You became his sugar baby to survive, but Harry’s possessiveness soon turns into something softer. The black card pays the bills, but it’s the unexpected love that threatens to ruin you both.
A/N: Hello everyone! Here is the last chapter. Thank you for all the support. It makes me very happy to know that all of you enjoyed it!
Rating: Explicit. 🔞 content. reader discretion is advised.
Y/N felt her stomach drop. She stared at Aaron, her fingers gripping her red pen so hard the plastic groaned.
The sheer audacity of it was actually mind-blowing. He was sitting at her desk, in her office, casually insulting the man she loved just because she wouldn't go to a pub with him.
For a split second, she wanted to scream at him. She wanted to slap the smug, bitter smirk right off his face. But then she remembered exactly whose schedule she was on. Harry didn't yell. Harry dismantled people quietly, with absolute, freezing precision.
Y/N took a deep breath. She set her pen down with a sharp click.
"Are you quite finished?" Y/N asked.
Her voice wasn't loud. It didn't tremble. It was deadpan and freezing cold, instantly stripping the mocking amusement from Aaron’s face.
Aaron shifted uncomfortably in the cheap rolling chair, his brow furrowing. "I'm just saying—"
"I heard exactly what you said," Y/N cut him off, her tone sharp and unforgiving. "And it is, without a doubt, the most pathetic display of a bruised ego I have ever witnessed."
Aaron’s amber eyes widened in shock. "Excuse me?"
"You invited me to a pub. I politely declined because I am doing my job," Y/N stated clinically, dismantling him with the same ruthless precision she used on his manuscript. "And instead of accepting that rejection with a shred of grace, you instantly decided to attack the man I love. You are attempting to weaponize his age because you are deeply insecure about the fact that all of your youth, all of your boyish charm, and all of your bestselling fame could not get me to look at you for a single second.”
A dark, humiliated flush crept rapidly up Aaron’s neck. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but Y/N didn't give him an inch of space. She leaned forward, lowering her voice so the nosy junior editors nearby couldn't hear.
"Harry is twice the man you will ever be, Aaron," she told him firmly. "He doesn't need to demean other men to feel secure. The fact that you think a man's ability to be a devoted partner has an expiration date just proves exactly how much growing up you still have to do."
Aaron swallowed hard, his jaw tight. The arrogant author had been completely shut down, leaving behind exactly what Harry had called him: a boy.
Y/N picked up her red pen again. She looked entirely, devastatingly bored by his presence.
"Get out of my chair," Y/N ordered, returning her eyes to Chapter Twelve. "From this moment forward, my professional boundaries are not a request. We will only communicate regarding this manuscript via email. If you come to my desk to discuss anything other than these edits, I will go directly to Elena and have myself removed from your project. Are we clear?"
Aaron stared at her. He looked completely shell-shocked.
"Loud and clear," he muttered, his voice tight with embarrassment. He stood up abruptly and practically fled back toward the executive suites, leaving the rolling chair abandoned in the aisle.
Y/N didn't watch him leave. She kept her eyes on the paper, her hand hovering over the text.
Beneath the desk, her knees were shaking slightly from the adrenaline. She had done it. She had completely protected her relationship and put him in his place.
But as she stared blindly at the printed words, the venom of Aaron’s insult still poked at the back of her brain. Does he want to get married and have kids?
Harry worshipped her. He showered her in luxury, he claimed her body with terrifying devotion, and he literally built her a sanctuary in his home. But they hadn't actually talked about the future. They had been entirely consumed by the heavy, intoxicating reality of the present.
She needed to see him. She couldn't wait until six o'clock to feel the grounding weight of his hands on her.
Y/N reached for her phone, pulling up the contact saved for Harry's driver. She didn't hesitate.
Have the car at the front of Ink and Bone at 4:00 PM, she typed rapidly. Take me to Vanguard Holdings.
The drive from the creative, chaotic streets of Hackney to the sterile, high-stakes financial district of the City of London was a stark transition.
The black car glided to a smooth halt in front of the towering glass and steel monolith that served as the global headquarters for Vanguard Holdings. The driver, a broad-shouldered man from Harry’s private security detail, immediately stepped out to open her door.
Y/N stepped onto the pavement, pulling her wool coat tighter around her cream silk blouse.
The lobby of Vanguard Holdings was an intimidating expanse of white marble, brushed steel, and absolute corporate power. Men and women in thousand-pound bespoke suits moved with frantic, ruthless energy. It was a world designed to make people feel small.
Y/N didn't shrink. She had been here enough times to know exactly how to carry herself. She kept her chin up, channeling the exact same unbothered, lethal confidence Harry wore so effortlessly. Her heels clicked a sharp, steady rhythm against the marble as she walked straight toward the main security desk.
Ralph, the towering head of lobby security, immediately broke into a warm, familiar smile the second he saw her.
"Good afternoon, Y/N," Ralph greeted, not even bothering to reach for the visitor log. He swiped a black master keycard against the private turnstile for her. "He isn’t expecting you, is he?"
"No, a bit of a surprise visit today, Ralph," Y/N smiled gratefully, stepping through. "Is he upstairs?"
"Always," Ralph nodded. "Go straight up."
The ride to the top floor in the private executive elevator was silent and fast, her stomach dropping slightly as the car shot up thirty stories.
When the metal doors slid open, the atmosphere shifted instantly. The frantic energy of the lobby vanished, replaced by a heavy, soundproofed luxury. The executive floor smelled of rich mahogany, fresh espresso, and the faint, familiar bite of Harry’s cedarwood cologne.
Andrea, Harry’s highly efficient and normally unflappable secretary, looked up from her polished desk. Her eyes widened slightly in surprise.
"Y/N!" Andrea breathed, quickly standing up. "He didn't tell me you were coming in."
"He doesn't know. I needed to see him," Y/N replied smoothly, dropping her tote bag onto a nearby leather sofa. She looked toward the heavy, solid oak double doors of Harry's private office. "Is he alone?"
Andrea grimaced slightly, lowering her voice. "Not exactly. He’s got five of the senior VPs in there right now. They are right in the middle of a massive structural review for an acquisition. It’s been tense all afternoon."
"Thank you, Andrea," Y/N smiled politely. She didn't hesitate. She walked right past the secretary's desk.
Y/N didn't knock. She simply pushed one of the heavy oak doors open and stepped into the room.
Six older, incredibly intimidating men in dark suits were gathered around the seating area in front of his desk, staring intensely at a series of financial documents.
Harry was standing behind his desk. He had taken his suit jacket off. His crisp white shirt was rolled up to his forearms. He was in the middle of speaking, his voice a low, commanding whip that demanded absolute silence in the room. He looked like a god among corporate mortals, ruthless, brilliant, and entirely in control.
Harry glanced up at the interruption, his jaw tight with annoyance.
The second his green eyes landed on Y/N, the ruthless ceo vanished completely. He stopped speaking mid-sentence. His entire posture shifted, the hard lines of his face instantly softening into a look of focused, overwhelming concern.
"We are done here," Harry announced flatly.
The room erupted into confused murmurs. The man sitting closest to the desk, a senior vice president, leaned forward in disbelief. "Styles, we haven't finalized the asset liquidation. If we stop now, the markets will—"
"I said, we are done," Harry barked, his voice dropping into a deadly, uncompromising growl that made the older man physically flinch. "Leave the files. Clear my office. Now."
No one argued twice. The executives quickly gathered their tablets, throwing highly curious, side-eye glances at Y/N as they rapidly filed out of the room.
The second the heavy oak door clicked shut behind the last man, completely sealing them in the soundproofed office, Harry closed the distance between them.
"Darling," he breathed, his large hands immediately coming up to cup her face. His thumbs brushed over her cheekbones, his eyes scanning her face frantically for any sign of tears or physical distress. "It's four o'clock. You're supposed to be at the publishing house. What happened?"
The absolute, unshakeable devotion in his voice nearly broke he composure. Y/N let out a long, shaky exhale, melting into his touch. Her hands came up to grip his strong wrists.
"I'm okay," she promised softly, stepping closer to press her chest against his. "I just... I needed to see you."
Harry's racing pulse slowed slightly, but his eyes remained dark and intensely focused. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him, burying his face in her hair. " I know you. Tell me exactly what happened, Y/N."
She stayed tucked in the safety of his arms and told him. She kept her voice steady as she recounted the encounter with Aaron. The rejected pub invitation, the bruised ego, and the bitter, disrespectful comments at her desk.
When she told him that Aaron had called him "too old," Harry actually laughed.
