Summary: Ending a boring relationship doesn't require mourning—just the perfect excuse to go right back to the exact bed she never should have left.
Tags: Situationship! Harry ofccc, a little bit of SMUT
The click of the deadbolt sliding into place at exactly 10:30 PM signaled the merciful end of a thoroughly underwhelming relationship. She stood in the dimly lit entryway of her apartment, listening to her now ex-boyfriend's footsteps fade down the quiet hallway, feeling absolutely nothing but a profound sense of relief.
He had come over just to drop off a few things she had left at his place, delivering a practiced speech about how it was better for them to be friends rather than a couple, using a lack of time as his main excuse. She had felt a tiny pang—not of sadness, but of pure relief, because the truth was, the relationship simply hadn't been heading anywhere good.
The sudden, unburdened silence of her living room in the middle of the night felt more like a victory than a loss.
Walking toward the kitchen to pour a glass of wine, her mind effortlessly bypassed the standard post-breakup mourning period. The city outside her window was settling down, but her adrenaline was just spiking. Her mind was already drifting. She didn’t want comfort or deep conversations about why it failed. She needed immediate validation. She needed to feel like herself again—the magnetic, uncomplicated version of herself that hadn’t been bogged down by the weight of a failing relationship.
Her thoughts drifted straight toward the one person who always made the late hours infinitely more interesting.
Harry.
She had met him just under a year ago, crammed into the corner booth of a loud pub for a mutual friend's birthday. He was an architect, constantly surrounded by rolled-up blueprints, usually running on dangerous amounts of caffeine, and possessing a sharp wit that immediately matched her own. What started as sarcastic banter over cheap drinks quickly spiraled into sharing a cab that same night, effectively bypassing any formal dating phase to fall straight into bed. A very specific, undeniable dynamic was quickly established between them. It was a collision of intense chemistry and midnight escapes, a perfect outlet for whenever she was feeling horny, and he was always down for absolutely anything, whether it was at his place or hers.
The absolute beauty of the arrangement was the mutual, unspoken agreement that it would never become anything more. They were exactly what they were, completely devoid of the suffocating expectations that had just ended her official relationship thirty minutes ago.
However, ever since she tried to make things work with her ex, there had been absolute radio silence. The very day she had told him she was going to step away to try a formal relationship, Harry had simply accepted it without saying a word, and completely pulled back. He was arrogant and entirely too charming for his own good, but he respected a boundary when it was drawn. There had been no late-night drunk texts from him, no casual replies to her social media—just a clean, absolute distance.
Picking up her phone from the kitchen island, she noticed the time. It was exactly 11:00 PM.
The impulse was entirely reckless, a brazen move so fresh out of a breakup, but the temptation to ignite that familiar spark in the dark was impossible to ignore. She opened her messages, scrolling past the unread group chats, and pulled up his thread. Without allowing herself a single second of hesitation, her fingers moved swiftly across the screen.
Guess who’s single.
She tossed the phone onto the marble counter, but it barely had time to settle before the screen lit up, the grey delivery bubble instantly shifting to a blue read receipt. He was likely working late, yet he had opened the message the very second it came through.
A heartbeat later, his reply slid onto the screen.
I'm glad you thought of me straight away.
The thrill of his response was still humming in her veins when the typing indicator popped up again. He wasn't going to let her just drop a bomb like that and have the last word.
Harry: I’m pulling an all-nighter on a residential draft. Come over.
He didn't ask if she was okay. He didn't ask what happened or offer to meet her tomorrow for a polite coffee to talk it out. He just bypassed all the unnecessary pleasantries and gave her exactly the escape route she was looking for.
She didn't bother typing a reply. Instead, she locked her phone, shoved it into the pocket of her jacket, and grabbed her car keys. She didn't waste time changing into something elaborate; the beauty of Harry was that he required zero performance.
The midnight drive across the city felt entirely too slow, the empty streets only fueling the anticipation building with every traffic light. When she finally pulled up to his familiar brick apartment building, the nervous energy in her stomach had completely replaced the hollow numbness of the breakup. She walked up the three flights of stairs, the faint smell of old wood and rain lingering in the quiet hallway, and knocked twice on his door.
It swung open almost immediately.
Harry looked exactly the same, yet somehow better than she remembered. He was barefoot, wearing a pair of faded grey sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt that had a faint smudge of what looked like charcoal near the collar. His dark curls were a messy, unruly halo around his head, framing eyes that instantly locked onto hers with a sharp, undeniable intensity. Behind him, the apartment was dimly lit by a single desk lamp illuminating a chaotic sanctuary of drafting tables, scattered blueprints, and a half-empty glass of amber liquid resting on a stack of reference books.
"No bags?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that was perfectly suited for the late hour, sending a familiar shiver straight down her spine. He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest as a slow, crooked smirk spread across his face. "I figured you'd at least bring a suitcase if you were moving back in so quickly."
"Shut up," she breathed out, a genuine smile finally breaking through. "You're lucky I even remembered your address."
"Please," Harry scoffed, stepping aside to leave the entrance open for her. As she crossed the threshold, brushing just inches from his chest, the sheer proximity of his body was electric. It was a sudden, intoxicating jolt of heat that made her entire failed relationship feel like a strange, distant dream. Harry kicked the door shut behind her, plunging them into the quiet intimacy of his apartment. "You could find your way here blindfolded."
The moment she was entirely in his space, surrounded by the comforting scent of cedarwood and his particular brand of chaos, all the remaining tension in her shoulders melted away.
"I missed this," she admitted softly, glancing up at him in the dim light.
Harry didn't say anything for a long moment. His teasing demeanor shifted, his gaze darkening slightly. Stepping fully into her space, he slid both of his hands around her waist. He pulled her flush against his chest, the height difference forcing her to tilt her head up to look at him.
"We spent way too much time pretending we don't do this perfectly," he murmured, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line along her jaw.
Before she could agree, he leaned down, capturing her lips in a breathless, sudden collision that knocked the remaining air from her lungs. It was the physical manifestation of all their boxed-up chemistry finally breaking loose. His hands were firm, pulling her flush against him until the cool cotton of his t-shirt pressed against her, his fingers tangling briefly in her hair before sliding down to trace the line of her spine.
When he finally pulled back, he didn't go far, keeping his eyes on her. A low, quiet hum of approval vibrated deep in his chest. His breathing was just as unsteady as hers, his green eyes dark and searching.
"So," he started, his voice dropping back into that familiar, teasing drawl, the smirk returning to his lips. "My drafting schedule just got completely cleared for the rest of the night. What exactly are we going to do about that?"
She let out a soft, breathy laugh. The suffocating weight of her recent relationship was entirely gone, replaced by the thrilling, undeniable pull that had always existed between them. "I don't know, you tell me," she whispered, her voice lacking any of the hesitation she had felt earlier that evening.
Harry let out a low, rough chuckle that vibrated deep in his chest. The teasing smirk on his face melted into something much darker and far more dangerous, his green eyes dropping to her lips before locking onto hers again. "I was really hoping you'd say that."
He didn't waste another second. Slipping his hands beneath her thighs, he lifted her with an effortless strength that stole the breath right out of her lungs. She instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist to steady herself, a breathless smile breaking through. Harry carried her through the dimly lit living room, navigating past the drafting table and scattered chairs with the practiced ease of someone entirely focused on the woman in his arms, never once breaking their heated gaze.
He moved down the short hallway, kicking his bedroom door wider with his bare foot before crossing the threshold. The room was bathed in the soft, amber glow of the streetlights filtering through the half-open blinds, casting long shadows over his tangled bedsheets. Harry let her slide down slowly until her feet hit the cold hardwood floor, but he didn't put a single inch of distance between them. Instead, he backed her gently against the edge of the mattress.
He eased her shirt off her shoulders, letting it pool silently on the floor. It was completely surreal how seamlessly they had fallen right back into their rhythm, as if no time had passed at all. His hands didn't stop there; his fingers deftly found the button of her jeans. Pausing just for a fraction of a second, his dark eyes flicked up to meet hers in a silent question. At her eager nod, he unbuttoned and slid the denim down her legs, taking his time to draw out the anticipation. She wanted it to be faster, but she knew Harry was thoroughly enjoying the moment.
Rather than letting her return the favor, he took a step back from the bed. In one fluid, unbroken motion, he discarded his own t-shirt and sweatpants, leaving him only in his boxers. Returning to the edge of the mattress, he hooked his hands behind her knees, pulling her closer until she was lying flat, and seamlessly climbed right on top of her.
"I hated you being with him," he admitted against her skin, his breath hot and uneven. It was the closest thing to a confession he had ever given her, a rare slip of vulnerability wrapped up in overwhelming desire.
"Me too," she breathed out, pulling him back up by his shoulders to crash her lips against his.
He kissed her with a desperate, consuming heat, entirely taking over as he pressed her gently backward. Harry followed her down, the springs of the bed creaking softly under their combined weight. Any lingering tension from the day completely dissolved, entirely replaced by the unapologetic, magnetic reality of exactly where she was always meant to end up.
The desperate heat of his mouth shifted, his lips trailing a burning path from the corner of her mouth down the sensitive column of her throat. Every brush of his skin against hers felt like a deliberate attempt to overwrite the sterile months she spent away from him. His large hands, rough from years of gripping drafting pencils and tracing blueprints, mapped the curves of her waist with a possessive familiarity that made her breath hitch.
She tangled her fingers in his messy curls, pulling him closer as his lips found the sweet spot just below her collarbone. A soft, involuntary gasp escaped her lips, the sound seemingly fueling his intensity. The remaining layers of fabric felt entirely too restrictive in the heavy, heated air of the bedroom, acting as unnecessary barriers to the friction she was silently begging for.
Sensing her impatience, Harry shifted his weight slightly, rising just enough to look down at her. Reaching behind her back, he popped the clasp of her bra with effortless precision, pulling the straps down her arms and tossing the lace aside so there was absolutely nothing left between them. His gaze, dark and completely blown out with desire, locked onto hers as his hands hooked into the waistband of her underwear. He didn't rush, maintaining that agonizingly deliberate pace that he knew both frustrated and thrilled her, sliding the delicate fabric down her legs and tossing it over the edge of the bed to join the rest of their discarded clothes.
"You have no idea how much I missed you," he murmured, the confession slipping out as a low, gravelly vibration against her bare skin.
He made quick work of his own remaining clothing, taking a brief second to lean over to the nightstand drawer and pull out a foil packet. Once he was sheathed and ready, the mattress shifted as he settled his weight back over her. The sensation of his solid, warm chest pressing flush against her own was electric, a sudden and overwhelming sensory overload. There was no hesitation, no awkward fumbling in the dark; they knew each other's bodies perfectly, relying on a deeply ingrained muscle memory that hadn't faded in the slightest during their time apart.
When he finally pushed inside, a sharp, breathless sigh left her lips, her nails digging instinctively into the broad expanse of his shoulders. The familiar, overwhelming fullness of him sent a shockwave straight to her core. Her body was so completely wired, trembling with such intense anticipation that she felt she could shatter and climax right then and there from the sheer excitement of him simply claiming her again. In that split second, she realized exactly how long it had been since she had actually gotten off from sex, rather than having to take care of it herself after another disappointing night with her ex. Harry froze for a fraction of a second, his jaw clenched tightly as he let his forehead drop against the crook of her neck, taking a deep, shuddering breath to compose himself. The sheer intensity of the connection was staggering, feeling far heavier and more profound than the casual midnight escapes they used to share.
"Look at me," he commanded softly, his voice thick and demanding.
She opened her eyes, instantly meeting his intense green gaze in the dim amber light of the room. The playfully arrogant architect from the living room was entirely gone, replaced by a man completely undone by the present moment, completely captivated by the woman beneath him.
He began to move, setting a slow, agonizingly deep rhythm that completely shattered any remaining coherent thought in her mind. The only sounds in the quiet apartment were the rhythmic creaking of the wooden bedframe, their synchronized, heavy breathing, and the quiet, desperate sounds slipping past her lips. Every thrust felt like a silent claim, a physical anchor pulling her further away from the dull disappointment of her evening and deeper into the intoxicating reality of him. She arched her back, pulling him flush against her as the familiar, building tension coiled tightly in her lower stomach, completely surrendering to the one person who had always known exactly how to unravel her.
The Space Between Takes | (Celebrity! Harry × journalist)
Y/N is just trying to do her job as an interviewer when she sits down with superstar Harry Styles. But what starts as a normal press quickly turns into a game of intense chemistry and blurred lines.
◦ Part One
◦ Part Two
◦ Part Three
◦ Part Four
◦ Part Five
Imagines
Behind Closed Doors | (Famous! Harry ×f!reader)
When Y/N ends her secret arrangement with Harry Styles, she thinks she's doing the right thing. But seeing him at a gala with someone else pushes her to the edge.
Fourteen Hours to You | (Famous! Harry ×f!reader)
Loving him meant surviving on rushed FaceTime calls and empty rooms. You were fully prepared to endure the rest of his press tour alone, until the sound of a key turning in the lock at 3 AM changes everything.
My Favorite Nightmare
While Y/N acts bored and "bratty" at an elite industry party, Harry is completely mesmerized, choosing to cater to her whims rather than his professional obligations.
Apartment 202 | (Neighbor!Harry x f!reader)
Harry is the new boy next door. Y/N couldn't find the nerve to say hello, until thin walls and open curtains made them get to know each other in a very different way.
Midnight Relapse | (Architect! Harry x f!reader)
Ending a boring relationship doesn't require mourning—just the perfect excuse to go right back to the exact bed she never should have left.
Hmmmm, excuse me? 😭 I started this as a dream, I just wanted to write something and it didn't matter if someone was going to see it or not, but this is actually crazy, I never expected to get this 🥲🤍✨
Summary: Loving him meant surviving on rushed FaceTime calls and empty rooms. You were fully prepared to endure the rest of his press tour alone, until the sound of a key turning in the lock at 3 AM changes everything.
Warning: Angst
This is the next part of Behind Closed Doors
A/N: So thiiis is so cuteee 🥺🤏🏼 I’ve been trying to figure out how to write this for a while and I'm finally happy with this draft 💫 Hope you love it!! I got the idea from a comment and it's been living in my mind rent-free ever since
. . . . . . . . .
The metallic click of the front door unlocking echoed through the quiet apartment just past three in the morning. Y/N was still hunched over her desk, struggling through a backlog of work she had managed to overlook for two days. She immediately closed her laptop, the jarring sound making her heart skip a beat. Harry wasn't supposed to be in London. His grueling press tour had him scheduled in New York for at least another four days.
She stepped out of the bedroom just as the solid oak door pushed open.
Harry stood in the entryway, a worn leather duffel bag slipping from his grip to hit the hardwood floor with a dull thud. He wasn’t physically injured, but he looked as though he had been dragged behind a train. Wearing an oversized hoodie pulled up over his messy curls, dark circles bruised the pale skin under his green eyes. The bright, magnetic energy that usually radiated from him had vanished, replaced by a staggering, bone-deep fatigue.
"Harry?" she breathed, freezing at the end of the hall. "What are you doing here?"
He kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot, his broad shoulders instantly slumping as if the lock clicking into place was the only permission he needed to drop his guard.
"Couldn't sleep," he rasped. His voice was thick, incredibly rough from travel and the silence of the flight.
"You're supposed to be in New York," she murmured, already moving toward him, the logic of it barely computing.
"I know." He ran a shaking hand over his face, rubbing his tired eyes. He let out a long breath before letting his arm drop back to his side. "I just... I couldn't be without you."
Y/N stopped dead in her tracks, her brows pulling together in sheer confusion.
It had been an entire month since that suffocating night in his hotel room. She had spent these past days meticulously conditioning herself to adapt to his life, forcing herself back into the rhythm they had maintained for a year. She had spent the last thirty days mentally preparing for the harsh reality of dating a global phenomenon—bracing for the distance, the hiding, and the relentless schedules.
In fact, he had only left for this New York press tour three days ago. She was fully prepared to endure the rest of the week surviving on rushed FaceTime calls at odd hours while he conquered another city. The idea of him pausing his unstoppable career and flying fourteen hours across the Atlantic after barely seventy-two hours apart simply because the distance became unbearable was completely out of script.
She just stared at him, taken aback.
"What are you talking about?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, genuinely trying to process the abrupt confession he had dropped so casually in the entryway.
Harry finally looked up at her. His eyes were bloodshot, stripped of his usual playful armor.
"I sat in that hotel room for three days, Y/N, staring at the ceiling," he muttered, his tone carrying a quiet, desperate honesty. "It felt so hollow. And everything just felt wrong because you weren't there. So I left."
Y/N stared at him for a long moment, the initial shock slowly settling into a familiar, dull ache. She simply didn't believe him.
It wasn't the first time he had stood in his own apartment and delivered a desperate, late-night confession. Maybe he hadn't used these exact words before, but she knew the script by heart—the whispered promises in the dark about how much he needed her. It was a draining cycle, and right now, he just looked like a man who had pushed his body past its absolute limit.
