck…” The word escaped on a wrecked exhale.
Her lips brushed the tip, soft, barely there, testing.
His entire body locked. Hand tightening around her wrist.
She lifted her gaze through dark lashes. Eyes glassy. Questioning.
He nodded frantically and desperately.
She took him into her mouth. Slow. Inch by inch. Warm, wet heat enveloping him. Tongue pressed flat along the underside.
His free hand flew to her hair, fingers threading through the soft strands, not pushing, just holding on like a lifeline. A low, broken moan spilled from his throat.
She hummed around him, vibration ripping straight through his core. Moved carefully at first, then deeper, bolder, learning the rhythm that made his hips stutter, his breath caught in sharp, helpless gasps.
Every groan seemed to spur her on. She hollowed her cheeks. Sucked once, hard, and he arched off the table with a strangled sound.
“Shit wait” His voice cracked, raw.
She eased off just enough. Lips still wrapped around him. Eyes flicking up, waiting.
“Don’t… don’t stop,” he rasped. “Just, slow. Please.”
She obeyed. Torturously slow. Hand working the base in perfect sync with her mouth. The other slid higher along his inner thigh, fingertips brushing sensitive skin, teasing higher.
He was trembling now. Muscles locked tight. Every sound he made was involuntary low, guttural, pleading.
She pulled off with a soft, wet pop. Lips swollen and glistening. Eyes dark and unfocused.
Without a word she climbed onto the table, straddling his thighs. Hovering just above him. Close enough that he could feel the radiant heat pouring off her core through the thin fabric of her leggings.
She rocked forward once, tiny, experimental. The drag of cotton over his length sent sparks up his spine.
A groan tore from him. Hands flew to her hips, fingers digging into soft flesh through the material.
She leaned down. Hair falling around them like a dark curtain. Forehead brushing his. Eyes locked, close enough to count each individual lash.
She rolled her hips again. Friction building in slow, deliberate waves. The damp patch on her leggings grew darker, more obvious, the scent of her arousal sharp and heady in the enclosed space.
He hooked a finger into the waistband at the small of her back. Tugged once. Silent question.
She nodded quickly.
He dragged the leggings down just past the curve of her ass. No underwear. Just slick, bare heat settling directly against him.
They both froze for a heartbeat, overwhelmed by the sudden, electric contact.
Then she moved. Slow drag along his length, coating him in her wetness.
He gripped her harder. Groaned long, guttural, head falling back against the table.
She found the perfect angle, clit grinding along the underside of him with every forward roll. Back arching. Breaths coming in short, sharp bursts that fanned across his collarbone.
The table rocked beneath them, metal legs scraping faintly against tile, paper bunching and tearing in small rips.
Her nails bit into his shoulders, sharp crescents of sensation.
He thrust up, small, helpless jerks. Matching her rhythm without conscious thought.
She leaned down and kissed him. Slow at first, lips brushing, tentative, tasting salt and shared breath. Then deeper. Hungrier. Mouths opening on a mutual sigh. Tongues sliding, exploring every corner like they had all the time in the world and none at all. Teeth grazed lower lips. Soft moans swallowed between them.
She pulled back just enough that their noses brushed, breaths tangling hot and ragged.
“Need you,” she whispered, her voice trembling, so quiet it was almost lost in the space between them.
He nodded. Swallowed hard. Throat working.
“Want inside,” he breathed against her mouth, words rough and reverent.
She shifted, lifted her hips. Hand slipping between them. Fingers wrapped around him, still slick, still hard, guided the head to her entrance.
Tip nudged slick folds. Hot. Welcoming.
Both exhaled shakily, twin sounds of relief and anticipation.
She sank down, agonisingly slow. Inch by inch. Walls fluttering, stretching around him.
He groaned long and low, head falling back, eyes squeezing shut against the overwhelming heat, the tight, perfect grip.
She bit her lip, hard, taking him to the hilt. Stilled. Full. Stretched. A soft, trembling whimper escaped her.
“Fuck… so tight,” he rasped, hands flexing on her hips, fingers digging in just enough to leave faint imprints.
She rocked, tiny movements at first. Testing. Adjusting. Then lifted, sank again. Deeper. Smoother.
Rhythm built, slow rolls turning into desperate, rolling thrusts. The table rocked harder, metal legs scraping rhythmically against tile, paper tearing in small, sharp rips.
She leaned forward, capturing his mouth again. Kiss messy. Open-mouthed. Moaning softly every time he bottomed out, the sound vibrating against his tongue.