It was a low, dark, incredibly arrogant sound that vibrated against her chest. He pulled back just enough to look down at her, a wicked, mocking smirk curving his lips.
"He called me old?" Harry chuckled, shaking his head. "Fucking hell. Is that really the best the boy could come up with? He must be truly desperate if he's resorting to basic age demographics to try and impress you."
"I handled it," Y/N assured him, her chin tilting up with pride. "I told him exactly how pathetic he was, and I restricted him to email communication only. He looked like he was going to cry when I was done with him."
"What a ruthless girl," Harry praised smoothly, his eyes flashing with a dark, heavy pride. He leaned down, pressing a hard, approving kiss to her lips. "I am incredibly proud of you for putting him in his place. Though I still might buy Ink and Bone tomorrow just to fire him."
"Harry," she warned playfully, though her smile faded slightly as the final part of the conversation returned to the forefront of her mind. "There was... one other thing he said. To try and get under my skin."
Harry caught the shift in her tone immediately. The arrogant amusement vanished. "What did he say?"
Y/N took a breath, looking up into his piercing green eyes. "He asked if you wanted to get married and have kids. He said... he said a man of your caliber couldn't give me that anymore. That you wouldn't want a future like that."
The air in the private office completely froze.
Harry went absolutely rigid. The confident, cheeky smirk was wiped from his face so fast it was terrifying. His green eyes darkened into a shade of black so deep it looked like a void. The shift wasn't just anger; it was a violent, primal possessiveness that instantly consumed every inch of the room.
"He said what?" Harry asked, his voice dropping into a deadly, vibrating whisper.
"I know I shouldn't listen to him," Y/N rushed to clarify, suddenly hyper-aware of the sheer danger radiating off the man holding her. "I know he was just trying to hurt me because his ego was bruised."
He didn't say a word. He turned around, walked over to the heavy oak doors of his office, and threw the deadbolt. The sharp, metallic click of the lock echoed like a gunshot in the silent, completely secluded room.
But he didn't cross the room and rip her clothes off.
Instead, Harry let out a long, slow exhale. The muscle feathering in his jaw relaxed. He leaned back against the heavy oak door, crossing his arms over his chest as he simply looked at her. A slow, wicked, and entirely arrogant smirk began to curve the corners of his lips.
"Too old," Harry repeated, his voice a low, vibrating hum that seemed to carry through the floorboards. "I suppose I should be offended. I did just finish a rather aggressive ten-mile run this morning before that boy even had his first cup of coffee."
Y/N let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding, a helpless, breathless laugh escaping her. The dangerous, suffocating tension in the room instantly shifted into something heavy, magnetic, and incredibly teasing.
"I tried to tell him you have excellent stamina," Y/N joked softly, the adrenaline still buzzing in her veins.
"Did you?" Harry chuckled darkly. He pushed off the door, his movements fluid and unhurried as he walked over to the antique crystal wet bar sitting in the corner of his office. He poured a single finger of amber scotch into a glass. "You should have reminded him that my knees held up perfectly fine on the hardwood floor of your office last night."
Y/N’s cheeks burned instantly. "Harry, I wasn't going to discuss our sex life in the middle of an open-plan publishing house."
"Why not?" Harry asked smoothly, taking a slow sip of his scotch. He looked over the rim of the glass at her, his green eyes flashing with pure, unfiltered mischief. "I am quite proud of my work. I would gladly submit my performance for peer review."
"You are impossible," she smiled, shaking her head.
Harry set the glass down. He didn't stay across the room. He closed the distance between them with slow, deliberate, predatory steps until he was standing just inches away from her. He didn't touch her, but his sheer proximity and the heat radiating off his body were completely intoxicating.
"So," Harry murmured, leaning down slightly so his mouth was hovering just above her ear. "Since my age has suddenly become a topic of corporate interest... tell me, darling. Exactly how many children does he think I can't give you?"
Y/N’s breath hitched. "Harry..."
"I need to know, Y/N," he teased, his breath ghosting over her neck, sending a violent shiver down her spine. "I am a man who likes to plan his investments. If we are having three, I will need to look into purchasing a country estate. The house is massive, but I don't want toy cars scratching the marble floors."
Y/N turned her head, looking up into his eyes. She expected to see him completely joking, but beneath the cheeky, arrogant banter, the look in his green eyes was intensely, terrifyingly sincere. He wasn't playing.
"You want a country estate?" she whispered, her heart doing a frantic, heavy flutter against her ribs.
"I want whatever you want," Harry answered effortlessly, his large hand coming up to gently cup her jaw. His thumb stroked her cheekbone. "If you want a massive wedding at a cathedral in Italy, I will buy out the Vatican. If you want to elope in a registry office in Chelsea tomorrow, I will cancel all of my afternoon meetings."
"You have a board meeting," she breathed, completely melted by the absolute, grounding devotion in his voice.
"The board can wait. They work for me. I work for you," he corrected, a soft, incredibly boyish smile breaking through his sharp, aristocratic features. "I am forty-five years old, Y/N. I don't play games, and I do not waste time. And I certainly don't let twenty-something kids dictate the timeline of my relationship."
He stepped closer, backing her up until her thighs hit the edge of his massive executive desk. He didn't lift her onto it. He simply caged her in, his hands resting on the mahogany on either side of her hips.
"You aren't just a fling or someone temporary to me, Y/N," Harry told her, his voice dropping an octave, losing all of its teasing edge. It was a heavy, profound promise. "I am playing for keeps. I want the entire future. I want the marriage, I want the kids, and I want you looking exactly like this when I am old, gray, and forcing a nurse to push my wheelchair around the house.”
Silent tears of pure, overwhelming emotion pricked at the corners of Y/N’s eyes. She brought her hands up, resting them flat against the crisp white cotton of his shirt, feeling the steady, thundering beat of his heart.
"I want that too," Y/N whispered, her voice thick. "I don't care how old you are. I just want you."
Harry’s eyes darkened. He let out a low, rough exhale, leaning down to press a slow, deeply tender kiss to her lips. It wasn't frantic or demanding. It was a complete, absolute surrender.
When he pulled back, he reached into the pocket of his tailored trousers. He didn't pull out a velvet ring box, but what he did pull out carried just as much permanent, terrifying weight.
He placed a heavy, matte black keycard onto the desk beside her.
"This is the master access card to the townhouse," Harry told her, holding her gaze with an uncompromising certainty. "It overrides security. It gives you access to the private garage, and every room in my home. It is yours."
Y/N stared at the small piece of black plastic.
"Harry," she whispered. "Are you asking me to move in?"
"I am officially notifying you that your lease in Hackney is no longer necessary," he corrected smoothly, his wicked smirk returning as he picked up her left hand, pressing a soft kiss to her ring finger. "Bring whatever you want. But from tonight forward, it is your home too"
He didn't need to throw her on the desk to prove his dominance. He had completely rewritten the rules of the game. Aaron had tried to use the future as a weapon, and Harry had effortlessly used it to build them a permanent empire.
Y/N looked from the keycard up to the man who held the world in the palm of his hand, and smiled.
"Okay," she breathed.
"Okay," Harry repeated softly. He leaned in, his lips brushing against hers, the promise of a very thorough, very private celebration lingering heavily in the air between them. "Now... unless you actually want to ruin my filing system, I suggest we leave before my board of directors stages a mutiny outside that door."
Harry didn't buy out the Vatican.
Despite the fact that Vanguard Holdings had a record-breaking year, and Harry could have easily rented out Westminster Abbey and flown in a thousand corporate guests on private jets, their wedding was the exact opposite of a billionaire's spectacle.
It happened on a quiet, Tuesday in late October.
They drove out to a tiny, historic stone chapel in the Cotswolds. There was no press, and absolutely no networking. The guest list consisted of exactly five people: Y/N’s father and mother, Harry’s mother, and two of their closest friends to serve as witnesses.
Y/N wore a simple, breathtakingly elegant silk slip dress with a vintage lace veil that trailed lightly over the ancient stone floor. Harry, ever the traditionalist, wore a three-piece suit that made him look terrifyingly handsome.
But when the heavy wooden doors of the chapel opened and Y/N began to walk down the short, candlelit aisle, the untouchable ceo openly wept.
He didn't try to hide it. As she stopped in front of him, slipping her hands into his trembling ones, a single tear tracked down his sharp cheekbone. His green eyes were completely overwhelmed, shining with a depth of love that simply could not be quantified, bought, or negotiated.