"Harry, you don't know what you're talking about," she murmured, her voice laced with a sad, gentle resignation. "You're running on fumes. You need to get some sleep."
She motioned toward the bedroom, but he remained perfectly still. Instead, right there in the dimly lit entryway, the remaining tension holding his tall frame upright simply gave way.
His knees hit the hardwood floor with a heavy thud.
The unexpected movement caught Y/N off guard. She froze, her breath catching sharply in her throat as she looked down at him. Making no attempt to reach for her waist or pull her down alongside him, he simply stayed there on his knees. His broad shoulders slumped under the oversized hoodie as he looked up at her from the floor with an intensity that made the air in the hallway feel dangerously thin.
"Harry, what are you doing?" she breathed, her heart slamming against her ribs. "Get up."
"I know exactly what I'm saying," he rasped, his voice scraping against the quiet of the apartment. Despite his bloodshot eyes, there was no trace of sleep deprivation in his tone; he sounded terrifyingly clear.
He swallowed hard, the muscles in his jaw ticking under his pale skin as he looked up into her eyes, shedding every last defense he had left.
"I know I've given you every reason in the world not to believe a single word I say," he continued, his tone carrying a profound, anchoring weight. "I know I've been a coward. But I just need you to forgive me, Y/N. For everything. For making you feel like a secret, for leaving you behind, for taking you for granted."
Y/N stood paralyzed. The protective walls she had built around her heart began to tremble under his unwavering gaze. This wasn't the script. This wasn't the selfish, possessive rockstar holding onto her just to make himself feel better.
"I just want you to be happy," Harry whispered, his voice cracking slightly as the raw, devastating honesty bled through. “And if the only way for you to actually have that is to be without me... I understand."
He took a ragged breath, fear mixing with the fatigue in his green eyes as he let his hands rest limply on his thighs, surrendering his pride right there on the welcome mat.
"I will never bother you again if that's what you need to be okay," he vowed quietly, the words clearly tearing him apart from the inside out. "But I pray to God it isn't."
He tilted his head up, his expression laid bare.
"Please," he breathed, his voice barely a thread. "Tell me it's not."
The silence that followed his confession was deafening. Y/N stood frozen in the entryway, her heart aching in a way it never had before.
This wasn't the selfish boy who usually showed up at the door demanding her time and affection on his own terms. This was a man stripped of his ego, offering to walk away from the only thing keeping him grounded just to ensure she was safe from his own chaos.
She looked down at him kneeling on the hardwood floor, at the dark circles bruising his skin and the defeated slump of his shoulders, and the crushing reality of what he had actually done started to sink in. He was supposed to be in New York. There were schedules, press junkets, an entire team of people whose livelihoods depended on him showing up.
"Harry," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly as she wiped the tear from her cheek. "Your management... your team. They're probably losing their minds right now. You can't just disappear."
The mention of his career caused no reaction at all. There was no sudden spike of panic, no anxiety about the inevitable PR nightmare waiting for him across the Atlantic.
He just swallowed hard, staring up at her with pleading green eyes.
"I don't care," he rasped. His voice broke on the words, rough and unguarded. "I don't give a fuck, Y/N. I'm tired of not being able to take you everywhere, all because of a bullshit contract. I know I should have done this a long time ago, but I’m an idiot and it took me this long to realize it."
He took a shaky breath, the absolute exhaustion finally overtaking him. He let his head drop, staring at the space between them on the hardwood floor before looking back up at her.
"I just wanted to come home," he whispered, the sheer, devastating honesty in his tone making her breath catch entirely. His hands curled into loose fists on his thighs. "I just wanted to come back to you."
That was it. That was all it took to undo her.
The terrifying weight of his confession left no room for doubts, no space for arguments. For a fleeting second, she wanted to hold onto the anger. She had spent an entire month building a fortress out of resignation, desperately teaching herself how to survive being second best to his career. But looking down at him now—stripped of his pride, shivering slightly in the cold hallway, and waiting in pure agony for her to either save him or break his heart—every last ounce of resentment simply evaporated. He had finally made the choice she had stopped hoping for. He had chosen her over the rest of the world.
Slowly, the rigid tension left her shoulders. She stepped closer, closing the small distance between them until she was standing right in front of him. As he looked up at her from the floor, she simply reached her hands down, cradling his upturned face.
"You're an absolute idiot," she cried softly, a fragile smile breaking through her tears as her thumbs brushed over his cheekbones.
Harry let out a shuddering, broken sigh the very second she reached out. That fragile, teary smile was the only confirmation he needed. Stumbling to his feet with a desperate clumsiness, he pulled her into his chest as a ragged, breathless sound tore from his throat. His large hands, heavy with the silver rings, shot up to frame her face, pulling her in.
The kiss was messy, tasting of her tears and his desperation. He pressed his mouth against hers with the raw, agonizing relief of a man who had been drowning for months and had finally broken the surface, pouring every ounce of his unspoken apology into the way he held her.
When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against hers, his lungs were heaving.
"I'm so sorry, my love," he breathed blindly against her lips, the panic finally washing out of his chest, leaving behind nothing but a profound, anchoring peace. "Please, stay with me.”
"I will," she murmured, a relieved, tearful happiness coloring her words. She let her forehead rest against his, their breaths mingling in the quiet space of the hallway. For a long moment, they just stayed there, standing wrapped around each other on the cold hardwood floor, Harry keeping his face buried in the crook of her neck to ground himself in her touch. "But you need to lay down," she whispered eventually.
Harry let out a low, gravelly hum of agreement, but he made no effort to pull away. "M'fine right here," he mumbled, his voice thick and slurring slightly with sleep.
"No, you're not." She gently pulled back, grabbing his wrists to lead him forward. "Come on. Bed."
He groaned quietly but let her guide him. His tall frame swayed slightly as he walked, his coordination ruined by the grueling timezone jumps and sheer emotional fatigue. Without thinking, Y/N wrapped an arm tightly around his waist to steady him. He instantly leaned his weight into her side, draping an arm over her shoulders and burying his face in her hair as they walked down the hall.
The worn leather duffel bag was left forgotten by the front door. The frantic emails, the missed calls from furious managers, the glaring headlines waiting for him tomorrow—none of it crossed the threshold into the bedroom.
The room was dark, lit only by the faint, amber glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds.
Harry sat heavily on the edge of the mattress. He watched her through half-closed, bloodshot eyes as she moved around the bed, pulling the thick duvet back.
But the exact second she tried to take a half-step back to turn off the hallway light, his hand shot out, his long fingers wrapping securely around her wrist.
The brief flash of panic in his green eyes was unguarded. "Stay."
"I'm right here," she murmured reassuringly, clicking the door shut and plunging the room into a comfortable darkness. "Just getting the light."
She climbed into the bed beside him, pulling the duvet up. Before her head even fully hit the pillow, Harry was moving. He shifted his massive frame across the mattress, closing the small gap between them until there was no space left. His long legs tangled with hers, his arm wrapping securely around her waist to drag her flush against his chest. He buried his face deep into the curve of her neck, inhaling her scent like it was the only thing keeping his lungs working.
Summary: After a jealousy altercation, tension explodes within the walls of their apartment in a raw game of power and surrender.
WC: 1324
Warnings: Face riding, SMUT, Jealous! Harry, overstimulation and more xoxo
The silence inside the apartment was heavy, vibrating with the leftover adrenaline from the club. Y/N stood by the door, her arms locked tightly over her chest. Her heart was still racing, partly from the scene Harry had caused and partly from the way he had driven home—silent, fast, and radiating a cold, sharp energy.
She couldn’t get the image out of her head: Harry, usually so composed, snapping in an instant. She had been trying to navigate the crowded hallway to the bathroom, and a man had lingered a second too long. In the suffocating heat of the club, that stranger had let his gaze wander down her body, his hand almost brushing her lower back as she tried to squeeze past. Harry had seen it from across the VIP section, and he launched himself at him.
The sound of Harry’s fist connecting with the man’s jaw had silenced the music for her. Mitch and Sarah had rushed in, grabbing Harry’s arms, trying to pull him back as he snarled like a wounded animal. But the damage was done. The bouncers swarmed in and took Harry into the cold night air.
Harry kicked the apartment door shut now, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the dark. He didn’t turn on the lights. He began to unbutton his shirt, his movements jerky, precise, and dangerous.
"If you had just waited for me, none of this would have happened," Harry snapped, his voice a low, vibrating growl.
Y/N turned to face him, her eyes stinging. "It’s not my fault, Harry! I had to pee, and you ruined the entire night! You made a scene for nothing!"
Harry stopped. He took a step toward her, and for a moment, the anger in his eyes flickered, replaced by something raw and desperate. He reached out, cupping her face with a hand that was still trembling from the fight.
"It wasn't for nothing," he whispered, his voice cracking just a fraction. "I saw him looking at you like you were something he could just take. It makes me sick to my stomach, Y/N. The thought of anyone even thinking they have a right to you... it kills me."
Y/N looked into his eyes, and the wall she had built up over the last hour began to crumble. She saw the fear behind his possessiveness—the fear of losing her. Her anger melted into a heavy, thick desire. She leaned into his touch, her breath hitching. "You're crazy, Harry."
"Only for you," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips.
"I can't always be by your side," she whispered, her voice trembling but defiant. "I don't belong to you."
Harry let out a dark, dry chuckle that sent a shiver straight down her spine. He moved with the speed of a predator, his hand closing firmly around her throat—not to hurt, but to claim—as he pinned her against the wood. He hooked a finger under her chin, forcing her to look up at him, his eyes dark and dilated with a primal, territorial fever.
"Maybe not your mind, love," he murmured, his lips ghosting over hers. "But this body? Every curve, every inch of skin, every sound you make... that is all mine. I mark it, I use it, I take care of it. And after seeing that piece of shit look at you, I’m going to spend the rest of the night reminding you exactly whose touch matters."
He let his hand slide down her body, slow and deliberate, until it reached the edge of her underwear. She gasped as his index finger found her favorite spot, grazing her expertly through the thin fabric. He leaned in until his lips were just centimeters from hers.
"Isn’t that right, sweetheart? Or has someone else ever made you feel this good?"
He pushed her underwear aside, sliding his index finger along her slit, feeling her get wetter with every passing second. Her expression shifted; the anger was gone, replaced by a raw desire.
"Tell me, love... or do I need to remind you?"
Y/N’s knees went weak, her resolve crumbling under his gaze. Harry didn’t wait for an answer. He hiked her dress up and lifted her, carrying her into the bedroom. He tossed her onto the mattress and suddenly pulled back, his breathing ragged. He stripped out of his clothes, and she followed his lead, her movements hurried and desperate. He lay back on the bed, pulling her close.
"Sit on my face," he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Right now, love. I want to taste every bit of the pleasure I’m giving you."
She hesitated for a moment. They had stopped trying this position for a while because it made her feel so exposed, but Harry’s hands were steady, and his lips began to murmur sweet words of encouragement, making her surrender.
Guided by his hands, she straddled him. Harry closed his mouth over her clit, his tongue working with expert precision while his hands held her hips steady.
"You like that, hmmm?" Harry murmured against her skin, the vibration humming through her core. "Fucking use your words, baby."
"Fuck... yeah, Harry... oh God" she sobbed, her head falling back as the waves of a massive climax began to crawl over her.
He used two fingers to drive her closer to the edge. "That's it, love. Give it all to me. Fuck my face."
She began to move her hips, the friction of Harry’s nose against her clitoris making her legs shake. One of Harry's hands reached up to squeeze her breast, anchoring her even more firmly against him. When she finally shattered, it was violent, her whole body shaking. Harry stayed right there, relishing the way she came apart for him.
When she finally shattered, it was violent and all-consuming. She could barely breathe, her voice whispering his name over and over. Harry stayed right there, relishing the way she came apart for him. He eventually pulled back, his face flushed and his lips damp, looking up at her with a smirk that was both smug and deeply, obsessively loving.
"Fucking love you, baby," he whispered, kissing her inner thigh. With a gentle nudge, he prompted her to get up, but he wasn't finished. "Come on, baby. On your knees."
With what little strength she had left, she got on all fours and arched her back. Harry gave her a sharp slap. "This ass is only mine."
He positioned himself at her entrance and took her with a deep, decisive thrust. She was so sensitive that she cried out instantly. He flattened his hand against her spine, forcing her to stay still as he moved in and out of her. The sound of their bodies meeting was the only thing in the room—a wet, rhythmic sound that made Harry groan.
"Tell me," Harry commanded, his voice dropping an octave as his hand moved to her throat, pulling her up so she was at his level while he was still deep inside her. "Tell me who knows exactly how to make you fall apart like this."
"You, Harry," she gasped.
"Louder, love. I want to make sure I’m not the only one who hears it."
"It's only you!"
He smiled, a dangerous, beautiful sight in the gloom. He let go of her, and she braced herself as best she could while he moved with a fierce, demanding rhythm. His hands marked her hips, his fingers tangled in her hair. Every touch was a reminder. Every groan he forced from her was a victory.
As the intensity peaked, Harry buried his face in her neck, his breath hot and ragged. He rode the wave of his own release with a low, primal growl, his grip on her hips tightening until it would surely leave marks. In that final, shattering moment, there was no more fight—only the undeniable reality of his possession.
Tag list: @angeldavis777, @ashwasneverhere
I’m going to be honest, I didn’t expect this kind of attention for “Behind Closed Doors”, thank u so much for all the loveeee
What I try to do is write different things, which are out of what is commonly read and I sincerely love everything related to Dark! Harry, so you will get a lot of it.
I’m working in so many ideas buuuuut I’m stuck in the next chapter of “Space between takes”, my mind is blank about it, that’s why I’m always open to ideas and more
Summary: When Y/N ends her secret arrangement with Harry Styles, she thinks she's doing the right thing. But seeing him at a gala with someone else pushes her to the edge.
Warnings: Harry being an asshole, Toxic relationship, Dark! Harry, just a tiny bit of smut
The champagne tasted like battery acid, but Y/N took another large sip anyway.
She stood near the edge of the ballroom, surrounded by three of her closest friends who were currently laughing over a joke she hadn’t heard. She nodded and smiled mechanically, her fingers tightly gripping the delicate stem of her glass. Her stunning silk dress suddenly felt two sizes too small, restricting her breathing.
She shouldn’t have come. She knew he was going to be here.
It had been four months since she sent that final, cowardly text: “I don’t think we should do this anymore. It’s getting complicated. Let’s just be friends.”
It was the biggest lie she had ever typed. It wasn’t getting complicated; she was just falling in love with him. After a year of late-night calls, tangled bedsheets, and breathless whispers in the dark, the “casual” label had started to suffocate her. She knew Harry Styles didn't do commitment. So, before he could break her heart, she packed up her feelings and ran, cutting him off completely under the guise of "needing space."
A sudden shift in the room's energy pulled her out of her thoughts. The constant hum of conversation dipped, and the blinding flash of cameras near the entrance went into an absolute frenzy.
Y/N’s stomach dropped to the floor.
Harry walked in.
He looked devastating. He was wearing a custom black velvet suit, his chest slightly bare beneath the lapels, and his hair was perfectly styled. But it wasn't how good he looked that made Y/N’s lungs stop working.
It was the girl on his arm.
She was a tall, stunning model in a backless red gown. She was smiling brightly for the cameras, leaning into Harry’s side. But what truly twisted the knife in Y/N’s chest was Harry’s hand. It was resting securely on the small of the girl's back—those familiar, large hands adorned with rings that used to leave cold, thrilling trails down Y/N’s spine.
Y/N felt physically sick. The jealousy was a hot, ugly thing clawing up her throat.
You did this, a voice in her head reminded her viciously. You walked away. You don't get to be mad.
She took an involuntary step back, wanting nothing more than to melt into the shadows, to disappear before he could see her looking so pathetic and alone.
But it was too late.
As Harry straightened up from shaking hands with someone, his gaze swept over the crowded room. And then, the world stopped spinning. He had his eyes on her.
The air in Y/N’s lungs evaporated. She tried to look away, to pretend someone else in the room had caught her attention, but it was impossible. She was paralyzed.
And then, Y/N’s worst nightmare came true.
Harry leaned in, whispered something into the model's ear with a sharp smile, and, without tearing his cold green eyes away from Y/N, started walking directly toward her group. The crowd literally parted to let him through.
Harry stopped a few feet away. His hand didn't drop from the model's waist; it rested there comfortably, intimately. His green eyes met Y/N’s, but there was no fire in them. No hidden resentment. No lingering tension. There was just... polite recognition. The kind you give to an old coworker you haven't seen in a while.
"Y/N," he said. His voice was smooth, pleasant, and utterly devoid of the gravelly, heavy warmth it used to hold when he whispered her name in the dark. "It's been a while. Good to see you."
The casualness of it felt like a physical blow to her chest. It was infinitely worse than anger. It was total, devastating indifference.
"Harry. Hi," she managed to force out, her voice tight, praying her knees wouldn't give out. "You too."
"This is Camille," he offered easily, gesturing to the stunning girl beside him.