He met every downward stroke, hips snapping up to bury himself deeper. Hands sliding beneath her shirt, palms gliding over sweat-damp skin, tracing the dip of her spine, the curve of her ribs. Pulling her impossibly closer.
“Like that?” she gasped against his lips, voice wrecked, pleading.
“Yeah, fuck, don’t stop,” he managed, words fractured between kisses.
She didn’t. Rode him harder. Clit grinding against his base with every roll. Tension coiling tighter, breathless, electric.
She fluttered again, walls clenching rhythmically around him.
“Come with me,” she whispered, desperate, almost a plea, lips brushing his.
He thrust up, deep, once, twice, burying himself to the hilt.
She shattered, sob swallowed by his mouth, body locking tight, clenching hard around him in pulsing waves.
The sudden, rhythmic grip pulled him under. He spilled inside her, hot, deep pulses, groaning low into the kiss. Body locking. Trembling.
They held each other through the aftershocks, panting, shaking, foreheads pressed together. Sweat cooling on skin. Hearts hammering in tandem.
Slow comedown.
Her fingers traced idle, soothing circles across his chest, gentle, almost reverent.
His hands roamed lazily up and down her back, beneath the shirt, palms warm and steady, anchoring her against him.
The clock ticked on. Distant shouts from the pitch filtered through the walls.
She eased off him carefully, small, shared winces at the loss. Settled beside him on the edge of the table, thighs still trembling.
Reached for a clean towel. Passed it to him first.
She wiped between her thighs, quick, efficient movements, then folded the towel over and handed it back so he could do the same.
He cleaned the streaks from his stomach, slow, wincing slightly at oversensitive skin.
She took the soiled towel without comment. Dropped it into the laundry bin.
Returned with a fresh one, dampened under the tap. Came back and wiped him gently, tender strokes across his abdomen, careful around still-flushed skin.
He let her. Head tipped back. Watching her through heavy-lidded eyes.
She handed him his trackies. He tugged them on, legs shaky, movements loose and languid.
She straightened her own clothes, smoothed leggings back into place with a small grimace at the lingering dampness. Ran fingers through her hair. Tried, and failed, to look entirely composed. A few strands stuck to her damp forehead; he reached up without thinking and tucked them behind her ear. Let his fingertips linger against her cheek for a heartbeat longer.
She stepped between his knees again. Close. Warm.
He looked up. She looked down.
Long, quiet moment of just eyes, searching, soft, unguarded.
She cupped his face, gentle thumbs stroking along his cheekbones, tracing the faint stubble there.
He leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering half-closed, like a cat seeking more.
She bent. Kissed him again, soft. Lingering. Lips moving slow and sweet. No urgency now. Just quiet gratitude.
When she pulled back, forehead rested against his once more.
He wrapped both arms around her waist. Pulled her in until her chest pressed to his. Chin tucked over her shoulder. Breathed her in, citrus, clean sweat, the private musk of them together.
She hugged him back, one arm looping around his shoulders, the other hand sliding into the hair at his nape. Fingers carding gently through sweat-damp strands. Soothing. Steady.
They stayed like that until heartbeats slowed to something approaching normal, two people tangled in the aftermath, no need for words.
Eventually she murmured against the shell of his ear, voice soft, almost lost.
“Still got a game to play.”
He groaned, half laugh, half complaint, vibration rumbling through his chest into hers. “Don’t remind me.”
She eased back just enough to meet his eyes. A small, crooked smile curving her lips. “I’ll… stretch you properly later.”
The innuendo landed gentle. Playful. Warm.
He huffed another quiet laugh. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She stepped away, reluctant, grabbed another damp towel. Wiped the last traces of stickiness from his skin with careful, unhurried strokes.
She ran fingers through her own hair one last time, trying to tame the mess. Failed adorably. A few strands clung stubbornly to her neck.
He stood, legs still a little unsteady. Caught her wrist before she could step too far.
She paused. Looked up.
He tugged her gently back. Pressed one final kiss to her mouth, quick, sweet, lingering just long enough to taste her again. Then another to her forehead, soft, almost protective.
“Later?” he asked, quiet, no demand, just a question hanging in the air between them.
She nodded once. Firm. Certain.
“Later.”
She cracked the door. Peeked into the hallway. Clear.
He slipped out after her, walked with a faint hitch in his step for the first few strides, thighs burning pleasantly, body loose and heavy in the best way.
She watched him go, a small, private smile tugging at her lips, eyes soft.
Outside, the lads’ laughter rolled across the pitch, shouts, the rhythmic thud of a ball against boots, normal chaos.
Life waited.
But something had shifted between them, quietly, irrevocably, in the warm hush of a physio room that would never feel quite the same again.