Their vows were quiet, meant only for each other and the echoing rafters of the small church. When Harry slid the heavy, gold band onto her left hand, resting it perfectly beneath her engagement ring, his thumb brushed lovingly over her knuckles.
"I told you I was playing for keeps," he whispered, a tearful, breathtaking smile breaking across his face as he echoed the promise he had made in his office years ago.
"Always," Y/N promised back, her own vision blurring with happy tears.
When the vicar finally pronounced them husband and wife, Harry didn't kiss her with polite, public restraint. He pulled her flush against his chest, burying his hands in her hair, and kissed her with a deep, consuming adoration that stole the breath straight from her lungs.
The transition into married life only deepened the heavy, magnetic devotion between them. And exactly six months after the wedding, Harry’s promise of the entire future finally caught up to them.
It was a completely ordinary Thursday morning in the Mayfair townhouse. Harry was standing in the master bathroom, dressed in his suit trousers and a crisp white shirt, knotting his silk tie in the mirror as he prepared to go into the office and dismantle a rival firm.
Y/N walked into the bathroom, her hands shaking slightly. She didn't say a word. She simply walked up beside him and set the small, white plastic stick on the marble vanity, right next to his expensive cedarwood cologne.
Harry paused mid-knot. He looked down.
The man who regularly managed billions of pounds without breaking a sweat, completely short-circuited.
He stared at the two bright pink lines for a long, heavy moment. He blinked once. Twice. Then, he slowly turned his head to look at her, his green eyes wide and completely blown out with shock.
"Y/N," Harry breathed, his voice barely a whisper. "Is this...?"
"Yes," she laughed softly, tears already spilling down her cheeks.
Harry didn't hug her right away. Instinct took over. The man who bowed to absolutely no one immediately dropped to his knees on the cold floor. He wrapped his arms tightly around her hips, pressing his face directly against her stomach.
"a baby," he murmured into the soft cotton of her pajamas, his broad shoulders shaking slightly as the reality hit him. He pressed a flurry of hot, reverent kisses to her stomach, completely uncaring that his expensive trousers were on the bathroom floor. "You're carrying our child."
He stayed on his knees for a long time, holding her as if she were the most precious, fragile thing in the entire world. He was late to his meeting that day. In fact, he canceled all his meetings for the rest of the week, utterly refusing to leave her side.
seven months later
It was a brilliant, sunny Sunday morning in London. The heavy drapes in the Mayfair townhouse were pulled wide open, flooding the state-of-the-art kitchen with warm, golden light.
Y/N was in an impossibly good mood. She had her favorite playlist humming softly through the house speakers, and she was practically skipping across the polished hardwood floor as she gathered ingredients for pancakes.
She was incredibly, beautifully pregnant. She was wearing a pair of loose, comfortable mom jeans whose button had long since surrendered, held up by a soft maternity band. On top, she had stolen one of Harry's classic white t-shirts. Because of the prominent, heavy swell of her seven-month belly, the shirt had become entirely too short, riding up to leave the bottom curve of her bare stomach completely exposed to the warm air.
She didn't care. She felt entirely comfortable, completely safe, and ridiculously loved. She did a happy, waddling little skip toward the fridge, humming along to the music.
Sitting at the massive marble kitchen island was Harry.
He was dressed down in soft gray sweatpants and a dark t-shirt, a mug of black coffee resting in his hands. He wasn't looking at his phone. He wasn't reading the financial times. He was completely, utterly captivated by the woman skipping around his kitchen.
His green eyes tracked her every movement, a soft, devastatingly fond smile playing on his lips. He watched the way the white t-shirt fluttered, exposing the bare skin of her belly, and his chest expanded with a profound, heavy ache of pure adoration.
As Y/N skipped past the island with a carton of eggs, Harry reached out. His large, warm hand effortlessly caught her waist, spinning her gently and pulling her directly between his parted knees.
"Hi," Y/N giggled, resting her hands on his broad shoulders.
"Hi," Harry rumbled, his voice thick with sleep and absolute worship.
He didn't look at her face right away. He leaned forward, his face burying directly into the exposed, bare curve of her stomach where the white t-shirt rode up. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her skin, his large hands splaying out warmly over her hips.
Right on cue, the baby gave a sharp, noticeable kick directly against Harry’s cheek.
Harry let out a low, incredibly warm chuckle, turning his head to press another kiss right over the spot. "Good morning to you too, sweetheart. Mum is just trying to make breakfast."
Y/N ran her fingers through the soft, messy chaos of his morning curls, her heart swelling until she thought it might physically burst.
Harry slowly tilted his head back to look up at her. The golden sunlight caught the sharp, lines of his face, illuminating the absolute peace in his green eyes. The ruthless CEO was nowhere to be found. This was a man who had everything he had ever wanted, right here between his arms.
Aaron had asked what her future looked like. He had tried to weaponize Harry's age, implying that a man of his caliber couldn't give her the domestic, beautiful life she deserved.
But as Harry looked up at her, at his wife, at the mother of his child, standing in the home they had built together, he pulled her down for a slow, breathtakingly tender kiss that tasted of coffee and forever.
He had promised her the entire world in that office two years ago. And as he wrapped his arms around her and their unborn child, holding them close against his chest, Y/N knew with absolute certainty that he had delivered on every single word.
And just like that, we have reached the end. Saying goodbye to this 10-part journey is incredibly bittersweet. When I first started writing this universe, I never could have imagined how much I would fall in love with them. A massive, heartfelt thank you to my early access readers for cheering them on from the very beginning. let me know if you liked the end.
Warnings: none, a little angsty maybe, but Harry's got your back ;)
Summary: What starts as a sweet show-day moment turns serious when you step in to help fans with wrongly sold restricted-view seats and Harry has your back completely when Jeff crosses a line afterwards.
London, N3 — 17 June 2026
Harry leaves the house on foot. There is a car available, of course. There is almost always a car available, either waiting in the driveway or easily arranged with one phone call, but the weather is too nice for that and Harry has never been particularly good at choosing the most convenient option when walking is possible.
London is warm without being unbearable, the sky pale blue above Hampstead, the pavements dappled with sunlight where the trees lean over the road. Wembley night three is waiting for him later, along with rehearsals, meetings, outfit decisions, vocal warm-ups, a stadium full of people and the particular charge of playing at home, but for the moment he gets to be outside, moving at his own pace, phone in his pocket, sunglasses low on his nose.
He feels good. A little tired, maybe, because Wembley has its own weight, but the kind of tired he knows how to carry. The first two shows have gone well, better than well, and even with the pressure of ten London nights still ahead of him, something about being home keeps him steadier. His own bed, his own kitchen, even when it still carries the ghost of your three-in-the-morning jacket potato crimes, his own streets, and you.
You had an appointment in London late this morning, something you told him you preferred to do alone, and the plan is simple: he picks you up when you're finished, then the two of you head to Wembley together. It's practical enough, but Harry is already pleased by the thought of seeing you standing outside some building, probably checking your phone, probably pretending not to smile when you spot him.
Then he passes a small flower shop halfway there and stops. The display outside is soft and colourful, buckets filled with bunches that look more like they were gathered from a field than arranged by someone with a ruler. Yellow blooms, little white daisies, pale pink clusters, green stems tied with rough string, brown paper waiting behind the counter. Nothing too polished, but exactly the sort you love. Harry steps inside without thinking too much about it, because some decisions in his life have become very simple. If he sees flowers that look like you would press your face into them and smile, he buys them.
The woman behind the counter recognises him after about four seconds, though she handles it politely, a quick widening of her eyes before she asks what he is looking for.
“Something a bit wild,” Harry says, glancing at the buckets. “Not too perfect.”
“For someone?”
“My girlfriend.”
The woman smiles. “What colours does she like?”
Harry looks at the flowers again, trying to choose as if the bouquet is a sentence and he needs it to say the right thing. “She likes them when they look like they didn’t try too hard. Yellow, maybe. White. A little pink. Green bits. Sorry, that’s probably not very helpful.”
“It is, actually.”
A few minutes later, she hands him a bouquet wrapped in brown paper, stems tied with twine. It's beautiful in the exact unfussy way he wanted, daisies and little yellow flowers spilling out between softer pinks and airy greenery, the whole thing looking like sunlight gathered in someone’s hands. Harry pays, thanks her, and steps back outside with the flowers tucked carefully against his arm.
He makes it another few streets before someone calls his name. There are three girls near a bus stop, all of them freezing in that unmistakable way people do when they recognise him and are trying to decide whether they are allowed to approach. He slows, because they are already half-smiling, half-panicking, and one of them clutches her phone like it might escape.