Camille smiled warmly, completely oblivious. "Lovely to meet you!"
"You too," Y/N lied, her throat closing up so tightly it physically hurt.
Harry gave Y/N a brief, practiced smile—the perfect, dimpled smile he gave reporters on the red carpet. The public one. The one he never used with her before.
"Well, we're going to go grab a drink," Harry said, giving Camille’s waist a gentle, guiding squeeze. "Hope you enjoy the rest of the night, Y/N."
He guided his date past Y/N's group. He didn't look back. Not even once.
Y/N stood completely frozen. Not knowing what to do, she looked around and saw her friends staring at her. They knew something had happened between them, even if Y/N had never confessed the dirty, desperate details of their arrangement.
"Weren't you two together?" Mia asked genuinely.
Y/N stood there listening to them talk about it while she sank into her own thoughts. Didn't he miss her? Why did he act like she was a stranger? Something inside her filled with rage, fueled by the pain and the alcohol.
"I need a minute," Y/N blurted out, stepping back from her concerned friends. "I'll be right back."
She turned on her heel and walked away. Her eyes scanned the crowded ballroom with a reckless, frantic energy. She needed to confront him, taking advantage of the liquid courage running through her veins.
She found him ten minutes later. Harry was standing alone near one of the private bars tucked away in an alcove, waiting for two drinks. Camille was nowhere in sight.
Without his date beside him, the charming, polite rockstar was completely gone. Harry was leaning heavily against the mahogany counter, staring blankly down at his hands. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked violently under his skin.
Y/N marched right up to the bar, stopping less than two feet away from him.
"Are we really doing this?" she demanded, her voice shaking.
Harry flinched slightly, his head snapping up. The polite, indifferent mask he had worn earlier shattered into a million pieces.
"Doing what, exactly?" he shot back, his voice dropping into a low, defensive gravel.
"Acting like we're strangers, Harry," she pressed, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "Introducing me to your date like I'm just some girl you met once at a party."
Harry let out a harsh, humorless laugh that held absolutely zero warmth. He fully turned to face her, leaning down so his face was entirely too close to hers.
"You're right," he whispered viciously, his eyes blazing with a sudden, unhinged intensity. "I should have introduced you accurately. Camille, this is Y/N. We spent a year sleeping in each other's beds, but then she decided to dump me over a fucking text message and blocked my number. How's that for an introduction?"
Y/N stepped back as if he had physically slapped her. "I told you I needed space. It was getting too complicated—"
"You ran away," he hissed, cutting her off. "Don't stand there and play the victim, Y/N. You didn't just ask for space. You did this because you were too much of a coward to have a real conversation with me."
A heavy, agonizing silence fell between them. The realization hit her like a freight train.
"I was trying to protect myself," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I was falling in love with you, Harry. And you don't do relationships. I couldn't stay and watch you eventually get bored of me."
Harry froze. The anger drained from his face in a split second, replaced by absolute, paralyzed shock. He opened his mouth, a raw, unspoken word dying on his tongue.
They stood in silence for a few seconds, the music playing in the background.
"Harry? Darling, they're about to start the auction."
Camille stepped into the alcove, her red dress swishing elegantly. She slid her hand seamlessly around Harry’s bicep.
Y/N felt her throat close completely. The humiliation burned hot and violent behind her eyes.
Then, the shift happened. The rockstar mask snapped back into place so flawlessly it gave Y/N whiplash.
"Yes, baby," he murmured smoothly. He finally broke eye contact with Y/N, turning to hand a glass of champagne to the model with a dazzling smile. "Have a good night, Y/N," he said politely, turning to leave.
But as he brushed past Y/N, his hand dropped from Camille for a fraction of a second. Y/N let out a sharp gasp as she felt Harry’s freezing fingers suddenly grip her wrist. The touch was completely hidden from Camille's view. His grip was bruising, sending a shockwave of electricity straight up her arm.
He didn't stop walking, but he leaned down just enough for her to listen.
"Room 714," he breathed. His voice was a dark, jagged scrape of pure, unhinged desperation. "Ten minutes. If you run away this time, I swear to God I will tear this fucking hotel apart looking for you."
And just like that, he let go.
—
The digital clock on the nightstand glared a mocking red in the dim lighting. 11:15 PM.
It hadn't been ten minutes. It had been over an hour.
Y/N stood in the dead center of the plush hotel suite, her arms wrapped tightly around her own waist. He’s not coming, her mind whispered, a sickening knot twisting in her stomach. He went home with Camille. He just said that to punish you.
She finally turned toward the door, her survival instinct kicking in. Before her hand could reach the brass handle, the electronic lock beeped green.
The door swung open. Harry stepped inside. He looked completely, devastatingly calm. He pushed the heavy wooden door shut behind him with a definitive click, flipping the deadbolt without even looking at it.
Y/N froze. Harry didn't say a word. He simply took off his custom black velvet jacket, carelessly tossing it over an armchair. Next came the watch, the metal making a sharp clink as he dropped it onto the glass coffee table. Slowly, without an ounce of urgency, he rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt.
Finally, he leaned his hips back against the edge of the heavy oak dresser and crossed his arms over his chest. His sharp, emerald gaze found hers. He didn't yell. He didn't demand an explanation. He just stared at her, letting the silence stretch until it snapped.
"I waited for over an hour, Harry," Y/N’s voice trembled, anger and humiliation echoing sharply against the walls. "You corner me downstairs, you threaten me, and then you leave me up here looking like an absolute idiot?"
Harry didn't flinch. He just continued to watch her, his expression dangerously impassive.
"Say something!" she yelled. A hot, furious tear escaped her eye. "You wanted me here! I’m here! Are you just punishing me?"
Still, nothing. Only the cold, heavy weight of his green eyes pinning her to the spot.
The silence broke her. The anger drained out of her body, leaving behind nothing but the pathetic, bleeding truth.
"What do you want from me?" she demanded, though she knew he was waiting for her to talk about what had happened moments before.
"I couldn't do it anymore," she sobbed, her voice dropping into a broken whisper. "I was falling in love with you, Harry. Every time you touched me... I was dying. Because I knew the moment the sun came up, I was just a secret. I knew I was never going to be enough for you to actually choose me." She squeezed her eyes shut. "I ran because if I stayed, you were going to break me."
Harry watched her cry for a long, agonizing moment. Then, slowly, he uncrossed his arms. He pushed off the dresser and closed the distance between them, stopping a few inches away, towering over her trembling frame.
"So you blocked my number," he stated. His voice was smooth, low, and terrifyingly rational. "You decided, all on your own, what I was thinking, and you ran. You didn't use your words."
"You don't do relationships!" she cried out. "You said it yourself!"
"I don't," Harry agreed instantly, the bluntness hitting her like a physical slap. "I can't give you the boyfriend title, Y/N. I can't hold your hand on a red carpet. My life doesn't work like that, and you knew exactly what this was from the first night I took you home."
Y/N felt the air leave her lungs.
"But you think you're the only one who liked what we had?" Harry murmured, his voice dropping, the coldness shifting into something darker, more possessive. "We worked. You were mine behind closed doors, and it worked perfectly. If you had just opened your mouth, we could have figured something out. Instead, you threw a tantrum and completely erased me."
His long, cold fingers reached out, firmly gripping her chin and tilting her face up.
"You threw away a year of us because you wanted a label I can't give you," he whispered ruthlessly. "And look where it got you. Crying in my hotel room while my date is waiting in a cab downstairs."
He let the cruel reality of those words hang in the heavy silence.
"Did it kill you?" he murmured, mocking her gently. "Watching me touch her tonight? Knowing I was going to take her back to my place and do exactly what I used to do to you?"
Y/N let out a pathetic, broken gasp, trying to turn away, but his grip was unyielding.
"You wanted to play the martyr, Y/N, but you couldn't even make it through one single night of seeing me with someone else before you came crawling back," he stated. He finally let go of her jaw, taking a half-step back and gesturing casually toward the door.
"There's the door. You can walk out right now. Keep your pride, go back to ignoring my existence, and I will go downstairs and take Camille home. We'll never speak again."
Y/N stopped breathing.
"Or," Harry continued, letting that dark, possessive gravity pull her right back in. "You stay. Knowing I won't be your boyfriend. Knowing I won't hold your hand for the cameras. But you'll be mine behind closed doors, exactly like we were. And you will never pull a stunt like blocking my number again." He tilted his head. "Your choice, darling."
The humiliation was absolute. He had trapped her in a corner, forcing her to accept her own demotion. And the sickest part of it all? As she stared at him, she knew she was going to accept it. She loved him too much. She was too exhausted to keep fighting him.
Y/N let out a ragged, defeated sob. Her trembling fingers curled weakly into the crisp fabric of his dress shirt. She couldn't even find the voice to speak. Slowly, agonizingly, she closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against his solid chest, and gave a single, pathetic nod.
She was completely surrendering to the uneven, toxic reality of what they were.
A dark, intensely satisfied gleam flashed in Harry’s green eyes. The power dynamic had completely shifted back into his hands.
"Good girl," he murmured smoothly.
His hand tangled roughly into the hair at the nape of her neck, tilting her head back. He let his lips hover a fraction of an inch above hers.
"Tell me," he demanded softly. "Is this what you wanted, baby? Begging for me in a hotel room while the rest of the world thinks I belong to someone else? Tell me this is exactly what you wanted."
A fresh tear slipped down Y/N's cheek, but the burning humiliation was suddenly swallowed by a massive, overwhelming wave of pure, desperate relief. She didn't care about the cameras anymore.
"Yes," she whimpered, her fingers desperately gripping his lapels. "Yes, Harry. Please."
That was all it took.
With a dark, guttural groan, his mouth crashed down onto hers with a violent, punishing force. His tongue parted her lips effortlessly, consuming every ounce of her surrender. Y/N let out a muffled gasp as his large hands gripped her hips, lifting her completely off the floor. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, clinging to him like a lifeline as he blindly walked backward, slamming her spine against the heavy oak dresser.
Everything happened in a blur of frantic, desperate heat. He practically ripped his own belt undone, his mouth never leaving her skin. When he finally pushed inside her, the collision was so intense, so overwhelmingly familiar and right, that Y/N completely shattered.
She threw her head back, her nails digging into his shoulders, and she started to cry. But this time, it wasn't out of sadness. It was pure, twisted euphoria. The heavy, suffocating emptiness in her chest was completely gone.
"Harry," she cried out softly, a watery, euphoric smile breaking across her lips as she buried her face in the crook of his neck. "I missed you so much. God, I missed you."
Harry’s breath hitched. His grip on her hips tightened painfully, his own control entirely snapping at the sound of her broken, happy surrender. He buried his face in her hair, holding her against the dresser as if his life depended on it.
"You're mine," he rasped breathlessly against her ear, completely ruined by her. "You're never leaving me again, Y/N. Do you hear me? Never."
"I won't," she promised blindly, her tears soaking his collar. "I'm yours."
And as the dimly lit hotel room dissolved into nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing and skin against skin, Y/N knew she had lost the war. But wrapped in his arms, entirely hidden from the world, she had never been happier to lose.
Taglist: @angeldavis777
okay back from reading I got actual goosebumps 😭 possessive jealous harry? sign me right up. I definitely see this becoming a full universe, expanding on y/n's friends, why harry moved there, him going away for work or something and realizing how much he cares for y/n despite like not wanting to be as attached so he distances himself aka more angst... you also write angst so beautifully omg. and if you ever need ideas for fanfics I have lots I just am horrible at actually writing them.
Loveeee, thank u so much for your kind words 😭💖
Honestly I got a bunch of ideas for this kinda of Harry. Dark! Harry it’s my favorite thing in this world and I’m going to do multiple imagine about him!!! The one where he realize he is far in love with Y/N??? *chef kisses* I’m fucking using it
Hi love!! Omg, I just wanted to say I love you so much 😭💖
Honestly, this is hands down my favorite thing ever. You don't understand, I am OBSESSED ✨
I really hope you guys like it because I’m already brainstorming so many more scenarios with Neighbor! Harry 🔥
Summary: Harry is the new boy next door. Y/N couldn't find the nerve to say hello, until thin walls and open curtains made them get to know each other in a very different way.
WC: 6k
Warnings: Smut, sexual tension, piv, unprotect sex, Dark!Harry, Toxic relationships and more lol
Y/N had been observing her new neighbor whenever she had the chance. A tall man with thick, unruly brown hair that kept falling into his striking green eyes. He was fucking sexy. His broad shoulders filled out the simple white t-shirt he wore, and his arms—partially covered in a collection of scattered tattoos—flexed with every movement, looking like they could completely destroy her.
Around 8:30 am, as she left for work, she noticed his front door was open—he was still moving his things. She saw him kneeling in the middle of the living room, assembling what she assumed was a coffee table. The next day, returning from work, she saw him unloading boxes from his car, a black Ford parked out front. She assumed he lived alone because she hadn't seen him with any visitors. But she didn't dare greet him, even though they lived next to each other.
Then came Tuesday.
She was going up the stairs with her takeout when, a few steps above, some blonde woman she didn't know was ahead of her. This caught her eye. She slowed down, watching as the woman stopped at Apartment 202 and knocked like she owned the place. Y/N waited on the stairs, pretending to find her keys.
The door opened.
And there he was. Her neighbor—whose name she still didn't have the privilege of knowing—standing there in just his low-slung basketball shorts. That's when she was instantly captivated.
From this angle, she could see every tattoo, the way the fabric hung dangerously low on his hips, and those sharp V-lines pointing down into his waistband, almost like an invitation. She hurried past them, keeping her head down, but she managed to overhear their brief exchange before he closed the door.
She didn't know who the girl was, but seeing him half-naked, it wasn't hard to guess what was about to happen behind that door.
Fuck.
The thought sent a sudden, stupid wave of heat straight to her core. She was practically drooling over her neighbor.
She got into her apartment, locked the door, and dropped her stuff. She kicked off her Crocs and sat on the couch to eat. She put on The Bear on Amazon Prime, Episode 4, hoping to relax after work.
But she couldn't concentrate. Her mind was racing with thoughts of the curly-haired man next door. Intrusive thoughts kept popping into her head. She found herself pausing the TV every now and then, trying to catch any sound indicating what they were doing. Finally, she decided to stop eating.
She was exhausted; she could feel it in her feet since she had been standing most of the day. Her body begged for rest, but the urge to smoke was stronger. She rummaged in her bag for her pack and lighter, took one out, and headed onto the balcony of her small one-room apartment.
The night air hit her face, cool and crisp against her heated skin. It was a perfect night—stars out, quiet. She leaned against the railing, lit a cigarette, and took a deep drag. Finally. The smoke filled her lungs and the knot in her chest loosened.
She zoned out for a bit, staring at nothing, just letting the nicotine hit.
She didn't know how long she’d been standing there when a chill made her shiver. She stubbed out the cigarette and turned to go back inside.
That’s when she saw it.
Through the glass of his living room window, she could see her neighbor having sex with the woman she had seen earlier. It wasn't clear, but it was definitely the two of them.
Y/N couldn't move. She stood frozen in the dark. It was the hottest thing she’d ever seen in real life.
They were in the living room. The blonde was on the beige sofa, on all fours, bracing herself against the armrest. He was behind her. She saw his head thrown back, mouth slightly open, a silent groan escaping him as he moved. He had his hands on the woman's hips, holding her in place, his tattoos flexing with the rhythm. Sweat all over him.
The scene made a warmth spread through her core. She couldn't tear her eyes away, watching how his hand moved to her throat, how their hips met, creating an intoxicating rhythm.
Instinctively, her hands began a journey from her stomach to her core. Her fingers found her sweet spot, and she couldn't believe how wet she was just from watching them. She stood there on her balcony, touching herself to the rhythm of her neighbor fucking someone else, a soft, ragged moan catching in her throat.
A car horn from the street shattered the moment.
She immediately pulled her hand from her pajama shorts, her heart pounding in her chest. Her face burned with sudden, crushing shame. Jesus. She glanced around wildly, hoping nobody saw anything.
Breathless and mortified, she rushed inside and slammed the door.
Over the next few days, she tried to avoid him at all costs. She left her place earlier than usual, came back later, and definitely stayed off her balcony. If she needed to smoke, she’d walk up a few floors to the building’s terrace or just go out to the street—anything to avoid running into her neighbor. Luckily, there hadn't been any awkward run-ins, and she was grateful for every second of it.
By Friday, she usually would’ve gone out for drinks with her friends to catch up on the week. But one called in sick, and another’s babysitter canceled last minute, so she was stuck at home. She decided to order takeout. The plan was simple: leave work, pick up the food, and hide in her apartment.
She ordered Chinese—she was craving it, it was one of her favorites. She planned to watch a movie a coworker recommended, something about two people stranded on an island or something like that.
Food bag in hand, she fumbled for her keys as she walked up the stairs, alert. Door 202 was shut. She let out a breath of relief, quickly jammed her key in the lock, and slipped inside. Safe.
She dumped the food onto a plate, stealing a bite before putting it in the microwave. The TV was on in the background, just showing the news. Y/N didn't care about it, but the noise was nice while she scrolled on TikTok, waiting for the beep.