“Hi,” he says first.
They come over carefully, excited but respectful, and tell him they are going to the show tonight. One of them asks for a photo, another for a signature on her ticket confirmation printed out because, as she admits with embarrassment, she doesn't trust phone batteries. Harry laughs at that and signs the folded paper for her, telling her that is “very sensible, actually,” which makes her look as if she may faint.
“Have a good night,” he tells them after the photos.
“You too,” one of them says, then immediately covers her face. “I mean, obviously you’re performing, so—”
“I’ll try to have a good night as well,” Harry says, smiling.
He walks away with a little wave, flowers still safe in one hand, his mood even lighter than before.
Then he spots a Lime scooter. It sits near the edge of the pavement, bright and ridiculous and, in Harry’s opinion, perfectly timed. He looks at it for a moment. There is probably a more dignified way to arrive at your appointment pickup, there is definitely a safer way to arrive at Wembley. He can already hear you in his head, asking him whether he has lost his mind, whether he knows how many people online already make fun of his attachment to Lime bikes, whether turning up on a scooter with a bouquet is truly the image he wants to project. The answer, unfortunately, is yes. And so he unlocks it, places the bouquet carefully in one hand, and sets off.
By the time he reaches the street where your appointment took place, he's far too pleased with himself. You're already outside the building, standing near the entrance with your bag over one shoulder, looking down at your phone. The moment you hear the scooter roll closer, you glance up. Harry slows to a stop beside you, one foot on the pavement, sunglasses on, flowers in hand, expression shamelessly proud. You just stare, and then you laugh. It's not a polite laugh, it's a proper one that makes you lift one hand to your mouth as if you might be able to hide it after the fact.
Harry raises his brows. “What’s funny?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“You look like a romantic midlife crisis.”
He gasps softly. “That’s how you greet the man who came to pick you up?”
“On a scooter.”
“With flowers.”
“On a scooter.”
He looks down at the Lime scooter, then back at you. “Efficient transport.”
“You are one helmet away from becoming a meme.”
“I’m already a meme.”
“That is very true.”
Harry steps off the scooter, leaning it carefully against the curb before he comes closer. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
He kisses you softly, brief because you’re in public, but warm enough to make your smile change. When he pulls back, he holds out the bouquet. “These are for you.”
Your teasing disappears immediately. “Oh,” you say, voice a little surprised.
You take the flowers with both hands, looking down at them like he has given you something far more valuable than stems wrapped in paper. Your thumb brushes over the twine, then over the edge of a yellow flower, and Harry watches your whole face open with quiet delight.
“They’re beautiful,” you say.
“Thought you’d like them.”
“I love them.” You bring them closer, smelling them gently. “They look like someone stole them from a meadow.”
“That was the brief.”
You look up at him, eyes bright. “Thank you.”
Harry doesn't answer straight away, because he's busy looking at you. He knows he's in trouble, really, he has known for two years. But there are moments when the knowledge arrives all over again, fresh and almost inconvenient, like now, with you standing on a London pavement holding a bouquet of wildflowers as if it might make your whole day better. He has played stadiums, he has heard crowds scream his name until the air shook, he has been loved loudly by people he may never meet. But this, somehow, still undoes him most. “You’re welcome,” he says.
You narrow your eyes slightly. “You’re staring.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t help it.”
“You’re being sweet to distract from the scooter.”
“Is it working?”
“A little.”
“Excellent.”
He climbs back onto the scooter, then nods behind him. “Come on.”
You blink. “What?”
“Get on.”
“No.”
Harry laughs. “No?”
“I am not getting on that thing with you.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a scooter, Harry. Not a tour bus.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“It looks unstable.”
“It’s perfectly stable.”
“I’m holding flowers.”
“You are holding flowers, yes.”
“I’m also holding my will to live.”
He laughs properly at that. “I’ll be careful. You just stand behind me and hold on.”
You look from him to the scooter, then to the road, then back to him. “Is this legal?”
“Yes.”
“Is it wise?”
“Different question.”
“Harry.”
“Love, we’re not going on the motorway.”
You hesitate another second, clearly torn between good sense and the fact that he's grinning at you with entirely too much confidence. Then you sigh. “If I die on a Lime scooter today, I’m haunting you.”
“That seems fair.”
You step on carefully behind him, your bag secure on one shoulder, flowers tucked in one arm. Your free arm wraps around his middle, and Harry immediately looks far too happy about that. “Hold tight,” he says.
“I am holding tight because I’m afraid.”
“That’s fine with me.”
The ride to Wembley isn't nearly as dramatic as you expect, mostly because Harry does actually go carefully, avoiding busy roads where he can and slowing whenever the pavement or path feels uneven. Still, you spend half of it muttering instructions into his back.
“Careful.”
“I am.”
“Pothole.”
“I see it.”
“Harry.”
“I saw it.”
“Bus.”
“It’s nowhere near us.”
“It exists, and I dislike it.”
He laughs every time.
By the time the stadium appears, you're still alive, slightly windblown, clutching the flowers and him with equal seriousness. Security lets you through into the secluded area after a few amused looks, and Harry pulls up near the back doors, stepping off with the air of a man who has achieved something heroic.
You get down immediately and exhale. “We made it.”
Harry turns to you, amused. “You sound surprised.”
“I am.”
“I’m a very safe driver.”
“You almost ran over a squirrel.”
“A squirrel? There weren't any squirrels, love.”
“There was one. It moved unpredictably.”
He laughs, taking your hand as you approach the entrance. “You’re never getting on one with me again, are you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Shame. You looked cute holding on.”
“I was fearing for my life.”
“Still cute.”
Inside, the stadium is already alive with show-day movement. Crew members pass with headsets, instrument cases roll along corridors, radios crackle, doors open and shut. You and Harry separate almost immediately, like you so often do on workdays, with a quick kiss and a quiet promise to find each other later.
He has a briefing with the band and the extra musicians, strings, flute, saxophone, the whole expanded arrangement that makes this tour feel fuller and warmer than anything he has done before. Surprise song details need confirming, transitions checked, timing adjusted after the last show.
You go straight to his dressing room and the first thing you do is find a vase. It takes you a minute, and you end up borrowing one from a side table in the corridor, but soon the wildflowers are sitting in fresh water near the mirror, bright and soft against the professional chaos of the room. You look at them for a moment longer than necessary, smiling to yourself, then settle on the sofa with your MacBook.
Work finds you quickly. Anthony has sent over a folder from night two, stage shots first, then backstage impressions, small moments of Harry laughing with the band, his tie being adjusted, Shania on stage from the wings, crowd shots from the back of the stadium. You make notes, mark favourites, think through captions that feel warm without sounding too polished. You draft an Instagram carousel, then scrap the first caption because it feels too corporate, then write another one that sounds more like together together is supposed to sound. You check the posting schedule, respond to messages from the PR group chat, approve a short TikTok edit, flag a few fan-shot videos that might be good for stories later, and update the list of possible show three content.
Two hours pass easily until entry starts outside. You know because the stadium’s energy changes. There's a different kind of sound when fans begin coming in, not the controlled movement of crew but the rising hum of thousands of people finding seats, buying drinks, taking photos, screaming when they see the stage for the first time.
Then your phone starts buzzing more, and at first, you assume it's just normal tagging. People posting their outfits, their view, their bracelets, the stadium roof, the stage from every possible angle. But then the tags become repetitive and more urgent. You open Instagram, then TikTok, then X, scanning quickly.
Restricted view
Section 551
Can’t see the stage
Paid full price
Not marked restricted
A video plays on your phone, shaky because the fan filming it is clearly upset. The seat is high up under the roof, facing towards the stage, but a PA tower sits directly in front of the view, metal framework cutting across almost everything, speakers hanging in the way. Another video shows the screen partially blocked by a second tower to the right. You watch three more, same section, same issue, and you know immediately that this is bad. It's not catastrophic, or unfixable, but definitely bad enough to spread quickly, especially after the ticket price discourse that followed the original sale. These fans didn't buy restricted view seats. Their tickets are digital, full price, regular category. The production build has clearly created an obstruction that should have been accounted for before entry.
You glance towards the door, Harry is in a meeting, Jeff is somewhere dealing with a hundred other things. No one needs another problem handed to them unless it is unavoidable, and this one has a visible, practical solution if you move quickly. So you close your laptop, slip your phone into your back pocket, and leave.