A few minutes later, she sat at her small kitchen counter. Her place was a studio, but at least the bedroom had walls. She ate peacefully, watching a "storytime" about a girl who went from engaged to single in less than 24 hours.
When she finished, she washed up and noticed the trash was piling up. Great. She had to go back out. Still looking at her phone, she grabbed two bags and headed downstairs to the main dumpster. Walking back up felt heavy. She was in the middle of recording a voice note to a friend as she pulled her keys out, still talking into her phone.
“Hey.”
A voice behind her made her freeze. Her key missed the lock.
Shit.
She turned around. Her neighbor was leaning against the railing of the stairs. He was wearing a black tank top, grey shorts, and Nike slides. His hair was wet, water droplets running down his face. He looked fucking hot.
She didn't know when he got there or where he came from. She was speechless.
“Hi,” she managed to say, quickly locking her phone and shoving it in her pocket.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Harry.”
“Likewise, I’m Y/N.”
“I wanted to introduce myself properly, but I haven't seen you in a while,” he admitted, his body relaxed against the railing.
“Yeah, I’ve been working late.”
He nodded with a subtle “hmm.” The memories of that night hit her instantly—the sound of his moan, how it felt to watch...
She shook her head slightly to snap back to reality.
“Welcome,” she said, genuinely, just to fill the silence. “We didn't get to do a proper welcome with everyone.”
“Yeah, it’s a shame,” he nodded. “But I did like your welcome the other day.”
She froze.
“You know, when you were watching me from the balcony.”
The casual way he said it… he was enjoying this. It was obvious he had seen her.
“I’m sorry, I didn't mean to—”
“No, it’s fine,” he interrupted. “I’m not used to having an audience. Usually, it’s just me and the other person. But if I’d known you wanted to join, I would’ve invited you. You just ran off so fast I didn't get the chance.”
He was playing with her.
“I mean, if you wanted to, of course. But I saw how you were touching yourself, so I just assumed that was a yes.”
Y/N felt the blood rush to her face so fast it made her dizzy. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She was gripping her keys so hard the metal bit into her palm.
Harry took a slow step towards her, closing slowly the distance between them. He didn't look disgusted. He looked... amused. Hungry.
"You have no idea how hard it was to focus," he murmured, his voice dropping lower, intimate. "Hearing you gasp on the balcony while I was inside."
Y/N stepped back, her back hitting her own door. She was trapped, and her heart was hammering against her ribs like it wanted to break out.
"I... I didn't mean to..." she stammered, her voice barely a whisper. "I was just smoking."
Harry chuckled, a dark, low sound. He stopped right in front of her. He was close enough that she could smell him—fresh shower gel, mint, and something naturally musky underneath. He smelled like trouble.
He reached out, his hand brushing against the hand she was using to clutch her keys. He wasn't taking them; he was just touching her. His fingers were warm.
"You don't have to apologize, Y/N," he said, his eyes locking onto hers. "Like I said... I liked the show."
He leaned in, tilting his head just enough so his lips were near her ear. The heat radiating off him was overwhelming.
"Next time," he whispered, his breath hot against her skin, "don't stay outside. The view is better from my bed."
He pulled back, giving her a lazy, devastating wink. Then, without another word, he turned and walked past her, heading down the stairs, like he hadn't just completely ruined her life.
Y/N stood there, trembling, staring at his back as he disappeared.
Her hands shook violently as she finally managed to jam the key into the lock. She stumbled into her apartment and slammed the door shut, leaning against the wood, gasping for air.
She closed her eyes, pressing the back of her head against the solid door as she waited for her racing heart to calm down. But the adrenaline refused to fade. Y/N couldn't stop replaying the encounter in her head—the heavy tension in the air, the intense way he had suddenly confronted her, catching her completely off guard. The deep rumble of his voice still echoed in her ears.
And now, the mysteriously sexy neighbor wasn't just a stranger anymore. He had a name.
Harry.
The following night, Y/N was at a crowded club, a cold drink in her hand. She swayed to the heavy bass, surrounded by her friends, when she spotted him across the room. A cute guy leaning against the bar. He caught her eye and smiled.
His name was Travis. He was attractive enough, and honestly, Y/N was tired of the curly-haired guy next door hijacking her brain. She needed to get laid. She needed to fuck him right out of her system.
The decision was reckless, driven by alcohol and a toxic, nagging thought: If Harry could bring someone home and have his fun, she could do the exact same thing.
The rest of the night was a blur. The cab ride, the clumsy walk up the stairs, the sound of her front door clicking shut. Travis didn't waste any time pinning her against the wall, kissing her with a messy, drunken desperation.
Y/N let him pull her toward the living room, crashing down onto the couch. She didn't care about romance, and she definitely didn't care about the guy actually touching her. She just closed her eyes tightly, throwing her head back, desperate for the release.
But as the frantic pace picked up, her mind betrayed her.
She felt hands in her, but in the dark behind her eyelids, those hands were covered in ink. The heavy chest pressing against her no longer belonged to a stranger from the club—it was the guy from apartment 202. She imagined it was Harry’s low, raspy voice she was hearing in the dark.
The thought sent a sharp, electric jolt straight to her core. It was a dirty, incredibly toxic fantasy, but it worked like a charm.
Her breath hitched. Arching her back, she let out a loud, shameless moan that had absolutely nothing to do with Travis. She wanted to be loud. She wanted him to hear through the thin walls.
She chased the high, completely lost in the twisted illusion of her neighbor, until the tension finally snapped, sending her crashing into a heavy release.
A few seconds later, Travis collapsed next to her, completely out of breath.
Y/N lay there, staring blindly at the ceiling as her chest heaved. The alcohol was wearing off, leaving a frustrating, hollow truth settling in her stomach: fuck. She had just used a stranger, and she was still aching for Harry.
An hour later, Travis was gone. It had been fun in the moment, but once the alcohol started wearing off, she just wanted her space. She practically shoved him out the front door with a tight smile and a fake promise to text him.
Finally alone, Y/N let out a long, exhausted sigh. She headed straight for the bathroom. She stood under the hot water for a good ten minutes, scrubbing her skin hard to wash off every trace of Travis's sweat. Her mind wouldn't shut off, obsessively wondering if Harry had been home, if he had heard, if he had seen them.
She stepped out of the shower, threw on a massive oversized t-shirt from who-knows-where, and walked into the kitchen. She grabbed a cold bottle of water and a couple of Advil, sitting down on one of the barstools at the counter. She pulled out her phone and sent a quick text to the group chat to prove she was still alive. No reply. They were definitely still at the club.
She took a long sip of water, letting the cold liquid soothe her throat, and she stretched her tired feet out.
Then, she heard it.
It didn't come from the hallway. It came from outside.
A sharp gasp.
Y/N froze, the water bottle halfway to her mouth.
"Oh, fuck..."
It was a woman’s voice. High-pitched, breathy, and loud. Coming straight from Harry’s balcony.
Y/N’s heart dropped heavily into her stomach. Another moan cut through the quiet night air, followed by a heavy thud. They were literally right outside.
Then, she heard his voice. Low, rough, and unmistakable.
"That’s it. Keep your hands on the glass."
A hot, prickling flush of humiliation and anger burned through Y/N's veins. He wasn't just having sex. He had dragged a girl out onto the freezing concrete balcony in the middle of the night, right next to hers. He was making absolutely sure she heard every single second.
She had brought a random guy home to put on a clumsy, desperate show on her couch just to get under his skin. But Harry? He was ruthless. He was throwing it right back in her face, completely unbothered, proving he could play this sick game ten times better and a hundred times more shamelessly than she ever could.
Another sharp cry pierced the air, followed by the violent rattle of his metal railing.
A sickening mix of anger and unwanted heat flared in her chest. She didn't have to stand there and listen to his twisted little performance.
Leaving her water bottle on the counter, Y/N turned her back to the glass. She walked straight down the short hallway to her bedroom and firmly shut the door behind her in the dark.
She had tried to play the game, but Harry had effortlessly, shamelessly destroyed her.
-----
By 8:30 PM, Y/N pushed open the heavy metal door to the rooftop terrace. It was exactly where her friend from the building, Chloe, had insisted they throw Harry's welcome party. Chloe claimed it was just to be "neighborly," but Y/N knew the truth—Chloe just wanted an excuse to see the new guy up close and get to know him better.
She wore a simple, tight black slip dress, a worn-in leather jacket, and her hair falling in loose waves. Her heavy boots echoed against the concrete for a few seconds before the sharp sound was swallowed by the hum of the background music.
The terrace was already buzzing. String lights cast a warm glow over the concrete, and about fifteen, more like twenty, neighbors were scattered around. She spotted Harry almost immediately. He was standing on the opposite side of the roof, holding a beer, laughing at something the building manager was saying. He wore a dark, unbuttoned flannel over a white tee, looking effortlessly, unfairly attractive.
Their eyes met for a fraction of a second across the crowd. A heavy, electric jolt shot straight to Y/N’s stomach, but she forced herself to look away first.
She walked over to her group of friends—Chloe, Ben, and Josh—and threw herself into the party.
For the next three hours, they played a silent, exhausting game of avoidance.
Y/N mingled, laughed, and drank her hard seltzers. Harry did his own thing, charming the older tenants and eventually joining a group of guys near the coolers. They never crossed paths. But Y/N was painfully, constantly aware of exactly where he was standing in the room at all times.
By 11:30, the party had thinned out. The older neighbors had gone down to bed, the music was turned down to a low hum, and the chill of the night air was settling in.
"Hey," Ben bumped her shoulder gently, pulling a pack from his jacket. "Want a smoke?” he was already smoking.
"God, yes. Please," Y/N sighed. She hadn't brought her own pack, and after hours of keeping up her indifferent facade, she desperately needed the nicotine.
She took a cigarette from his pack, let him light it for her, and then wandered away from the group. She walked over to the darkest, quietest corner of the terrace, leaning her hands against the cold brick parapet.
She took a deep drag, closing her eyes as the smoke filled her lungs, letting the knot in her chest finally loosen. The city lights blurred in the distance.
A moment later, the subtle scuff of a boot against concrete made her open her eyes.
A tall shadow stepped up right beside her. The distinct scent of him cut cleanly through the smell of her cigarette smoke.
Harry didn't say anything at first. He just leaned his forearms against the brick ledge right next to hers, looking out at the city skyline. They were standing so close that if either of them shifted an inch, their arms would touch.
The silence between them was suddenly deafening.
"You've been ignoring me," Harry murmured finally. His voice was a low, rough vibration in the quiet air.
"I've been mingling," Y/N replied smoothly, keeping her eyes fixed on the city. She took another drag of her cigarette, trying to keep her hand steady.
"I wasn't talking about tonight."
Harry turned his head slowly to look at her profile. She could feel the heavy, burning weight of his green eyes tracing the line of her neck and the curve of her jaw.
"Can I have a hit?" he asked softly.
Y/N paused. She finally turned her head to look at him. He was dangerously close, the dim light from the city casting sharp shadows across his jawline.
Without a word, she raised her hand, offering him the cigarette.
Instead of taking it from her fingers, Harry leaned in. He wrapped his large, warm hand completely over hers, guiding her hand toward his mouth. His skin was incredibly hot against the chill of her fingers.
He kept his eyes locked firmly on hers as he wrapped his lips around the filter—right exactly where her lips had just been—and took a slow, deep drag.
Y/N’s breath hitched. Her heart hammered violently against her ribs.
Harry slowly pulled her hand away from his mouth but didn't let go of her fingers. He exhaled a thick cloud of smoke into the cool night air, the grey plume drifting between their faces.
"You've been ignoring me, doll, and honestly, I don't really like that," he said, looking casually at her. He pushed off the brick ledge, standing up to his full height, and slowly started walking toward her. "I mean, after your little show on Saturday, I figured the least you'd do after letting me watch was want a front-row seat to mine."
Y/N didn't know what kind of hold Harry had over her, but he always knew exactly which strings to pull to knock the breath right out of her lungs.
Y/N snatched her hand back, taking the cigarette with her as she took a few cautious steps back. Her chest rose and fell sharply under her leather jacket. She refused to let him see how much that sentence had affected her, even though her core clenched tight at the memory.
"Cat got your tongue?" he taunted.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she shot back.
But he was getting dangerously close, his slow, predatory steps forcing her to retreat until her back hit the cold brick wall before she could even react, the sudden impact making the cigarette slip from her fingers and drop to the concrete.
Harry let out a low, breathy laugh that held absolutely no humor.
He took a slow step closer. The toe of his heavy boot bumped against her bot. He raised his arm, resting his hand flat against the cold brick wall right next to her head, effectively caging her in the shadows.
"Liar," he murmured, his voice a rough vibration in the cold air.
He leaned down, his face so close that the tip of his nose brushed against her cheek. The smell of him was intoxicating—musk, nicotine, and pure, unfiltered male arrogance.
"You look cute when you lie, Y/N," he whispered against her ear, sending a violent shiver down her spine. " But I know you look a lot prettier when you’re coming.”
Y/N’s breath hitched.She tried to push him away by placing her hands on her chest, but the second her hands touched his solid chest, the fight completely left her body. Harry didn't hesitate. The second he felt her grip his shirt, his control snapped.
His large hand flew up, tangling fiercely into her hair, pulling her head back just enough to expose her throat. His other hand gripped her waist, his long fingers digging into the curve of her hip over the thin silk of her slip dress.
"Harry—" she gasped.
"Shut up," he growled against her lips.
And then he kissed her.
It wasn't sweet. It wasn't polite. It was a collision. His mouth crashed down on hers with a desperate, hungry violence that knocked the air right out of her lungs. He tasted like cold beer, mint, and smoke. Y/N let out a soft, pathetic whimper, her hands sliding up his chest to grip his broad shoulders, pulling him even closer.
Harry groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated straight through her. His tongue pushed past her lips, claiming her mouth with possessive, relentless rhythm.
He pushed her back until her spine was pressed flat against the cold brick parapet, his heavy body aligning perfectly with hers. The contrast of the freezing wall and his burning heat was driving her insane. She kissed him back just as hard, her fingers tangling desperately into the damp curls at the nape of his neck.
They were completely hidden in the shadows of the roof, entirely consumed by each other, while a dozen people were standing just thirty feet away.
"Harry? Hey man, you over here?"
Ben’s voice suddenly cut through the darkness, accompanied by the sound of footsteps walking toward the coolers.
Harry froze.
He tore his mouth away from hers, his chest heaving violently against her. They both stood completely still in the shadows, their breathing ragged and loud in the quiet corner.
Y/N’s lips were swollen, her eyes wide as she stared up at him in the dark. Harry’s eyes were entirely black, dilated with pure lust and frustration. He slowly rested his forehead against hers, trying to catch his breath.
The footsteps stopped near the coolers, a few yards away.
Harry’s hand moved from her hair, his thumb dragging roughly over her bruised bottom lip. He leaned in, his mouth hovering just a millimeter from hers.
"My apartment," he ordered, his voice a raw, barely-there whisper. "Ten minutes. Don't fucking make me wait."
Before Y/N could even process the demand, Harry stepped back, creating a cold, agonizing distance between them. He smoothed down his flannel, cleared his throat, and walked out of the shadows toward Ben like absolutely nothing had happened.
Y/N was left leaning against the brick wall, her legs trembling, her blood completely on fire.
Ten minutes felt like an absolute lifetime.
Y/N stayed by the brick wall for exactly five, trying to get her erratic breathing under control. She smoothed down the silk of her slip dress, ran a trembling hand through her messy hair, and forced herself to walk back to her friends.
"I'm gonna head down," she told Chloe and Josh, her voice surprisingly steady. "I'm exhausted."
"Already? It's barely midnight!" Josh protested.
"Long week," she lied smoothly.
She didn't wait for them to argue. She walked to the heavy metal door, her boots echoing loudly in the concrete stairwell as she descended to the second floor. Her blood was roaring in her ears.
The hallway was dead. She stood right in the middle, staring at his door. She reached out, intending to knock, but the door wasn't fully closed. It was cracked open just an inch. Waiting for her.
She took a sharp breath, pushed it open, and stepped inside.
The apartment was dark, illuminated only by the streetlights filtering through the massive living room window—the exact same window she had stared through days ago. It smelled like him. Clean, musky, and completely dangerous.
Before the door even clicked shut behind her, a large hand grabbed her waist out of the dark.
Harry spun her around, slamming her back against the heavy wood of his front door. He didn't say a single word. He just buried his hands in her hair and brought his mouth crashing down on hers.
This kiss was different from the one on the roof. It wasn't rushed or hidden in the shadows. It was entirely possessive. He owned the space, and right now, he owned her.
Y/N let out a soft moan, her hands immediately finding their way under his unbuttoned flannel. Her palms pressed flat against his scorching hot chest, feeling his heart hammering just as violently as hers.
Harry groaned into her mouth, his large hands dropping to the back of her thighs. He lifted her effortlessly. Y/N gasped, instinctively wrapping her legs around his waist to hold on.
He carried her through the dark apartment, their lips never parting, their teeth clashing in a messy, desperate rhythm. He bumped into the wall of the hallway, a heavy thud echoing in the quiet space, but neither of them cared.
He carried her straight into his bedroom and dropped her onto the center of his mattress.
Y/N bounced slightly on the soft sheets, looking up at him in the dim light.
Harry stood at the edge of the bed, his chest heaving as he stared down at her. He reached up, gripping the edges of his flannel, and stripped it off, throwing it blindly onto the floor. The white t-shirt followed a second later.
He was shirtless, his chest and torso completely covered in ink, exactly how she had seen him that first Tuesday. But this time, there was no glass between them. No distance. No other girl.
He climbed onto the bed, hovering over her, a knee on either side of her hips. He braced his large hands on the mattress next to her head, trapping her completely.
His green eyes were dark, heavy with a week's worth of suppressed frustration and raw heat.
"Say it," he commanded, his voice a low, rough rasp in the quiet bedroom.
Y/N swallowed hard, her pulse racing in her throat. "Say what?"
Harry leaned down, his mouth brushing against her jaw, his teeth lightly scraping her sensitive skin.
"Say you didn't feel a fucking thing with that guy on your couch," he whispered, his hot breath making her shiver uncontrollably. "Say you were thinking about me the entire time."
Y/N’s hands slid up his arms, her nails digging slightly into his tattooed skin. She wasn't going to fight him anymore. The silent war was over, and she was more than happy to surrender.
"I was," she breathed out, her voice trembling, finally giving him the truth they both knew. "It was you. It’s only been you."
A dark, triumphant smirk spread across Harry’s face. He looked down at her, his eyes burning with pure satisfaction.
"Good girl," he growled.
And then he helped her shed her leather jacket, tossing it blindly across the room. Without wasting a single second, he pulled the straps of her dress down.
The thin black silk of her slip dress pooled at her waist before she quickly shucked the garment off completely, leaving her in nothing but a pair of delicate panties. She hadn't bothered to wear a bra tonight.
The cool air of the bedroom hit her heated skin for only a fraction of a second before it was completely replaced by the scorching warmth of Harry’s body pressing down against hers.
She could feel the heavy, burning weight of his eyes on her bare chest. On any other occasion, that kind of intense scrutiny might have made her flush with shy hesitation, but right now, she didn't care. Her blood was roaring in her ears. The only thing on her mind was figuring out how to rip his jeans off.
Without asking, her hands went to his belt. She fumbled with the buckle, clumsily popping the button. Hooking her fingers into the waistband of his jeans and his dark boxers, she shoved them down his narrow hips. Harry kicked them off without a second thought.
He let out a rough breath. His hands gripped her bare hips, pushing her back until she hit the mattress.
Then, the frantic rush completely stopped. It became agonizingly slow.
He hooked his fingers into the sides of her underwear, dragging the thin fabric down her legs. He didn’t even look down; his dark eyes never left hers until she was completely naked.
The cool air hit her skin for just a second before Harry’s warm, heavy body pressed down against hers.
He didn't rush. Now that he finally had her exactly where he wanted her, he was going to take his time to wreck her. His tattooed arms bracketed her head, his chest brushing hers every time he breathed.
"I'm going to ruin you for anyone else," he murmured, his voice a dark, vibrating promise against her collarbone.
Y/N gasped, her back arching slightly as his mouth trailed down her neck, his teeth lightly scraping over her pulse point. "Harry..."
"Shh," he commanded softly.
When he finally pushed inside her, the shock of it, stole all the air from the room. It was deep, heavy, and completely consuming. Y/N let out a loud, breathless cry, her eyes fluttering shut as a wave of pure, blinding heat crashed over her.
Harry groaned, a raw, guttural sound that vibrated straight through her chest. He held himself perfectly still for a second, burying his face in the crook of her neck, letting them both adjust to the overwhelming friction.
He pulled back just enough to look down at her.
"Look at me," he ordered, his voice thick and strained.
Y/N slowly opened her eyes. He looked absolutely wrecked, his jaw clenched, a light sheen of sweat already forming on his chest. But his green eyes were entirely focused, searching her.
Harry’s hands slid up from her hips, his large, calloused thumbs tracing the sides of her ribs before coming to rest on her jaw. He held her face gently, but with absolute, undeniable authority.
"No more pretending," he murmured, his thumb brushing over her swollen lower lip. "No more games. You're done fighting me, understand?"
The last thread of her resistance snapped. She didn't want to fight anymore. She was so incredibly tired of pretending she didn't crave this.
Y/N let out a ragged, shuddering breath. Her hands slid up his heavily tattooed arms, her fingers sliding into the curls at the nape of his neck. She pulled him closer, lifting her hips, completely and utterly offering herself to him.
"I'm done," she whispered, her voice breaking beautifully in the quiet room, completely stripped of her pride. "Just... please, Harry."
The sheer vulnerability in her voice—the absolute surrender—did something dangerous to him. The smirk vanished from his face, replaced by a dark, consuming hunger.
Harry began to move. He was relentless, commanding a deep, punishing rhythm, but there was a desperate kind of reverence in the way his large hands move through her body. He made sure she felt the absolute weight of his possession with every single thrust.
Y/N completely melted into the mattress. Every touch was stripping away her ego until there was nothing left but raw, blinding pleasure. She didn't try to bite back her moans or hide her reactions. She let her head fall back against the pillows, her body going entirely pliant under his dominance and knowing they were doing it like this, with absolutely nothing between them, made every push feel so much deeper, burning right through her.
She let him take exactly what he wanted, and he took everything.
When the edge finally approached, she looked right at him, watching the way his muscles flexed, mesmerized by the intense, beautiful way he looked when he was completely lost in her.
"Harry," she cried out, her voice shameless, desperate plea as the climax ripped through her, sending heavy, electric shocks straight down to her toes.
Harry felt her clench around him and let out a harsh, broken curse. He thrust into her two more times, his grip on her jaw turning almost painful, before he completely let go, chasing his own heavy, gasping release right behind hers.
He collapsed against her, his broad chest heaving violently as he buried his face in her messy hair. His dead weight was grounding, warm, and incredibly heavy.
For a long time, the only sound in Apartment 202 was the frantic rhythm of their breathing trying to slow down.
Harry slowly rolled off her, but he didn't go far. He pulled her flush against his side, his heavy arm wrapping securely around her waist, trapping her against the heat of his body. He pressed a lazy, exhausted kiss to her bare shoulder.
For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. Harry’s fingers traced patterns on her bare hip.
"So," he murmured into the dark room, his voice raspy and thick with sleep. "I guess this means you're going to stop closing your blinds."
Y/N let out a weak, breathy laugh, too exhausted to even move.
"Don't push your luck, Harry," she whispered back, tracing a random tattoo on his chest.
He chuckled, the deep vibration grounding her. He tightened his hold on her waist, refusing to leave any space between them.
"I'm just saying," he hummed softly against her hair. "Next time I'm out on that balcony, I'm taking you with me."
The Space Between Takes | H.S (Harry!celebrity × journalist)
World Count: 10200 (lol)
Warnings: Smut (almost at the end tho), kinda dom!harry, unprotect sex, fingering, dirty talk, piv, oral sex, multiple orgasms 18+ ONLY!
A/N: Hi loves! I'm back! It took me a minute, but I finally finished this chapter, and honestly? It’s one of my faves. The best part is that you can read it as a standalone or as part of the story. This is my first time writing smut, so I’m lowkey nervous but I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I did lol. Thank you so much for the sweet messages, they really keep me going!
Love u all! ✨
Chapter III | Chapter IV
The metallic tear of a heavy zipper cutting through the silence was what pulled her from the depths of sleep.
Y/N stirred, her eyelashes fluttering against the unforgiving, grey light of a Sunday morning that hadn't quite decided to start yet. Her hand instinctively swept across the expanse of the mattress, her fingers seeking the solid, radiating warmth that had been there hours ago, but they met only the stinging coolness of empty cotton sheets.
She pushed herself up on her elbows, squinting through the gloom of the bedroom.
Harry was standing at the foot of the bed. The shift was jarring. The soft, unspooled man who had whispered against her skin in the dark was gone. In his place was a guy who looked like he was bracing for impact.
He was already fully dressed—black jeans that hugged his frame, a fresh, crisp white shirt that looked startlingly bright in the dim room, and heavy leather boots. He was buckling his belt with sharp, efficient movements, the click of the metal sounding like a loaded gun in the quiet room.
“Harry?” she croaked, her voice rough, coated in sleep.
Harry looked up. He offered a smile, or the ghost of one, but the light didn't reach his green eyes. They were dark, alert, already scanning a horizon she couldn't see.
“Hey.”
“What time is it?”
Y/N looked like a lost child, blinking confusedly. Her hand fumbled blindly on the nightstand, patting the surface for her phone to anchor herself in time, but the screen lay black and dead.
“It’s early,” he said, his voice clipped. “Too early.”
He said it with a finality that made her hand drop. He didn't want her to know the time. He didn't want her to realize just how prematurely the world was crashing in.
Y/N narrowed her eyes, fighting the fog in her brain, trying to comprehend why he was standing there, armored in denim and linen, while the rest of the city was still unconscious.
“What's going on?” she whispered.
“Nothing, I just need to go, love.”
“Now?”
“Yes, baby. Now. Jeff called.” He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustrated energy. “The studio heads for the movie are freaking out about the photos from the club. I have to go to the office immediately.”
Her mind couldn't quite grasp the urgency. It was Sunday. The world was supposed to pause. But then, with a cold douse of reality, she remembered: The Machine. The entity that was "Harry Styles" never slept, never paused, and never took Sundays off. The machinery of his fame had ground into gear while she was dreaming, and now it was coming to collect him.
Harry seemed to notice the shift in her expression—how her mind was starting to churn, spiraling into panic about what this meant for them. He didn't let her spiral.
He walked over to the side of the bed, moving with a predatory grace. He leaned over her, planting his hands on the mattress on either side of her hips, effectively boxing her in against the headboard.
The scent hit her instantly—his expensive, woodsy cologne, sharp and intoxicating, already masking the soft, musky smell of sleep and sex that had filled the room moments before.
“Listen to me,” he said, his tone low, intense, and vibrating with a command that demanded absolute attention. “I can't stay. But I’m not leaving you here.”
“What do you mean?” Y/N sat up straighter, instinctively pulling the duvet up to her chest as a shield.
“I’m sending a car for you,” Harry stated, his voice leaving no room for argument. “A black Mercedes. Paul, my head of security, will be driving. He’s taking you to my house in Hampstead.”
“Why?” Y/N frowned, the confusion knitting her brows together.
Harry sighed, a heavy sound that rattled in his chest. He looked exhausted for a split second, the mask slipping.
“Because I have a long day of meetings ahead of me,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to her lips before snapping back to her eyes. “And it will be impossible for me to concentrate if I don't have you in my house. I need to know where you are.”
“But... Harry, I have work tomorrow... I need to pack...”
“Whatever you want, love,” Harry interrupted.
He freed one hand from the mattress and reached out. His fingers wrapped around her jaw, his thumb stroking the soft skin of her cheek with a possessive tenderness that made her breath hitch. The touch was grounding, making her practical doubts evaporate into the cold morning air.
“Just be ready for him to pick you up. Alright?”
“Okay...” she whispered.
She had so many questions. What about my job? Who will drive me back? Is this insane? But looking at him now, so intense and focused on her safety, those questions felt small.
“Hey,” he called her again, his voice dropping an octave, pulling her wandering attention back to the green of his eyes. “I have everything you need,” he cut in, intense and serious. “And whatever I don't have, I’ll buy. I’ll have a stylist send a rack of clothes to the house before you even get there. Don't worry about the logistics. I’ll handle it.”
He leaned down further, invading her space until his forehead was almost touching hers. He was searching her eyes, making sure the order had sunk in deep enough to bypass her hesitation.
“I want you there tonight,” he whispered against her lips, hot and desperate. “In my bed. Where I know you’re safe.”
Fuck.
The truth was, she wanted that too. She didn't want to be here, alone in the grey morning, scrolling through X (Twitter) to see where he was. She wanted to be in his fortress.
She didn't hesitate. She just nodded, letting him take the wheel, letting him give the orders.
He kissed her hard—a bruising, possessive press of lips that tasted of mint and anxiety. It wasn't a sweet parting; it was a promise wrapped in a goodbye.
“Paul will text you when he’s outside.”
He straightened up, the soldier mask sliding back into place. He grabbed his wallet and his keys, and walked out of the room without looking back, as if looking back would weaken his resolve to leave.
The front door clicked shut with a final, echoing thud.
Y/N was left sitting in the silence of the empty apartment, the phantom pressure of his hands still on the mattress, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
Y/N stayed frozen for a moment, staring at the empty space where he had stood, half-expecting him to burst back in and tell her it was all a fever dream. But the room remained still. The only proof he had been there was the indentation on the pillow next to hers and the lingering, intoxicating scent of sandalwood and tobacco that clung to the duvet.
She fell back against the mattress, closing her eyes, and that’s when the adrenaline finally receded, leaving room for the reality of her physical state to crash in.
Her head throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache behind her eyes—the undeniable souvenir of the vodka cranberries and tequila she’d downed at the club hours ago. Her mouth felt like sandpaper, and the room spun lazily when she finally dragged herself upright. Harry might be a machine who could function on two hours of sleep and pure willpower, but she was very much human, and right now, she felt every second of the previous night’s chaos.
Groaning softly, she swung her legs out of bed. She grabbed her phone from the nightstand—still dead—and plugged it in, watching the battery icon flash red before she shuffled toward the bathroom.
The shower was a mercy. She turned the water up as hot as she could stand, letting the steam fill the small, tiled room. She stood under the spray for a long time, eyes closed, letting the heat loosen the knots in her shoulders and wash away the stale smell of smoke and sweat from the club. She watched the water swirl down the drain, trying to scrub away the fog in her brain, but his words kept echoing over the sound of the plumbing.
I want you there tonight. In my bed.
She turned the water off, wrapping herself in a white towel. She caught her reflection in the foggy mirror—her hair wet and tangled, her eyes a little puffy, her lips still slightly swollen. She looked like exactly what she was: a woman who had been swept up by a hurricane and was waiting for the winds to pick her up again.
She needed water. Gallons of it. And maybe three ibuprofen.
She pulled on her silk robe, knotting the belt tight around her waist, and walked barefoot down the hallway, squinting as the harsh morning sun hit the living room floor.
She walked into the kitchen, her hand already reaching for a glass in the cupboard, when a movement at the island made her jump.
Sarah was there. Perched on a stool like a gargoyle in silk pajamas. She wasn't smiling. She was watching Y/N with the intensity of a sniper.
“I have bagels,” Sarah said. Her voice wasn't loud; it was flat, factual. “And I have questions. But mostly, I have bagels.” She pointed to the counter. “We need to talk about last night.”
“Oh, yeah? We do?” Y/N feigned ignorance, though her voice cracked.
“Don’t act like a fool, Y/N. I saw him last night. I saw the way he looked at you in the hallway. That wasn't a ‘let’s have tea’ look. That was a ‘I’m going to dismantle you’ look.”
Y/N didn't answer. She walked to the fridge and grabbed a cold bottle of water.
“He stayed, didn't he?” Sarah asked, though it wasn't really a question.
“Yes, but now he’s gone,” Y/N whispered, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“I know,” Sarah said, sliding her phone across the granite island.
The screen was bright, offensive. A video playing on a loop: Harry Styles, storming into a building, looking like a thundercloud in a suit. He wasn't wearing the same clothes he had on that morning, which meant he had already stopped somewhere to change or—more likely—had a fresh suit waiting for him. The machine never stopped.
“Look at him,” Sarah commanded. “He looks... hot. He looks like a villain in a movie I would pay fifty dollars to see. It’s hot. It’s objectively, disrespectfully hot.”
She looked up at Y/N, her eyes narrowing behind her sunglasses.
“Now. Talk. Did he ruin you?”
Y/N stared at the bottle in her hands. In a certain way, he did. Because now she found herself at his feet, with no map back to who she was before him. She was ruined for anyone else, ruined for normalcy.
“C’mon, speak up. I need to update something on my X account,” Sarah pressed, tapping her nails on the screen.
Y/N leaned back against the sink, the cold porcelain digging into her spine. A embarrassed smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“We didn't do anything, Sarah.”
Sarah paused. She slowly lowered her sunglasses. She blinked once. Twice.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. “My hearing must be failing. Did you just say you had Harry Styles in your bed—the man who practically invented moaning—and you didn't do anything?”
“He was exhausted,” Y/N said, covering her face with her hands to hide the flush. “It was... emotional. We just slept.”
The sound of Sarah standing up was sharp. The stool scraped violently against the floor.
“You napped,” she said. It sounded like an accusation of treason. “You used the global icon of sex appeal as a blanket.”
“It was sweet!”