The climb to section 551 is long enough to make you regret every time Harry has ever made you run uphill and you refused to speed up with him. As you move through the concourses and up into the higher levels, fans recognise you. Some wave, a few call your name, and you smile, wave back, say hi when you pass, but keep moving.
When you reach the section, the problem is even worse in person. The seats sit almost directly behind the PA tower. From where the fans are supposed to watch, the stage is mostly a fragmented suggestion behind black metal and suspended speakers. The main screen is compromised too, another structure cutting across the angle. It's not a minor inconvenience, or someone exaggerating online, it is, in fact, a terrible view.
A group of fans spots you almost immediately. “Oh my God,” one girl says, hand flying to her mouth. “Y/n?”
You smile gently. “Hi, I saw the videos.”
The reaction is instant, relief and excitement mixing so quickly that several of them start talking at once.
“We didn’t know it was restricted.”
“It didn’t say anything when we bought them.”
“We paid full price.”
“We tried asking staff, but they said they couldn’t do anything.”
“I’m really sorry,” you say, and mean it. “Can I see your tickets?”
They pull up the digital tickets on their phones, one after another. Regular seats, regular price, no restricted view marker no warning. You check enough to confirm the pattern, then look down at the stage again, already calculating. “How many of you are affected in this block?”
They start counting rows. Around forty-five people, give or take, all with the same obstruction. You nod. “Alright. I’m going to see what I can do.”
The girl closest to you looks as if she might cry. “Really?”
“Yes. Stay here for a bit, okay? I’ll come back.”
“You don’t have to—”
“You paid to see the show,” you say simply. “You should be able to see it.”
That quiets them, before the thank-yous begin, grateful and emotional and overlapping. You smile, promise again that you will return, then make your way back down through the stadium.
Backstage, you find one of the tour’s guest experience coordinators near the production office, a woman named Leah who handles wristbands, guest movement, and the impossible little emergencies that happen every night without fans ever knowing. “Leah,” you say, slightly breathless from the stairs. “Do we have capacity in any of the pits tonight?”
She looks up from her iPad. “For how many?”
“Forty-five.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Forty-five?”
“There’s a full-price block in 551 with the PA tower directly in front of them. Not marked restricted. It’s already spreading on social media.”
That gets her attention and she taps through something quickly, checking capacity counts and guest lists. “Disco pit has room. Left front. Enough not to affect safety numbers.”
“Good. I need forty-five pit wristbands and lanyards.”
“VIP?”
“If that’s what gets them moved cleanly without arguing at every checkpoint, yes.”
Leah hesitates for half a second, then nods. “Give me two minutes.”
You wait, phone in hand, watching the videos gain views. When Leah returns with the wristbands and lanyards, bundled in neat groups, you thank her quickly.
“I’ll bring them down myself,” you say.
“Do you want security?”
“I’ll be fine. They’re fans, not wolves.”
Leah smiles faintly. “Good luck.”
This time, when you return to 551, the fans see you coming from several rows away and their faces change before you even speak.
“Okay,” you say, slightly out of breath again but smiling. “We’re moving you.”
The noise they make is almost louder than the pre-show music. You hand out the wristbands and lanyards one by one, checking that everyone affected gets one, making sure no one from outside the obstructed block tries to slip in unnoticed. It's chaotic, but happy-chaotic, the kind of emotional gratitude that reminds you exactly why fixing these things matters. One girl keeps saying thank you while trying not to cry, another asks if she can hug you, and when you nod, she does it carefully, as if you are the fragile one.
Then you lead them down. It turns into a small procession through Wembley, forty-five fans buzzing with disbelief behind you as you guide them through the correct route, past staff who check the lanyards and wave them through. When they finally enter the Disco pit, the stage suddenly close and visible in front of them, several of them scream.
One turns back to you with both hands over her mouth. “This is insane.”
“Enjoy the show,” you say.
“You’re the best.”
“I’m really not,” you laugh. “Just drink water, be nice to security, and have fun.”
They promise immediately.
By the time you return backstage, the online conversation has already changed. The original videos are still there, but now they are being followed by new ones. You watch from Harry’s dressing room sofa, laptop open but forgotten for a minute, as fans post their new view from the pit, the wristbands, the lanyards, their disbelief that someone from Harry’s team actually came upstairs, checked the tickets, and moved them.
y/n saw the videos and came herself
She was so kind
They moved us to Disco pit
Best team ever
Harry’s girlfriend really said not on my watch
You smile at their comments. It feels good, not because people are praising you, but because the problem was real, and now those fans will have a night they remember for the right reasons.
The door opens about an hour later and Harry steps in, hair slightly messy from whatever he has just been doing, face brightening when he sees you. “There you are,” he says. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” You close the laptop halfway. “Busy, but good.”
He crosses the room and glances at the flowers in the vase. “They survived?”
“They’re thriving.”
“Like me.”
“Debatable.”
He grins, leaning down to kiss you. “Wanna watch Shania with me?”
Your answer is immediate. “Obviously.”
“Thought so.”
A few minutes later, the two of you tuck yourselves into the back of one of the pit entrance tunnels, half-hidden in the shadow where the fans cannot easily see you. Shania is on stage, commanding the stadium with that effortless warmth that still makes you feel a little unreal. Harry stands behind you with one arm around your waist, chin occasionally brushing near your temple when he leans down to say something quietly and for a while, everything is calm.
Then Jeff appears in the tunnel. At first, you don't think anything of it. Jeff is everywhere on show days, moving through corridors with his phone in hand, making decisions before most people know there is a decision to make. He looks tense, but that's not unusual. “Y/n,” he says. “Can I have a minute?”
“Yeah, of course.”
Harry’s arm loosens around you, you glance back at him with a small smile, expecting nothing more than work, then follow Jeff farther into the tunnel, away from the fans and the sound spill from the stage.
The second you are out of earshot, his tone changes. “What the hell were you thinking?”
You stop, and for a moment, you genuinely don't understand the question. “What?”
“Moving forty-five people into Disco pit with VIP lanyards.”
“Oh.” You blink, trying to catch up with the anger in his face. “Jeff, they had restricted view seats that weren’t sold as restricted. There was a PA tower directly in front of them, and the videos were already—”
“I know what happened,” he cuts in. “It’s all over social media.”
“Right, but that’s why I moved quickly. It was negative PR, and they had paid full price for seats they couldn’t use.”
“You moved them into pit.”
“There was space.”
“You gave them VIP lanyards.”
“To get them through checkpoints cleanly. The wristbands were the important part.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
His voice is sharp enough to make you glance back towards the tunnel opening, checking whether fans can hear. Shania’s set is still loud enough to cover you, but the aggression in his tone unsettles you more than you want to admit.
“I spoke to Leah,” you say, keeping your own voice controlled. “She checked capacity. Safety wasn’t an issue.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
“The point is that you made an operational decision without clearing it with me, without clearing it with venue management, without considering the precedent. Those people paid for seats in the upper level, and now they’re in a pit people paid hundreds more for.”
“They didn’t pay for obstructed view.”
“No, but you don’t just hand out upgrades worth hundreds because TikTok got loud.”
You stare at him, heat rising in your face now. “That’s not what happened.”
“It looks exactly like what happened.”
“I went up there. I saw it myself. They couldn’t see the stage, Jeff. They couldn’t even see the screens properly.”
“Then you escalate it.”
“To who? Everyone was busy, and it needed handling before the show.”
“To me.”
“You were in meetings.”
“I’m the fucking manager.”
“I know that.”
“Then act like it.”
You take a breath, trying to hold the line between professional and personal. “I was trying to protect the show, protect Harry, protect the tour from a ticketing issue becoming a headline.”
Jeff scoffs. “You were trying to play hero.”
Your eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair is you thinking you can walk around this tour making calls because you want his fans to like you.”
“That has nothing to do with it.”
“It has everything to do with it.”
You shake your head once. “Those fans were happy. The videos are positive now. The capacity was safe. The lanyards weren’t sold anyway, so there was no revenue loss from giving them away.”
“That’s not how any of this works.”
“Then explain it without yelling at me.”
For a second, Jeff seems even angrier that you're not folding and behind you, Harry notices. He's been watching Shania, or trying to, but you've been gone too long. When he looks towards the tunnel and sees you and Jeff facing each other in the half-shadow, his expression shifts. You and Jeff don't argue, not like that. You work together constantly, sometimes under pressure, sometimes with different opinions, but always respectfully. This is not how your work relationship works.
Harry starts walking over and he reaches the edge of the conversation just as Jeff says, low and cutting, “You don’t have the right to make decisions like that just because you’re sleeping with the artist.”
You freeze so completely it feels as if the stadium sound drops away for one impossible second. Harry stops too, a few feet behind you, he has heard every word. Jeff sees him almost immediately, but he doesn't take it back, that may be the worst part. The sentence remains there between all three of you, ugly and deliberate, reducing years of your education, your work, your talent, your effort, your hours spent keeping Harry’s public world alive, to the fact that you share his bed.
You cannot speak, for once in your life, nothing comes out of your mouth. But Harry can, and he does. His face changes in a way you have rarely ever seen before. He doesn't explode immediately, though. He walks to your side, close enough that his shoulder nearly touches yours, then shifts half a step forward, not pushing you behind him entirely but placing himself between you and Jeff just enough for the message to be unmistakable.
“Repeat that,” Harry says.
Jeff exhales sharply. “Harry—”
“No. Repeat what you just said to her.”
Jeff’s jaw works. “This isn’t about—”
“It is exactly about what you just said to my girlfriend.” Harry’s voice stays low, which somehow makes it worse. “So say it again. To me.”
Jeff looks between you and him, irritation still there, though something less certain flickers underneath it. “She had no authority to move those people.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“She gave away pit access and VIP lanyards to people who bought hundred-pound seats.”
Harry’s eyes don't leave him. “I don’t care about the lanyards right now. I care about you telling her she thinks she can make decisions because she’s sleeping with me.”
You look down at the floor, the words landing again now that Harry has repeated them.
Jeff lifts his chin. “It was harsh, but I’m not wrong.”
Harry’s anger sharpens visibly. “You are wrong, Jeffrey.”
“Would we have hired her if she wasn’t with you?”
The question is a low blow, and everyone there knows it. Harry steps closer. “Careful.”
Jeff laughs once, humourless. “Come on. You know how this looks.”
“I know how it looks when a woman does her job well and a man decides to call her position personal because he’s angry she made a call before he did.”
Jeff’s eyes flash with anger as he hisses through gritted teeth. “Don’t turn this into that.”
“You turned it into that when you said what you said.”
“She overstepped.”
“Then talk about the work,” Harry snaps, voice finally rising. “Talk about process. Talk about escalation. Talk about whatever you need to talk about without insulting her like she’s only here because of me.”
You glance up at him and he's furious, properly angry, shoulders squared, jaw tight, every bit of his softness folded away because someone he loves has just been dismissed in front of him.
Jeff points toward the stadium. “There are systems for a reason.”
“And apparently the system sold full-price seats behind a PA tower.”
“That’s a ticketing issue.”
“It became a fan issue.” Harry’s voice cuts cleaner now. “She fixed it.”
“She made it my problem.”
“No. She made it smaller before it got bigger.”
Jeff opens his mouth, but Harry doesn't let him take the space. “You’re angry because she made a decision,” Harry says. “And I’m angry because she had to make it alone.”
Silence follows that, sharp and uncomfortable. You stare at Harry, stunned in a completely different way now.
Jeff’s face hardens. “That’s not fair and you know it.”
“Neither is speaking to her like that.”
“She still overstepped.”
“Maybe the process needs looking at. Maybe someone should’ve caught those seats before fans got inside. Maybe tomorrow, when everyone’s calmer, you and I can talk about how decisions like this get handled properly. But right now, you are not going to stand in a tunnel at my show and treat her like she’s disposable.”
“I didn’t say she was disposable.”
“You implied worse.”
Jeff looks at you then, but not with apology. He looks frustrated, cornered, too proud to climb down.
Harry sees it too. “Go,” he says.
“Harry—”
“Go be useful somewhere else.”
Jeff’s mouth tightens and for a second and you think he might argue again. Instead, he huffs, mutters something under his breath that you cannot make out, turns, and walks away down the tunnel.
The moment he's gone, Harry turns to you, and his expression changes immediately. The anger doesn't fully vanish, but it moves aside for concern. He reaches for you with both hands, eyes searching yours. “Are you okay?”
You nod automatically. “Yeah.”
“No, don’t do that.” His voice softens. “Are you okay?”
You try to answer, but nothing comes out and that's answer enough. Harry pulls you into him, arms wrapping around you tightly, one hand at the back of your head. You go into him without resistance, your face pressing against his shirt, the noise of Shania’s set and the stadium and the corridor all muffling into the warmth of his body.
“I’m sorry,” he says near your hair. “I’m so sorry he said that to you.”
Your hands curl lightly into the fabric of his shirt. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
“You didn’t.”
“I thought I was helping.”
“You were.”
“I should've asked someone.”
“Maybe there’s a conversation about process,” he says, steady and careful now, “but that doesn't make what he said true. It doesn’t make it okay. Not for a second.”
You close your eyes, breathing him in, trying to push away the sentence still circling your mind.
Would we have hired her if she wasn’t with you?
Harry seems to know exactly where your thoughts have gone. “Stop,” he murmurs.
You let out a small, shaky laugh against him. “You don’t know what I’m thinking.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You’re wondering if he’s right.”
You go quiet.
Harry’s arms tighten. “He’s not,” he says firmly. “He is not right, you hear me? You have this job because you’re brilliant at it. Because you understand the fans, because you understand me, because you know how to make it feel real without turning my life into content. Do you know how many people trust you now? The team, Anthony, the PR lot, me. The fans notice it too. You brought those accounts back to life.”
You swallow. “I didn’t want the ticket thing to become ugly,” you say.
“I know.”
“They paid to see you.”
“I know.”
“They couldn’t see anything.”
“So you made sure they could.”
“What if Jeff’s right that I shouldn’t have made that call?”
Harry pulls back enough to look at you, hands still on your arms. “Then we talk tomorrow about how to do it next time. That’s it. That’s the worst-case version where you made a process mistake. It still doesn’t give him the right to humiliate you.”
You nod, but your eyes sting. “I hate being the reason people fight.”
“You’re not the reason.” His thumb moves gently over your arm. “He crossed a line. I reacted to the line.”
“He thinks I’m only here because of you.”
“Then he can enjoy being wrong.”
Despite everything, the bluntness nearly makes you laugh, but Harry’s expression stays serious. “I mean it. You're never trouble to me. Not in this job, not in this life, not anywhere. I’ve got your back.”
You look at him. “I know,” you whisper.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Because I’ll keep saying it until it sticks.”
A call comes from farther down the corridor, one of the assistants looking for him. “Harry? They need you for hair and wardrobe.”
Harry glances over, then back at you. “Two minutes.”
The assistant disappears again.
You wipe carefully beneath your eyes, annoyed to find them damp. Harry notices and kisses your forehead, lingering there, his hand warm against the side of your neck. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” he says. “Properly. When he’s not being an arse and I’m not two seconds from throwing him into a speaker stack.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I actually considered.”
You breathe out a small laugh.
He slips his arm around your shoulders and starts walking you back towards the dressing room area, keeping you close as the stadium noise swells again behind you. Shania is still singing somewhere out there, the fans are still cheering, show three is still unfolding, and in less than an hour Harry will have to walk on stage as if his blood isn't still hot with anger. But he will, and you will do your job, and Jeff will have to apologise.
For now though, Harry presses one more kiss to your temple as you walk. “You did good today,” he says quietly.
You lean into his side, flowers waiting in his dressing room, fans in the pit because of you, the show still alive around you. “Promise?”
This series is a collection of standalone one-shots inspired by music; beginning with Harry's discography and eventually expanding into other albums, artists, and records that leave behind stories worth telling.
Each chapter is my personal interpretation of a song, exploring the emotions, themes, imagery, and stories that emerge from the music rather than following the lyrics directly. Sometimes the inspiration will come from a single line or from the meaning behind the song.
Some stories are romantic. Some are heartbreaking. Some are chaotic. Some are funny, and some are entirely fictional (I mean isn't this all fictional...). Every song exists in its own world. No story is connected to the one before or after it, and each chapter stands on its own as a separate interpretation of the music that inspired it.
At its heart, this series is simply an attempt to turn songs into stories.
These are the people, relationships, memories, heartbreaks, and moments I imagine when I listen.
Welcome to the Album Series.
──────────────
Harry Styles by Harry Styles
Fine Line by Harry Styles
Harry’s House by Harry Styles
Kiss All The Time. Disco, Occasionally by Harry Styles
Kiss All The Time. Disco, Occasionally, Harry Styles
Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader/OC
Word Count: 14.2k
Warning: Please note that individual stories within this series may contain themes including alcohol consumption and intoxication, sexual themes and implied sexual content, grief and loss, death and bereavement, anxiety, depression, emotional distress, relationship conflict and breakups, unhealthy coping mechanisms, discussion of illness.