“Honey, you are wasting precious time!” Sarah shouted, pointing a teaspoon at her like a knife. “If I were you, and Harry Styles was in my bed? I wouldn't leave that room. I would lock the door and throw away the key until dehydration set in. I would let that man ruin my life, my credit score, and my ability to walk in a straight line!”
The laughter finally exploded out of Y/N. It was loud, ugly, and relieving. It broke the tension that had been strangling her since he left.
“Maybe next time,” Y/N gasped, wiping a tear from her eye.
“There better be a next time,” Sarah muttered, sitting back down. “Or I’m evicting you.”
“There is,” Y/N said, her voice suddenly sober. “Tonight.”
Sarah stopped moving. “Tonight? But he’s in a meeting. or something like that”
“He’s sending a car.” Y/N looked at the microwave clock. The red numbers mocked her. She didn't know exactly when the car would arrive, but she could feel the clock ticking. “He wants me at his house in Hampstead. He says he wants me there.”
Sarah stared at her. The joke was gone. She looked around their messy, cramped living room, and then back at Y/N. She realized this wasn't a funny story anymore. This was a departure.
“Okay,” Sarah breathed out. “Okay. This is real. Go. Pack. Now. You need the red dress. You need the expensive lingerie you’ve been saving for a rainy day. It is raining, bitch. Go.”
“He told me to pack the essentials,” Y/N said softly.
Sarah froze. She turned around slowly, her silk pajamas swishing. “He say that?”
“Yes” Y/N said, feeling the weight of the words. “He said whatever I don't have, he’ll buy it.”
The kitchen went silent.
Sarah just stared. Her mouth opened, then closed. She looked like she had been slapped.
“He said...” Sarah whispered, clutching her chest. “He said he would provide for you?”
Y/N nodded.
“That is...” Sarah exhaled, leaning against the counter for support. “That is the most toxic, controlling, absolutely incredibly hot thing I have ever heard. It’s a power move, babe. He is Pretty Woman-ing you. But cooler.”
Y/N’s phone lit up on the counter.
Unknown Number: Ms. Y/N. I am twenty minutes away. - Paul.
Y/N stared at the text. It felt like a countdown.
Sarah looked at the phone, then at Y/N. Her eyes were wide, filled with a mixture of pride and exciting.
“Go change,” Sarah whispered. “Do exactly what he said.”
-
The door of the Mercedes closed with a heavy thud, instantly cutting off the noise of the city. Inside, it was a vacuum of silence and the scent of expensive leather.
Y/N sat in the back, her small purse resting on her lap. Paul didn't turn on the radio. He just drove, navigating the streets of London with the smooth, aggressive confidence of someone who protected high-value targets for a living.
As the car climbed the hill towards Hampstead, Y/N watched the city transform through the tinted glass. The chaotic energy of Camden faded, replaced by the hushed, tree-lined streets of London’s most exclusive zip code.
She knew this area, of course. Everyone did. It was the fortress of the famous, a place of high walls and heavy gates designed to keep the world out. She used to walk past these streets, catching glimpses of white stucco and manicured gardens, wondering what kind of silence money could buy.
Now, she wasn't just walking past. She was being ushered inside.
The car slowed down, turning sharply into a driveway hidden by tall, dense hedges. A heavy iron gate swung open silently, admitting them into a courtyard.
The house loomed ahead—white brick, dark windows, beautiful and imposing. It didn't look like a house; it looked like a mansion.
Paul put the car in park and turned around, his expression professional but kind. He stepped out and walked around to open her door, offering her a reassuring smile.
“We’re here, Ms. Y/N.”
“Thanks,” she murmured softly, stepping out and taking in the full scale of the mansion’s façade. It was massive—bigger than her university building.
“The code for the front door is 199401. Or just use the fob on the keychain.” Paul instructed, gesturing toward the stone path that led to the main entrance.
It was quieter here. The wind rustled through the trees, a stark contrast to the sirens and the aggressive morning traffic she was used to.
“You’re not coming in?” she asked, looking back at him.
“I have a few things to take care of for Harry while he’s wrapped up in meetings,” Paul explained, checking his watch. “But the perimeter is active. You’re safe here. If you need anything—food, water, anything at all—just call my number and I’ll make it happen.”
He gave her a reassuring nod, got back in the car, and the Mercedes backed out, the gates closing.
She was alone. Before turning toward the massive door, she glanced around. Paul was right; the perimeter looked highly secure, hidden behind high walls and dense foliage.
Y/N walked up the stone steps and punched in the code. 199401. Of course. His birthday.
The lock clicked, and she pushed the heavy black door open.
She stepped inside, and the atmosphere wrapped around her instantly. It wasn't the sterile smell of a hotel. It was him. Sandalwood, cedar, coffee, and something floral. It smelled warm. Lived-in. Yet, there was barely a splash of color; everything was wrapped in white tones, giving it a stark, minimalist aesthetic.
She kicked off her sneakers by the door, lining them up neatly against the wall. She stood in the foyer, her socks sliding on the hardwood floors. It was a beautiful space—mid-century modern furniture, stacks of art books on the floor, a vintage rug that looked worn in the best way.
But the silence was vast. She felt a sudden spike of adrenaline standing there, clutching her purse. She didn't know if she was truly alone or if staff were lurking nearby, leaving her frozen in place.
Buzz.
The vibration of her phone in her hand made her jump. The screen lit up in the dim hallway.
Harry: Paul told me you're inside.
Three dots danced on the screen. Y/N let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.
Harry: Stop standing in the hallway, love. I can feel you overthinking from here.
A small, breathless laugh escaped her lips. How did he know?
Harry: Make yourself at home. Seriously. Eat whatever you want. Do whatever you want. It’s your house too, for now.
Harry: My bedroom is upstairs, second door on the left. Go get in my bed.
Harry: Wait for me.
Y/N looked up the staircase. The wood gleamed in the soft light. Do whatever you want. The permission settled in her chest, warming her. She took a deep breath and began to climb the stairs, her hand trailing along the smooth wooden banister. The most beautiful chandelier she had ever seen hung in the center of the foyer, and she realized just how incredibly massive it was as she ascended.
"Second door on the left," she whispered to herself.
She reached the landing. The hallway was lined with framed photos—black and white shots of landscapes, friends, candid moments. She walked past the first door.
She reached for the handle of the second door, but paused. The door next to it was slightly ajar, spilling a slice of golden afternoon light into the hallway.
Curiosity tugged at her. He said do whatever you want, right?
She pushed the ajar door open just a few inches.
It wasn't a bedroom.
It was a studio.
The room was bathed in natural light from a large skylight. The walls were soundproofed with dark acoustic foam, giving the room a cozy, hushed feeling that felt almost sacred.
Guitars lined the walls like trophies—Fenders, Gibsons, acoustics with worn wood where his hands had played them a thousand times. A baby grand piano sat in the corner, covered in sheets of music and a half-empty mug of coffee.
Y/N stepped inside, feeling like she was trespassing on holy ground. This wasn't just where he lived; this was where he created.
She walked over to the piano, her fingers hovering over the keys but not daring to touch them. Beside it was a notebook, open to a page covered in his messy, scrawled handwriting. Words crossed out, arrows drawn, circles around phrases.
Gravity. Daylight. Kitchen floor.
She looked up. In the corner was a small vocal booth, the glass reflecting the room. Inside, a microphone stood waiting on a stand, isolated and ready.
She imagined him in here. Late at night. Messy hair. Glasses on. Pouring his heart out into that microphone while the world slept.
She wasn't just in his house. She was inside his head.
A sudden wave of exhaustion hit her, the adrenaline of the morning finally wearing off, but it was a good kind of tired. She wasn't an intruder anymore. She backed out of the room quietly, leaving the door exactly as she found it, and turned toward the second door on the left.
The bedroom.
She opened it, and the scent of him was even stronger here. The bed was massive, unmade, a tangle of white sheets that looked like a cloud. His room was larger than her entire apartment. The bed sat commanding the center of the space.
She walked over and dropped her purse on the plush armchairs arranged in a small sitting area within the suite. Adjacent to this was his walk-in closet—a space that was ridiculously large, practically a room of its own.
With a timid reach, she flicked on the light. Rows of clothes greeted her. She recognized many of the outfits from photoshoots, the 'Candy' shoot, and tour appearances. Her hand couldn't help but trail over the fabrics, inspecting the textures.
Reaching the outerwear section, she spotted a hoodie that caught her eye. It looked like a piece of his own merch, emblazoned on the back with "Styles" in large, pink glittery letters. Without thinking, she pulled it off the hanger. She slipped it on, pulling the oversized fabric around her frame, burying her nose in the collar, hoping it still held his scent.
Walking back into the main bedroom, the bed looked like an island.
It was massive, dressed in white linen that felt cool against her skin. Y/N crawled into the middle of it, pulling the duvet up to her chin, drowning in the hoodie and the sheets. The scent here was overwhelming—concentrated sandalwood and the faint, musky ghost of his sleep. It didn't smell like a product; it smelled like him.
She curled into a ball, clutching a pillow to her chest. Her phone lay on the nightstand, silent. Outside the window, the grey London sky began to bruise with purple as the afternoon wore on.
She intended to just rest her eyes for a moment. To wait for the sound of a car. But the silence of the house was a heavy blanket, and the emotional whiplash of the last twenty-four hours finally collected its toll.
Her breathing evened out. The room blurred. And then, she was gone.
-
When Y/N opened her eyes, the room was bathed in the deep, bruising purple of twilight.
She reached across the mattress instinctively, her hand seeking heat, but the sheets beside her were cool.
Harry wasn't there.
A small spike of panic pricked at her chest—the irrational fear that he had vanished, that this was all a mistake—but she pushed it down. She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The house was quiet, but it wasn't the dead silence of an empty building. It hummed with a low-level energy, like a machine running in the background.
She slid out of bed, her feet sinking into the plush carpet, and padded out into the hallway.
She went downstairs, following the soft lighting of the foyer. At the bottom of the stairs, she stopped dead.
On the entry table, where she had dropped her keys earlier, sat a massive, overflowing vase of flowers.
Not roses. Not lilies.
Petunias. Dozens of them. A cascade of soft purples and whites. If she remembered correctly, they were out of season.
And next to them, stacked with geometric precision, were three large, black boxes tied with ribbon.
Y/N approached them slowly. She touched a petal, then reached for the card tucked into the flowers. There was no name, just a single scrawled line: Now you don't have to worry about tomorrow.
Her hands trembling slightly, she untied the ribbon on the first box. She lifted the lid and peeled back the tissue paper.
She gasped softly.
Inside was a structured blazer in charcoal grey. A silk blouse in cream. Tailored trousers that looked like they had been cut specifically for her waist.
It was work clothes. Beautiful, expensive, high-end corporate wear.
He hadn't just brought her here to hide her; he had thought about her life. He remembered her panicking about work, about not having her things. He had listened. While she was sleeping, he had made sure she could walk into her office tomorrow morning with her head held high.
A wave of gratitude washed over her, so strong it made her knees weak. It wasn't about the money; it was about the care. The attention to detail.
She needed to thank him. She needed to do something for him.
She walked toward the back of the house, toward the kitchen. She would make him tea. Or coffee. Or just find him and tell him that he was incredible.
She turned the corner into the kitchen and froze.
He was there.
Harry was standing by the marble island, his back to her. He was leaning forward, gripping the edge of the counter with both hands, his head hung low between his shoulders. His suit jacket was gone. His tie was undone, hanging loose. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the tattoos on his forearms, but his muscles were coiled tight.
He looked rigid. Stressed. Like a man who had just spent hours screaming in a boardroom and was trying to keep the noise from echoing in his own head.
Y/N watched him for a second, her heart aching. He looked so lonely standing there in his massive kitchen.
“Hi,” she whispered, her voice soft in the cavernous room.
Harry’s head snapped up. He turned around slowly, his eyes finding hers. He looked exhausted, his face drawn, but the moment he saw her standing there in his sweater, his expression softened. The tension didn't leave his body, but his eyes warmed.
“Hi,” he rasped.
Y/N walked closer, entering his space. She didn't touch him yet; she just stood near him, offering her presence like a balm.
“Are you okay?” she asked quietly.
Harry let out a long breath, running a hand through his messy curls. He looked at her, really looked at her, and a small, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“I am now,” he said.
He pushed off the counter and took a step toward her. He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray hair from her forehead with a tenderness that made her chest ache.
"Hungry?" he asked, his voice low. He glanced toward the fridge, his hands twitching, needing something to do. "I can have someone make us something."
The truth was, the last thing on Y/N's mind was food. She had picked at a snack in her apartment hours ago, but the knot in her stomach from the media chaos had killed her appetite. The only hunger she felt was for him. For his calm. For his skin.
“I’m not hungry, Harry,” she said softy.
He nodded, but she could see he wasn't really listening. His eyes were darting slightly, his jaw tight. His mind was still racing—calculating risks, thinking about security, worrying about headlines. She could practically hear the noise in his head.
She needed to make it stop.
“Harry,” she said, stepping closer until her chest brushed his shirt. “Look at me.”
He blinked, focusing back on her.
“When was the last time you ate?” she asked, her voice laced with concern.
Harry frowned, trying to remember. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking guilty.
“This morning, I think? Maybe a coffee around noon?” He shrugged, letting out a heavy sigh. “I don't know. It’s been... a long day.”
She reached up, placing both hands on his cheeks, forcing him to hold her gaze. His skin was warm, and he leaned into her touch instantly, his eyes fluttering shut as if her hands were the only thing holding him upright.
“Stop thinking,” she whispered against the quiet of the kitchen. “Just for a minute.”
Harry opened his eyes. The frantic energy was fading, replaced by a slow, burning heat.
“I didn't want it to be like this,” he admitted, his voice low and frustrated. “I didn't want you to know my house this way. Rushed.”
“It doesn't matter, Harry,” she said, shaking her head. “The flowers... the clothes... thank you. You didn't have to.”
“I wanted to,” he interrupted, his gaze intense. “And I wanted to bring you here properly. I’ve been wanting to get you here since the interview.”
Y/N blinked, surprised. “The interview? That was months ago.”
Harry nodded slowly. He took another step closer, eliminating the space between them. The air suddenly felt thick, charged with the shift from emotional gratitude to something heavier, darker.
“I know,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a growl. “Ever since you asked me those questions, I’ve wanted to have you here. Just for me. In my bed.”
Harry didn't give her time to answer. He didn't give her time to question if it was the exhaustion talking or the naked truth.
His hands, large and warm, slid under the hem of the oversized sweater she was wearing, seeking the bare skin of her waist. The direct contact, skin on skin, made her shiver—an electric jolt that had nothing to do with the cold London rain and everything to do with the man looking at her as if she were the only edible thing in that kitchen.
"Harry..." she tried to say, her voice barely a thread, her hands instinctively moving to his shoulders to steady herself.
"No," he interrupted, shaking his head slightly, his darkened eyes fixed on her mouth. "No more talking. No more thinking."
Y/N felt her heart hammering against her ribs.
He leaned in, his nose brushing hers, breathing the same air.
"You have no idea," he whispered roughly against her lips, "how hard it was to sit across from you in that room, talking about my movie, when all I wanted was to fuck you."
He looked down at her, his eyes darkening, scanning her face with a hunger that had nothing to do with food. The exhaustion in his frame was being replaced by adrenaline.
Harry took a step toward her. He took her by the arm and, with easy, fluid strength, spun her around, pressing her back slowly against the marble.
He caged her in, his body blocking, his eyes never leaving hers. His hands came up to cup her face, thumbs stroking her cheekbones, ensuring she was looking only at him. Y/N felt her knees threaten to buckle under the intensity of his focus.
“Can I?” he asked, his lips centimeters from hers, asking for permission, respecting her space despite the scorching heat radiating between them.
The words wouldn't come out of Y/N’s mouth, so she just nodded.
That was all he needed.
He closed the gap, and his mouth captured hers.
It wasn't tentative. It was a collision. Harry kissed her with a possessive intensity that stole the breath from her lungs. His lips were warm and firm, moving against hers with a hunger that spoke of hours of restraint. One of his hands tangled into the hair at the nape of her neck, tilting her head back to deepen the angle, while his body pressed flush against hers, hard and solid. It tasted of mint, and pure, unadulterated want. For a moment, the world narrowed down to just the friction of their lips, the heat of his skin, and the sound of their breathing in the quiet house.
He pulled back slightly, just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against hers. Y/N felt like she was floating in a dream state. She had just been kissed by Harry fucking Styles, something she had dreamed about for weeks. She looked at him with pure admiration, trying to get her breathing back to normal.
He looked like he had just run a marathon—pupils blown wide, lips swollen and red, hair messy. He looked wrecked, and she loved it. He gave her a quick, tender peck on the lips, a silent promise, and he bite his lips.
He reached out, gripping her waist with both hands, his thumbs digging into her hip bones.
“Upstairs,” he commanded. “Now.”
It wasn't an invitation to tour the house. It was an order. He turned and walked toward the dark staircase, expecting her to follow.
And God help her, she did. She followed him up the floating staircase.