Summary: The last instalment from Harry's discography, ending with Kiss All The Time. Disco, Occasionally. Each one-shot explores a different emotional landscape inspired by the songs on KISSCO. Some remain close to the themes behind the music, while others take those emotions and build entirely new stories around them. Featuring twelve standalone one-shots, one for each track, this collection is a personal take on each song and how I interpret them through people, relationships and moments.
Series Masterlist: Here
Masterlist: Here
Aperture
By the time Harry arrived at the warehouse, someone had already described the photoshoot as "a celebration of modern masculinity" three separate times. He wasn't entirely sure what that meant. What he did know was that there was an expensive cream armchair in the middle of the set, a stylist hovering nearby with a lint roller, and approximately fifteen people waiting for him to become Model of the Year instead of simply being Harry.
The award still felt strange. He'd spent years in front of cameras, years stepping into different campaigns and editorials and versions of himself, but being recognised for modelling had caught him off guard. People assumed it was easy because he happened to have a face that photographed well. They didn't see the work behind it. The storytelling. The character-building. The hundreds of tiny decisions made between each click of a shutter.
"Perfect," someone called after the first few frames.
Harry held the pose. Then he noticed the photographer lowering her camera. Not satisfied. Thinking.
"What?" he asked.
Her gaze shifted from him to the armchair. "Can I move your chair?"
"The chair?"
"It's ugly."
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. "I think they spent six grand renting that chair."
"Then they got robbed."
Several people around them looked horrified. The photographer looked delighted. Harry immediately liked her. Within ten minutes the chair was gone and within twenty, she had rearranged half the set. Within thirty, she was the first photographer in months who wasn't treating him like a museum exhibit.
"Everyone thinks modelling is standing there looking pretty," she said as she adjusted her camera settings.
"You're about to hurt my feelings."
She rolled her eyes. "No. You're storytelling," she rolled her eyes before continuing, "That's why you're good at it. You're creating a character every time you step in front of a camera."
Click.
"That look," she said. "Exactly that."
"You've done this before."
"I've photographed enough people pretending they don't know what they're doing."
"And me?"
She lifted an eyebrow. "You know exactly what you're doing."
For some reason, he found himself smiling. The morning passed quicker than most shoots did. Maybe because she challenged him. Maybe because she wasn't interested in being impressed by him. Maybe because every time he slipped into something polished and predictable, she caught it immediately.
"Too safe."
"Harsh."
"True."
During lunch, Harry escaped outside with a coffee and found a spot on the loading dock. The alley beside the warehouse wasn't particularly glamorous. Cracked pavement. Graffiti. A rusted black fire escape attached to the side of the building. He was halfway through his coffee when the photographer appeared beside him. She followed his gaze.
"You look like you've just seen God."
"Better," she replied.
Harry laughed, "What?"
"I've found a better location."
He stared at the alley. "That?"
"That."
"It's a damp wall."
"It's texture."
"There's literally a bin."
"The bin can move. Don't be boring."
His gasp was dramatic enough to make her grin. "Excuse me?"
"Not generally. Just today." She took a sip of her coffee. "This set inside is beautiful."
"Sounds like a compliment."
"It isn't."
He laughed again.
"What did that chair ever do to you?"
"The chair's innocent."
"And the set?"
"It feels like everyone's trying very hard to make you look important. Which is strange."
"Why?"
"Because I don't think that's what makes people connect with your work."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The city hummed beyond the alley and a truck rattled somewhere nearby. Harry looked down at his coffee cup.
"People always want more access."
Her head tilted. "Do they?"
"Feels like it sometimes."
"Maybe." She shrugged. "Or maybe they think the interesting part is hidden somewhere behind everything."
"And is it?"
The photographer considered him for a second. "No."
"What is, then?"
A small smile appeared. "The thing you made."
Harry looked at her properly then because she'd said it like it was obvious. After all these years, so many people wanted explanations. Details. Confessions. Pieces of him. Very few people seemed interested in simply letting the work speak for itself.
The photographer checked her watch. "Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"Outside."
The stylist nearly fainted when she heard the suggestion. Ten minutes later, Harry was standing beneath the fire escape wearing a black suit jacket and very little patience.
"This better be worth it."
The photographer lifted her camera. "Oh, it is."
The afternoon light spilled between the surrounding buildings, catching on the rusted metal staircase overhead. Suddenly the alley didn't look rundown. It looked alive.
"Head up."
Click.
"A little more."
Click.
"Perfect."
Harry glanced towards her. "You're enjoying this."
"Immensely."
"Sadist."
"Artist."
"Debatable."
She laughed. The sound carried through the alley.
"There it is. That smile."
Click.
Harry rolled his eyes. "You're sneaky."
"Oops." She moved closer. "Hand on the railing. Don't pose."
He complied.
Click.
"I literally model for a living."
"Exactly. Stop modelling. Stop giving me the version you think I want."
For a second, he simply looked at her. Then something in his posture shifted.
"There. That's it." Click. She stepped backwards. "Can you climb up a bit?"
Harry looked at the rusted stairs overhead. "Trying to kill Model of the Year?"
"Two steps," she ignored him. "One more. Keep going."
The rest of the shoot felt different. Less like work. More like play. Ideas bounced between them. She'd throw out a suggestion and he'd built on it. Just creating it together.
By the time they finally returned inside, the entire crew had gathered around the monitor. The photographer stood beside him as the images loaded. One by one. The photographs felt alive. Harry leaning against weathered brick. Harry hanging from the fire escape laughing. Harry looking up towards the light. Harry looking directly into the camera. Not guarded. Not exposed. Just present.
"There he is," the photographer said quietly. Pointing towards one of the photographs, "The guy everyone's been trying so hard tophotograph."
His eyes returned to the screen. For years, people had wanted more. More access. More explanations. More pieces. Sometimes it felt like standing beneath a spotlight that only grew brighter the more you gave it. But these photographs didn't feel like that. There was space in them. Air. Enough light to see him clearly without swallowing him whole.
"Aperture," she said.
Harry looked at her. "What?"
"It controls how much light gets in." Her smile softened. "Too little and you lose the image."
He glanced back at the image. "And too much?"
"You blow it out completely."
American Girls
The thing about Los Angeles was that everyone seemed to have accidentally fallen in love with someone from somewhere else. Harry had noticed it years ago. The British bloke running a coffee shop in Silver Lake married to a woman from Chicago. The Australian producer engaged to a girl from San Diego. The drummer he'd worked with for years now splitting his time between London and California because he'd met someone at a barbecue and never really recovered from it. Which was why, apparently, he was currently being interrogated over a plate of truffle fries.
"You need an American girl."
Harry looked up from his lunch. "No."
"Yes." Across the table, his friend shook his head dramatically, "Mate, we're literally sitting in Los Angeles."
Harry gestured vaguely around the café. "And?"
"And look around."
"I am."
"Half the women in this city look like they were handcrafted by a committee."
Harry laughed into his drink.
The café buzzed around them with the easy energy of a Wednesday afternoon. Music drifted softly from overhead speakers. Sunlight poured through the open windows. Someone was typing aggressively on a laptop three tables over while two women shared a pastry and a conversation that looked far more interesting than the one Harry was currently trapped in.
"You've all got American partners," Harry pointed out. "You've become insufferable."
His friend looked delighted. "Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"Still counts."
Another one pointed a fry at him. "We're serious."
"That's worrying."
"Harry. You need to give it a chance."
"A chance?"
"American girls."
Harry groaned, "You sound like you're trying to recruit me into a cult."
"It's not a cult."
"That's exactly what someone in a cult would say."
The table erupted into laughter. Before anyone could continue the conversation, the hostess appeared near the entrance and led a small group towards the empty table beside them. Three women. The first was talking animatedly with her hands. The second was laughing at something. The third was several steps behind them, sunglasses pushed onto her head, carrying an oversized tote bag over one shoulder.
For a second, the conversation at Harry's table stalled. She wasn't trying to get attention, she looked completely unaware of the effect she was having. Loose white cotton trousers skimmed her legs. An oversized pale blue button-down hung effortlessly from her shoulders, fastened by a single button in the middle as it moved with the breeze drifting through the café. Her skin was golden from the sun, her hair twisted into a loose clip at the back of her head.
One of Harry's friends let out a low whistle, "Woah."
Harry followed his gaze. The woman glanced over briefly as she passed, just for a second. Long enough for him to notice the hint of amusement in her expression. Then she disappeared towards the table behind them.