He didn't look back to see if she was coming. He knew she was. The heavy thud of his boots on the stairs echoed in the space, covering the lighter sound of her feet cover in socks.
Harry walked, heading straight for the double doors. He pushed them open and walked inside.
Y/N hesitated on the threshold.
Harry was standing by the window, his silhouette cut out against the city lights. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing the curls back from his face.
He turned around slowly.
"Close the door," he said.
Y/N reached behind her, pushing the heavy wood until it clicked shut. The sound sealed the room, cutting off the rest of the house. The silence in here was pressurized, thick with anticipation.
"Come here," he commanded.
He didn't move to meet her. He stayed by the window, forcing her to cross the expanse of the room. It was a power play. He wanted her to walk to him.
Y/N walked across the plush carpet. Her heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs, but she kept her chin up. She stopped three feet away from him.
Harry looked her up and down, his eyes dark and heavy. He reached out, taking her hand. His grip was warm and dry.
"Look," he whispered, holding his hand up in the dim light, entwined with hers.
He held it perfectly still against the backdrop of the city.
"Steady," he noted, his voice low. "See? No tremors."
He looked from his hand to her eyes, a smirk playing on his lips that didn't reach his eyes. It was a challenge.
"I'm not the guy from last night, Y/N. Stop looking at me like I'm going to break."
He released her hand and stepped in, eliminating the distance. He grabbed her arm and pull her closer.
He didn't stop. His hands went to the hem of her hoodie.
"Arms up," he murmured.
Y/N obeyed, the air hitting her skin as he stripped the hoodie off her, leaving her in just her t-shirt and jeans. He tossed the hoodie aside, not caring where it landed.
He stepped back, looking at her. He looked like a man starving who had finally been allowed to eat.
"Better," he groaned.
He moved fast then. He sat on the edge of the massive bed, his legs spread wide, and grabbed her by the belt loops of her jeans, jerking her forward until she was standing between his knees.
It was a reversal of the club scene. There, he had protected her. Here, he had her trapped.
He looked up at her, his hands resting heavily on her hips, his thumbs digging into her skin. The heat coming off him was intense.
"You said my house was too quiet," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, gravelly rumble.
His hands slid around to her ass, squeezing possessively, pulling her flush against his chest.
"I agree," he whispered, his face pressed against her stomach. "So I'm going to make you scream so loud, baby doll."
He looked up, his eyes black with intent.
"Take your jeans off."
Y/N’s breath hitched. "Harry..."
"Take them off," he repeated, leaning back on his hands, watching her. "I want to watch you do it. I want to see you stripped down in my room, with no place to run."
He licked his lips, waiting.
"Unless you want to go back to the couch?" he taunted softly. "I can get us a blanket. We can drink tea."
The insult hung in the air. He was daring her to treat him like a patient again.
Y/N held his gaze. She reached for the button of her jeans.
Harry’s eyes dropped to her hands, laser-focused. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
"Good girl," he breathed.
Y/N's fingers trembled slightly as she popped the button on her jeans, the sound sharp in the heavy silence of the room. She tugged the zipper down slowly, the metal teeth parting with a soft rasp that seemed to echo Harry's intense stare. His eyes never left her hands, tracking every movement like a predator sizing up its prey.
She hooked her thumbs into the waistband and pushed the denim down her hips, shimmying them over the curve of her ass. The fabric slid down her thighs, exposing the simple black panties clinging to her skin. She stepped out of the jeans one leg at a time, kicking them aside without breaking eye contact. The cool air of the bedroom kissed her bare legs, raising goosebumps, but it was nothing compared to the fire building low in her belly from his gaze.
Harry's breath came out in a low, approving growl. "Good girl," he murmured again, the words wrapping around her like a command she couldn't resist. He leaned forward slightly, his hands itching to touch but holding back, letting the anticipation build. "Now the shirt."
Y/N raised her arms without hesitation, her t-shirt stretching taut across her chest before she gripped the hem and pulled it up. The fabric whispered over her skin, revealing the lace bra that cupped her breasts, her nipples already hardening against the thin material from the exposure and his unwavering attention. She dropped the shirt to the floor, standing there in just her underwear, vulnerable and exposed under his scrutiny.
“You look so fucking beautiful”
He looked at her with eyes full of desire and admiration. Y/N felt exposed. She couldn't remember the last time she’d had real sex—her ex being a lousy lover hadn't helped at all. So, standing in front of him only in her underwear, with him fully dressed, the power dynamic forming between them was stark. She couldn't wait for him to touch her, and her fingers itched to run through his hair, but he hadn't said anything about that, so she just stood still, watching him.
He stood then, rising to his full height, towering over her. His hands found her waist immediately, fingers splaying wide to claim every inch they could reach. "Look at you," he rasped, his voice thick with hunger. "All mine in my bedroom. No more hiding behind hoodies or treating me like I'm fragile."
His palms slid up her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through the bra. Y/N's breath caught, her body arching instinctively toward him. He unclasped the bra with a flick of his fingers, letting the straps fall down her shoulders, his eyes locking onto hers as he peeled the lace away, tossing it aside.
Her breasts spilled free, heavy and aching for his touch. Harry's hands cupped them immediately, squeezing firmly, his thumbs circling her nipples until they pebbled under his assault. A soft whimper escaped her lips, and he smirked, leaning in to capture one peak in his mouth. He sucked hard, his tongue flicking against the sensitive bud, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks of pleasure-pain shooting through her.
"Oh, baby," he murmured, the vibration of his voice humming against her ribcage as he pressed a kiss to her sternum. "You have no idea how long I've waited to have you here, like this, at my disposal."
Y/N didn't have the strength to answer. She knew if she tried, her voice would come out shaky, a broken whisper that would only prove how thoroughly he had undone her. She stand there, paralyzed in the best way possible, unable to focus on anything other than the heat of his ragged breathing fanning across her skin and the deliberate, maddening attention his lips were paying to her chest.
He moved lower, his mouth grazing the swell of her breast, teasing her with soft, open-mouthed kisses that contrasted sharply with the roughness of before. It was a slow, torturous worship, a reminder that while he had broken her open, he was also the only one who could put her back together. And right now, he was taking his time, savoring every inch of the territory he had just conquered.
"You want this," he said against her skin, his words vibrating through her as he switched to the other breast, lavishing it with the same rough attention. "Say it. Tell me you want me to fuck you until you can't think straight."
Y/N's hands fisted in his hair, pulling him closer even as her voice shook. "I want it, Harry. Please..."
He released her nipple with a wet pop, straightening up to claim her mouth in a bruising kiss. His tongue plunged deep, dominating the rhythm, tasting her surrender. One hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back to deepen the angle, while the other dipped lower, fingers hooking into her panties and yanking them down in one swift motion. In the middle of the kiss, he guided her a step forward, helping her kick the fabric away to finally get rid of her panties.
She was bare now, completely naked in his domain, her pussy already slick with arousal. Harry broke the kiss, his forehead resting against hers as he slid a hand between her thighs. His fingers parted her folds, stroking through the wetness that coated her. "So fucking wet for me already," he groaned, circling her clit with deliberate pressure. "This pussy is dripping, begging for my cock."
Y/N's knees buckled, but he held her up, his arm banding around her waist like iron. He pushed two fingers inside her without warning, curling them to hit that spot that made her gasp. She clenched around him, her hips rocking forward on instinct, chasing the friction.
"That's it," he praised, pumping his fingers in and out, his thumb grinding against her clit. "Ride my hand, baby. Show me how much you need it."
The wet sounds of her arousal filled the room, obscene and intoxicating. Y/N's moans grew louder, her body trembling as the pressure built. Harry's free hand pinched her nipple, twisting just hard enough to make her cry out. "Don't come yet," he warned, his voice a dark command. "Not until I'm buried balls-deep inside you."
He withdrew his fingers abruptly, leaving her empty and aching. Y/N whined in protest, but he silenced her with a look.
Gemini said
Here is the text polished and integrated into the scene. I translated the Spanish instruction and smoothed out the transition to him undressing.
"Go to the bed," he ordered, his voice leaving no room for argument.
She obeyed without a second thought, backing up until her legs hit the mattress and climbing onto the dark linens. Her pulse quickened as he stood before her in all his glory, the city lights framing his silhouette.
She watched, mesmerized, as he undressed fully. He made a show of it, shrugging off his shirt, his muscles flexing under the dim light as he tossed it aside. He hooked his thumbs into his boxers and shoved them down, kicking them away. His cock hung heavy between his legs, already hard from their proximity, and she couldn't tear her eyes away.
The sight of him like this—confident, exposed, and utterly commanding—stirred something primal in her. Before he touched her, before he took her, she wanted to worship him. She wanted to show her devotion in the way that made her feel most submissive.
Sitting up on the bed, she reached for him, her hands sliding up his thighs.
“Let me,” she breathed, her voice laced with need.
Harry paused, a smirk tugging at his lips as he understood. He stepped closer, his hand tangling in her hair again, guiding her gently.
“Go on, love. Suck me like you mean it.”
Y/N leaned forward, her mouth watering at the proximity. She wrapped her fingers around his base, stroking slowly as she licked a stripe up the underside, from balls to tip. He groaned, his free hand bracing her hair as she took him in, her lips stretching around his thickening length.
She worked him with deliberate care, her tongue swirling around the head, tasting the bead of precum that formed. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked, bobbing her head in a steady rhythm, taking him deeper with each pass. Harry's hips rocked forward instinctively, but he let her lead for now, his admiration shining through in the way he watched her—eyes hooded, breath ragged.
“Fuck, your mouth feels like heaven,” he rasped, fingers tightening in her hair.
Y/N hummed around him, the vibration making his thighs quiver, and she glanced up, locking eyes with him. The connection was electric; she saw the adoration there, mixed with raw lust, and it spurred her on.
She hollowed her cheeks further, her hand pumping what her mouth couldn't reach, saliva slicking her movements. Gagging softly as she pushed deeper, she relaxed her throat, letting him slide further until her nose brushed his pelvis. Harry cursed under his breath, his control fraying as she swallowed around him, her throat contracting in waves.
“That's my girl,” he praised, voice strained. “Taking me so well. You love this cock, don't you?” She nodded, moaning muffled against him, her free hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently to heighten his pleasure.
The room filled with the wet sounds of her mouth on him, her slurps and his grunts creating a symphony of desire. Y/N's core throbbed, arousal dripping down her thighs as she submitted to the act, pleasuring him before he'd claim her fully. Harry pulled back slightly, not wanting to finish too soon, and she chased him, whining softly. He chuckled darkly, easing her off with a pop.
“Not yet. Now, lay down. Spread those legs for me.”
Y/N obeyed instantly, lying back and parting her thighs, exposing her glistening pussy. Harry climbed over her, his body caging hers, and he kissed her deeply, tasting himself on her tongue. He was taking his time, kissing her jaw, her lips.
“I adore you,” he whispered against her lips, his cock nudging her entrance. “And I'm going to fuck you like you deserve. Feel that?" he growled, The tip of his cock hard on her entrance. "That's what you're doing to me. Spread your legs wider."
Y/N complied, parting her thighs. Harry teased her entrance with the head of his cock, sliding it through her folds, coating himself in her juices. He pinch her righ nipple hard, the sting blooming into heat that made her clench.
"Beg for it," he demanded.
"Please, Harry," she gasped, pushing up against him. "Fuck me. I need your cock inside me."
He didn't make her wait any longer. With a grunt, he thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful stroke. Y/N cried out, the stretch burning deliciously as he filled her completely. He was huge, stretching her walls, hitting deep enough to make her toes curl. Now she understood what Luka and Noa always said: 'Once you try it one like this, there’s no going back”.
Harry stilled for a moment, letting her adjust. "So tight," he muttered, pulling back almost all the way before slamming in again. "This pussy was made for me. Gonna fuck it raw."
He set a brutal pace, hips snapping against her with relentless force. Each thrust drove him deeper. Y/N's moans turned to screams, just as he'd promised, the bed creaking under the assault. His hand cracked against her waist, leaving a red handprint that he soothed with a possessive rub.
"Louder," he commanded, reaching down to rub her clit in tight circles. "Let me hear you scream my name. Tell the whole fucking house how good my cock feels."
"Harry! Oh god, yes!" she wailed, her body shaking as the orgasm built like a storm. He angled his hips, pounding into that sweet spot inside her, his free hand wrapping around her throat, not squeezing, just holding her in place.
"Come for me," he ordered, his voice rough with his own building release. "Milk my cock with that greedy pussy."
The command shattered her. Y/N came hard, her walls convulsing around him, gushing wetness that soaked his thighs. Black spots danced across her vision—a level of intensity she had never experienced before, driven entirely by him and the dark, filthy way he spoke to her.
Harry fucked her through it, prolonging the waves until she was a trembling mess. Only then did he release her throat, his hips snapping faster as he began to chase his own release.
His breathing turned ragged, coming in short, sharp gasps. She watched him through her lashes, captivated by the sight of him on the edge of unraveling.
He drove deep one last time as he spilled inside her, hot spurts of cum filling her up.
He collapsed over her, both of them panting, his cock still twitching within her.
"Fuck, baby," he whispered into her hair, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.
She lay beneath him in a trance, struggling to steady her breathing, completely undone by the intensity.
"But we're not done. Not by a long shot."
Harry pulled out slowly, his cum leaking from her pussy, dripping down her thighs. His eyes devoured the sight of her, flushed and sated but already stirring under his gaze. "Look at the mess you made," he said, dipping his fingers into the slick mix of their releases and bringing them to her lips. "Taste us."
Y/N sucked his fingers clean, the salty tang of him mixed with her own flavor making her shiver. He watched, mesmerized, before lowering his head. His tongue licked a broad stripe up her inner thigh, cleaning the trail of cum, before delving into her folds. He lapped at her pussy like a man possessed, sucking her clit into his mouth, his fingers plunging back inside to fuck her through the sensitivity.
She arched off the bed, oversensitive but craving more. "Harry... too much..."
"Never too much," he growled against her, the vibrations sending aftershocks through her. "You can take it. C’mon, baby doll. Let me eat this pretty pussy until you're begging to come on my face."
His tongue worked her relentlessly, circling her clit, thrusting inside her alongside his fingers. Y/N's hands fisted the sheets, her hips bucking against his mouth. He pinned her down with one hand on her stomach, controlling her movements, forcing her to take every lick, every suck.
The second orgasm built faster, sharper, crashing over her with a scream that echoed off the walls. Harry drank her down, not stopping until she was limp and quivering. He crawled up her body, kissing her deeply, letting her taste herself on his lips.
"You want this," he murmured, his cock hardening again against her thigh. "All night. Every way I want. Say it."
"Yes," she breathed, wrapping her legs around him. "I want it all."
The hours didn't blur into a haze of simple pleasure; it was a marathon of release. He took her on her hands and knees, pulling her hair like reins as he pounded into her from behind.
Harry wasn't making love to her. He wasn't even just fucking her. He was using her body to exorcise the demons of his day. Every thrust felt like he was physically pushing the stress, the anger of the meeting, and the fear of the security breach out of his system and into hers.
He was rough. Borderline brutal. But Y/N didn't pull away.
She realized what he was doing. He had spent twelve hours being perfectly controlled, managing a crisis, wearing a suit, and smiling for cameras. Now, he needed to break something. He needed to lose control.
So she let him break her, just a little.
She met his force with surrender. She opened wider, arched higher, and took every inch of him without complaint. She wanted to be this for him—his outlet, his sanctuary, the one place where he didn't have to be gentle or careful. She wanted to be good for him. She wanted to absorb the shock of his life so he didn't have to carry it alone.
Each time, he commanded her—"Good girl, just like that," "Open up," "Take it deeper," "You want this cock, don't you?"—and she obeyed, lost in the intensity of his possession.
"Use me," she whispered into the dark when he was buried deep inside her from behind, his breathing ragged against her neck. "Harry, just... give it to me. All of it."
That permission shattered his last restraint. He groaned, a guttural, broken sound, and pounded into her until they were both slick with sweat and shaking with exhaustion.
By the time dawn filtered through the curtains, the room was silent, heavy with the scent of sex and musk.
Y/N lay boneless on the tangled sheets, her body throbbing, covered in bite marks and the red ghosts of his handprints. She felt used, in the most primitive, worshipful sense of the word. She felt like an offering that had been accepted.
Harry held her close, his body spooned tightly against hers, his breathing finally slow and deep. The tension that had vibrated off him in the kitchen was gone, replaced by a heavy, sated weight. He draped one hand possessively over her mound, his fingers brushing against the dampness between her thighs.
"Mine," he whispered, his voice rough with sleep, nipping the shell of her ear. "All fucking mine."
And in the quiet of his bedroom, with the echoes of her screams still lingering in the corners, Y/N knew it was true. She had taken his pain, and in return, he had given her himself.
The sun didn't ask for permission this time. It poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the room in ruthless shades of gold and white.
Y/N stirred, flinching as the light hit her eyelids. Her body felt heavy, anchored to the mattress by a deep, bone-deep exhaustion. She tried to stretch, but a groan caught in her throat. Every muscle ached. Her inner thighs stung, her wrists were sore, and her skin felt sensitive against the high-thread-count sheets.
She tried to move, but a heavy weight across her stomach pinned her down.
She blinked open her eyes and looked down. Harry’s arm was draped over her waist, his hand splayed wide, fingers twitching slightly in his sleep. He was spooned behind her, his chest a solid wall of heat against her back. His face was buried in the curve of her neck, his breath slow and rhythmic, tickling her skin.
He wasn't the soldier from yesterday. He wasn't the stressed executive in the kitchen. In the light of day, with his hair a messy halo on the pillow and his lips parted slightly, he looked soft. Boyish, almost.
Y/N lay still for a moment, letting the reality of the night wash over her. The flashes of memory were visceral—the way he had looked at her, the things he had said, the absolute surrender she had given him. She felt different. Altered.
She shifted slightly, trying to alleviate the pressure on her hip to check the time.
Harry’s arm tightened instantly. A reflex.
“Don't,” he mumbled into her skin, his voice thick with sleep and gravel. “Stay.”
“Harry, it’s morning,” she whispered, her own voice raspy.
“Don't care,” he grumbled, pulling her closer until there wasn't a millimeter of space between them. He pressed a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to her shoulder blade. “Stay”
Y/N laughed softly, the sound vibrating in her chest. “I can't, Harry. I have work. And so do you.”
That woke him up.
Harry groaned—a long, dramatic sound of protest—and rolled onto his back, dragging the duvet with him. He rubbed his face with both hands, scrubbing away the sleep, and then turned his head to look at her.
His green eyes were heavy-lidded, lazy, and filled with a warmth that made her toes curl. He scanned her face, then let his gaze drop lower. He frowned slightly as he looked at her neck and shoulders exposed by the sheets.
Y/N followed his gaze. Even without a mirror, she knew what he was seeing. Purple bruises bloomed on her skin like violets—love bites on her neck, the ghost of his fingers on her waist.
Harry reached out, tracing a mark on her collarbone with his thumb. He didn't look sorry. He looked... proud.
“I marked you,” he noted, his voice low.
“You did,” she admitted, feeling a flush rise in her cheeks.
“Good,” he murmured, his eyes darkening. “Now everyone will know.”
He sat up, the sheet falling to his waist, exposing the tattoos on his chest. He checked the clock on the bedside table and sighed. He grabbed his phone, typing out a quick text.
“Go start the shower,” he said, swinging his legs out of bed. “I’m texting the kitchen to have breakfast ready for us to go.”
He looked back at her, a wicked glint in his tired eyes.
"Go on, baby doll. I’ll be right behind you."
Y/N stepped into the bathroom, entering a world that felt miles away from her own. It was surrounded by expensive porcelain, accented with delicate, elegant gold fixtures. As she passed the large vanity mirror, she caught a glimpse of her reflection and paused.
There were marks on her body—faint red fingerprints on her hips where she hadn't even realized he had gripped her so tightly. She wasn't worried about the marks on her body, but the ones on her neck were proudly exposed. Thank God I brought my makeup bag, she thought.
With no sign of Harry yet, she decided to go ahead and turn on the shower. The water heated instantly—a luxury compared to her apartment, where the boiler took a solid five minutes just to wake up.
The bathroom quickly filled with steam.
Y/N stood under the spray, letting the hot water soothe her aching muscles, relaxing her body from the intensity of the night before. She couldn't help but smile at the memory. She was just reaching for the soap when the glass door opened.
Harry stepped in.
She turned to look at him. He was magnificent—naked and unapologetic, filling the small space with his sheer presence. He didn't say anything; he just reached out and took the bar of soap from her hands.
He turned her around gently. His hands, usually so large and rough, were incredibly tender now. He lathered the soap over her shoulders, sliding down her spine, careful not to press too hard on the bruises he had left behind.
It wasn't sexual—not this time. It was an act of service. It was him taking care of the body he had worshipped hours ago.
He washed her hair, massaging her scalp with slow, rhythmic movements that made her hum with pleasure. He rinsed the suds away, the water cascading down her back, and pressed a soft kiss to her wet shoulder.
"You okay?" he asked near her ear, his voice soft over the sound of the falling water.
"I’m sore," she admitted, leaning back against him.
"I know," he whispered, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind, resting his chin on top of her wet head. "I’ll be gentler next time. Maybe."
She couldn't help but laugh. Seeing him like this—vulnerable, domestic, just a man washing a woman’s hair—made her stomach flip. It was a side of him that almost no one had ever seen, and in this steam-filled room, it belonged entirely to her.
---
Tag list: @ashwasneverhere, @angeldavis777, @sparklejumpropequeen1113
I got so excited when I saw that you posted 😭 you do such a good job setting the scene and bringing the scenario to life. I can't wait for the next part of the space between takes I'm running out of things to read lol
Ohhhh, myyy. You're so sweet, loveee! Out of words, honestly. Thank u so much, babe, u r the best! Thanks for being here since the beggining
UPDATE COMING!!
Summary: While Y/N acts bored and "bratty" at an elite industry party, Harry is completely mesmerized, choosing to cater to her whims rather than his professional obligations.
A/N: Hello, my loves! Soooo, this is officially my first One Shot. I’m actually a little nervous because I really hope you guys enjoy the dynamic between Harry and Y/N as much as I do! 🥹 I’ve been obsessed with this "bratty Y/N vs. totally whipped Harry" trope for a while now.
I’m definitely going to follow your advice, so please leave your comments! I have so many ideas swirling in my head and I can’t wait to keep sharing them with you. Enjoy! 💖🥂✨
The party was a suffocating display of industry ego, held in a glass-walled suite overlooking the glittering, rain-slicked sprawl of Manhattan. Harry was anchored to a long mahogany table near the center of the room, surrounded by his inner circle. Mitch, Jeff, and a few producers were deep in "shop talk," debating the merits of vintage synths and stadium setlists. Harry looked every bit the icon—his sheer black blouse open, his rings catching the light as he gestured—but his focus was fractured.
His eyes kept drifting, instinctively searching for a single point of light in the crowded room.
Across the space, Y/N was stranded in a sea of "WAGs" who took themselves far too seriously. Harry watched her from the corner of his eye while pretending to listen to a story about a tour in Rio, but he wasn't fooled by her silence. He noticed the exact moment her patience snapped; it wasn't a sudden outburst, but a slow, calculated descent into her "bratty" persona.
She drained her fourth glass of champagne with a practiced, impatient tilt of her head, her bright red candy lips leaving a defiant mark on the crystal. She wasn't even pretending to listen to the woman next to her anymore; instead, she began meticulously inspecting her nails as if they were the most fascinating thing in the building. Her silhouette radiated a boredom so profound it felt like a physical weight, pressing against the room’s artificial glamour.
Harry leaned back, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. He knew that look. He knew that every time she checked her phone with a theatrical sigh, or shifted her weight with a sharp click of her heels, she was talking to him. It was a silent, magnetic pull—a string of demands vibrating through the air: I’m done. Get me out of here. Pay attention to me.
"H, man, focus," Mitch said, rapping his knuckles on the table to snap Harry out of his trance.
"I'm listening," Harry lied, catching a glimpse of his girl out of the corner of his eye as she reached for a glass of wine this time.
"Yeah, and I was born yesterday. What’s up with you, man? You’re totally distracted."
Harry didn't answer, so Mitch followed Harry’s gaze just in time to see Y/N finishing off her glass of wine in two large gulps.
"So, that’s the reason," Mitch whispered, suddenly understanding everything. He knew she had an instant, magnetic pull on Harry that was impossible to break.
Both men watched as Y/N stood up abruptly, walking away from the group without so much as a glance at the manager’s wife. He watched her head straight for the bar.
"Look at her. She didn't even say excuse me," Mitch snorted. "She’s acting out because she knows you’re the only one who can’t look away."
Harry didn't answer. He just watched her reach the bar, his heart doing that familiar, erratic skip. The bartender, sensing her aura of redirected energy, quickly handed her a shot of tequila along with salt and a wedge of lime. She poured the clear liquid back with a defiance that was purely for Harry's benefit, throwing it back before locking her angel eyes onto his for a split second across the crowded room—a flare gun fired directly at his chest.
"She’s had a lot to drink," Harry murmured, his voice laced with a mixture of concern and a dark, helpless admiration.
"She has you by the throat, man," Jeff added, leaning back with a chuckle. "Totally whipped. Most guys would be embarrassed that their girl is being a brat in front of the label heads, but you're sitting there like she’s performing a private show just for you. You're obsessed."
Harry didn't argue. He didn't defend himself. He simply shrugged his shoulders, a slow, lazy gesture of total surrender. He was indeed deeply in love with her, and he knew her far too well. He knew exactly what she was doing. The tequila shot wasn't about the alcohol; it was her declaration of war on the party, and he was her only ally.
"Excuse me, lads," Harry said, setting his drink down with finality. "I think my presence is required elsewhere."
He walked straight toward the bar, weaving through the elite crowd and ignoring the hands that tried to stop him for a quick word. He reached her just as she was setting the lime wedge down on a small plate, her movements sharp and deliberate.
"You're a nightmare," Harry whispered into her ear, leaning his weight against the bar and shielding her from the rest of the room.
Y/N didn't look surprised; she didn't even flinch. She just turned to meet his gaze, her eyes glassy and flickering with a sudden, sharp spark of life. "Maybe," she said, a small, triumphant smirk playing on her lips, "but I'm your favorite nightmare."
Harry couldn't help it; he smiled back, the tension in his chest finally snapping. His hand found her hip, pulling her flush against him until she was tucked securely under his arm. "Yes, baby doll, yes, you are."
She leaned into him, her bravado softening just enough for him to hear her real thoughts. "That's how I like it," she murmured.
"Instead of making such a scene, you could have just walked up and told me you were bored and wanted to leave," Harry teased. He knew she wouldn't do it that way; she could be bratty, but she always wanted him to be the one to come find her.
"The thing is, I'm beyond bored. If I stay here one more minute, Harry, I’m going to start telling these people exactly what I think of their 'creative visions'. I'm starving, and this place only has tiny things on crackers." She gripped the fabric of his blazer, her voice dropping to a needy whisper. "I want burgers and fries. And a soda. And I want to get out of these shoes."
Harry chuckled, his thumb tracing the curve of her waist. "Burgers and soda. Done. What else, baby?"
She looked up at him, her thoughts already jumping to the next craving, fueled by the tequila and the boredom. "And I want that pink dress we saw on 5th Avenue. The one you said was 'too much' for a Tuesday."
Harry didn't even hesitate. He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, completely lost in her orbit. "I'll have it sent to the hotel by breakfast, angel. It'll be the perfect thing to wear while you recover from this 'tragic' evening."
She made a small, muffled noise of pure happiness against his chest, and Harry realized then that the alcohol was truly starting to settle in. But just as he started to lead her toward the door, a hand landed on his shoulder.
It was Rob, the head of the label—the kind of man who didn't like being ignored.
"Harry, leaving so soon? We were just about to discuss the Canada dates with the sponsors," Rob said, his eyes flicking to Y/N with a look of thinly veiled annoyance.
Harry felt Y/N stiffen beside him. The "brat" was back in an instant. She didn't hide behind Harry; instead, she stepped slightly in front of him.
"The sponsors will still be rich tomorrow, Rob," she said, her voice dripping with a sweet, dangerous boredom. She reached out and, with an agonizingly slow movement, plucked a piece of lint off the man’s expensive lapel. "But Harry is tired, and I am hungry. And frankly, this room has run out of interesting things to say."
The silence that followed was deafening. Mitch and Jeff watched from the table, eyes wide, waiting for Harry to apologize for her. But Harry didn't. He just looked at Rob, then back at her, and a small, private smile tugged at his lips. He loved this. He loved that she didn't care about the power dynamics or the millions of dollars at stake.
"She's right," Harry said, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "We’re done for the night. I'll call you Monday, Rob."
He didn't wait for a response. He slid his hand down to the small of her back, guiding her toward the elevators. As they walked away, Y/N leaned into him, her head hitting his shoulder.
"That was kind of mean, right?" she whispered, though she didn't sound sorry at all.
"It kinda was," Harry countered, kissing the top of her head as the elevator doors slid shut, finally cutting off the noise of the party. "Now, let's find you those burgers before you decide to fire my manager too."
She laughed, a bright, genuine sound that only he ever got to hear, and Harry knew then that he would choose her over a thousand Canada dates.
As they navigated the exit, Harry kept a firm, protective hand on her waist, guiding her through the maze of people. He could see the paparazzi flashes through the glass doors, the blue and white lights indicating that their departure would be the headline on every tabloid tomorrow. But as he felt her lean her weight into him, safe and finally satisfied, he realized he didn't care about the headlines at all.
The cool night air hit them as they stepped into the waiting car, the city noise muffled as the heavy door clicked shut. The transition to the quiet luxury of the black SUV was instant. As the city lights began to streak past the tinted windows, the sheer amount of alcohol she’d consumed to survive the boredom finally caught up with her. She immediately found her way to his lap, and he welcomed her gladly—when she drank, she always became a little clingy.
Harry was leaning back against the leather seat, and Y/N was draped across his lap, her head buried in his neck. The SUV slowed down as they reached a 24-hour drive-thru, the neon lights of the menu board reflecting off the rain on the window.
"What do you want, pretty girl?" Harry whispered, his hand mindlessly stroking her hair, the gold of his rings contrasting with the dark strands.
Y/N shifted, looking up at him with unusually honest, glassy eyes. She looked a bit dizzy, the world spinning slightly for her. Instead of answering about the food, she let out a shaky, jagged breath.
"What happened, baby?"
"It just..." she mumbled, her voice thick and slurred. "I'm... I'm really hard on you, aren't I?" She looked up at him, a small tear threatening to smudge her liner. "I make you leave your friends. I make you buy me things just because I’m bored. I’m such a brat to you."
She hid her face in his chest, her shoulders shaking slightly. "I love you so much it makes me mean. I'm sorry I'm so difficult to love."
Harry went still, his heart thumping against his ribs as the driver waited for their order. He wrapped both arms around her, pulling her so close there was no air between them, shielding her from the cold world outside the glass.
"Hey," he whispered, tipping her chin up so she had to face him. "Look at me, baby."
She looked up, her lower lip trembling.
"Don't you ever apologize for that," Harry said, his voice intense and gravelly. He was firm, wanting to make it crystal clear exactly how he felt. "Everyone else in my life says 'yes' to me. They treat me like I'm made of glass. But you? You keep me on my toes. You’re the only person who treats me like a man instead of a monument."
"That’s exactly what I love about you, baby. I love that you’re difficult. I love that I have to earn your smile every single day. If you were 'easy,' you wouldn't be you. And I don't want anyone else."
Y/N let out a shaky breath, clutching his shirt as the driver finally pulled up to the window to collect their burgers and soda. "You're sure? Even when I wanted that stupid pillow from the other day?"
Harry let out a soft, beautiful laugh, kissing her with a tenderness that made the rest of the world disappear. "Especially then, baby. Especially then. Now, what do you want?"
Without detaching herself from his neck, she peered at the menu and mumbled her order. Harry gave the driver a nod. "Okay, that'll be the combo. Now, do you want to eat here in the car, or wait until the hotel?"
"Wherever you want to," she murmured.
"No, baby, I'm asking you. Where do you want to?"
"It’s okay here."
She reached out, her fingers catching his hand and holding on tight, her thumb grazing his rings. He looked at her—the girl who drove him mad, who demanded the world, and who loved him with a ferocity that matched his own.
hello there 😭 this is my first time writing to an author lol. Ive been here quietly since the first chapter release, and finally found the time to read the others and omg its so good. Like actually. It's been so long since ive been pulled completely into a fanfic universe. Anyway im getting off track. Could I be added to the taglist? Im new to tumblr surprisingly (a couple months) just reading and reblogging so I dont know if it even works but I dont wanna miss an update. Hoping the surgery recovery is going well!!! Thank you for writing for us despite that 😭 and to answer the oneshots vs novel question, you should definitely write one shots in between so you dont get burned out as easily, plus to reach a wider audience who dont read longer fics. And did you see harry at the grammys? I watched all of it despite not even being that interested but it was so worth it when harry got on stage for like a minute. oh and this is by far one of my favorite fanfics on here. The only one beating it is Bambi by finelinefae (yes harry again im a sucker for him)
Hello, my love. Reading your message truly made my day—you’re honestly the reason I keep writing. I was feeling really unmotivated because of how the story was going, but I love you so much. And of course i can tag u 💖 I’d be honored.
I’ve been on Tumblr for years, but I never had the courage to post anything or write, so it’s never too late, love.
My recovery is going well—just taking it easy and avoiding too much exercise. And obviously I saw Harry and I LOVED IT. When he came out to “Where’s My Husband” by RAYE… C’MON. I was screaming. Whoever made that decision deserves a raise.
Girrrrl, Bambie is so good. I’ve read it too—I’m obsessed.
Manifesting the life I used to dream about @fabstripped - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