"See?" his friend said triumphantly.
Harry rolled his eyes. "See what?"
"Exhibit A."
"She's beautiful. Beautiful women exist everywhere."
"Not the point."
The argument continued for another ten minutes until Harry finally escaped under the excuse of needing another coffee. The queue was short. Only one person stood in front of him—the woman from the table. Up close, she was somehow even prettier. Not in an intimidating way. Not in the polished, impossible-to-approach way Los Angeles occasionally specialised in. Just... warm. Like someone who spent more time laughing than posing.
She finished ordering and stepped aside to wait. Harry moved forward and noticed that the barista recognised him immediately but the woman beside him didn't even look up. Which, if he was honest, was refreshing. When he collected his receipt and stepped away from the counter, she finally glanced over and their eyes met—a smile tugging at the corner of the mouth.
"How's the search going?"
Harry frowned. "The search?"
"For an American girl."
It took approximately half a second for understanding to hit him. She'd overheard them. Every painful second of it.
His hand immediately covered his face. "Fuck."
Her laugh burst out before she could stop it, "No, no. Please don't be embarrassed."
"I'm deeply embarrassed."
"Mm. Actually you should be."
Harry pointed at her accusingly. "You're enjoying this."
"Immensely."
There was something mischievous about her smile. The kind that suggested she was trying very hard to behave herself and failing. Harry found himself laughing too.
"To be fair," he said, "it wasn't my idea."
"Mm."
"It wasn't."
"That's what they all say."
"I'm serious."
She nodded thoughtfully. "Interesting defence."
"It's the truth."
Harry stared at her. "You've already decided I'm guilty."
"Oh, absolutely."
The coffee machine hissed loudly behind them. For a moment, neither moved. The smile never really left her face and neither did his.
Finally, Harry tilted his head. "So. Any advice?"
"For what?"
"The search."
She laughed again. He really liked that laugh. It wasn't delicate, it just arrived naturally.
"Well," she said, "I think you're asking the wrong person."
"And why's that?"
Her eyebrows lifted. "Because I'm not an American girl. I'm Australian."
For a moment, he just stared at her. Then he started laughing, "No."
"Yes. Born and raised."
"You're kidding."
She shook her head. "Sorry to disappoint."
"Actually, this is fantastic. Because now I get to tell my friends they're wrong."
"About what?"
Harry grinned. "Everything."
The barista called her name. She stepped forward to collect her drink. For a terrible moment, Harry thought that might be it. Cute conversation. Funny story. Never see her again.
Then she turned back around and looked at him, holding out her hand. Harry stared at it while she wiggled her fingers.
"Phone."
"What?"
"Your phone."
Still confused, he handed it over. She unlocked the contacts page before he could ask what she was doing. Her fingers moved quickly across the screen. A second later she handed it back. "There."
Harry looked down at the new contact.
Australian Girl ❤️
He couldn't stop smiling. When he looked back up, she was already walking away towards her friends.
Halfway across the café, she glanced over her shoulder. "Good luck with the search."
He laughed, "Think I might've just found what I was looking for."
Her grin widened. Then she disappeared back to her table, leaving Harry standing beside the coffee counter looking entirely too happy with himself. A minute later he returned to his friends. One look at his face and they immediately started shouting.
"Oh, no."
"No way!"
"Absolutely not."
Harry dropped back into his chair and took a sip of coffee. "What?"
"You got her number."
He shrugged. Trying and failing to look casual.
His friends groaned, "American girl?"
Harry looked down at the contact saved in his phone. Then he smiled. "Not quite."
Ready, Steady, Go!
Harry had been on enough first dates to know they usually started with two people pretending they weren't on a first date. Coffee dates. Dinner dates. Drinks where both parties spent the first twenty minutes insisting they were "super chill" about the entire thing. This one, however, started with him stretching his calves beside Regent's Park at eight in the morning. Which felt more honest.
A mutual friend had arranged everything. Apparently Sierra had agreed to the setup under the same conditions Harry had: no exchanging photos, no social media stalking, no lengthy biographies. The only information either of them had been given was what the other would be wearing. Which was why Harry immediately knew who she was.
A woman in a matching navy running set was making her way down the path towards him, her ponytail swinging behind her. Even from a distance there was something effortlessly confident about her. She wasn't looking around nervously trying to spot him. She looked like she was arriving exactly where she intended to be. Harry stood up straighter and she spotted him at the same moment.
A grin spread across her face. "Harry?"
"Sierra," he laughed.
As she got closer, he realised two things simultaneously. Firstly, she was stunning. Secondly, she somehow seemed completely unaware of it.
"Nice to meet you," she said.
"You too."
A brief silence followed. Then Sierra clapped her hands together. "Well. Breaking the ice immediately. This is my first running date."
"Really? How many dates have you been on?"
"Enough to know this is either going to be brilliant or a terrible idea."
Harry nodded thoughtfully.
"Decent assessment."
"I suppose if one of us is awful, at least we can run away."
"That's probably why they invented it."
She pointed at him. "See? Already worth getting up for."
And just like that, the nerves disappeared. They started walking towards the path together. Sierra adjusted her watch.
"Okay."
Harry glanced over. "Okay?"
"Pace?"
"Oh, we're negotiating."
"Mhm."
Harry pretended to think about it. "Round trip around the park. End up in Primrose Hill."
"Distance?"
"About ten kilometres."
She nodded. "Reasonable."
"Then grab a beer from the corner shop and sit on the hill."
The smile that appeared on her face felt entirely genuine. "That's actually a really good first date."
Harry looked pleased with himself.
"I know."
She rolled her eyes.
"Confidence."
"Humility isn't my thing."
"Lucky for me."
They both paused their watches. Sierra looked at him and Harry looked back.
"Ready?"
He couldn't help smiling. "Ready."
"Steady..."
"Very serious."
"Don't interrupt the ceremony."
Harry pressed his lips together. "Sorry."
She pointed down the path. "Go."
They took off together. The first few minutes were surprisingly easy. Not the running but the conversation. Most first dates felt like interviews disguised as social interaction. This didn't. Maybe because neither of them could sit across from the other and overanalyse every response. Maybe because they were too busy trying not to trip over tree roots.
"Okay," Sierra said after a few minutes. "First date question."
Harry groaned. "Already?"
"Favourite city."
"Easy. Tokyo."
She nodded approvingly. "Good answer."
"Yours?"
"Copenhagen."
"Interesting."
"I know."
"Favourite meal?" He asked.
"Tacos."
"Excellent choice."
"Favourite album?"
Harry looked sideways. "That's a dangerous question. People get emotional."
"True."
"Favourite film?"
"Worse," she laughed. "Okay, your turn."
Harry thought for a second. "Most impulsive thing you've ever done."
"Oh, easy."
"That's concerning."
"I moved to South Africa for six months because a guy in a hostel told me I'd like Cape Town."
Harry nearly missed a step. "What?"
"I was twenty-two."
"You moved countries based on one conversation?"
"Correct."
"That's insane."
She shrugged. "It was fun."
Harry shook his head. "You are absolutely the friend people worry about."
"Life's short."
"That's exactly what the worrying friend says before disappearing."
Sierra laughed so hard she nearly lost her rhythm. As the kilometres passed, so did the usual awkwardness. They talked about terrible jobs. Bad dates. Music. Travel. Childhood embarrassments. Harry discovered Sierra had accidentally set fire to her family's toaster when she was twelve. Sierra discovered Harry once got stuck in a tree attempting to impress someone. Neither could stop laughing about either story.
By the time they reached the edge of Primrose Hill, Harry realised he wasn't looking for things to ask anymore. The conversation was simply happening—flowing effortlessly between them. Like they'd accidentally skipped three dates worth of awkwardness.
"Question," Sierra said. "Have you always been this charming?"
Harry glanced over. "Depends on whether it's working."
The smile she gave him nearly made him miss his footing. "Noted."
Harry felt absurdly pleased with himself. Unfortunately, that was precisely when chaos arrived. It appeared in the form of a golden retriever. One very enthusiastic golden retriever. The dog came flying across the path chasing a tennis ball, entirely unconcerned with the existence of other human beings. They saw the dog but the dog did not see them. Harry sidestepped left. Sierra moved right. Both chose exactly the same direction. A split second later they collided and momentum did the rest.
Harry barely had time to register what was happening before Sierra crashed into him and they both stumbled sideways. For one ridiculous moment they somehow remained upright. Then neither did. Harry landed awkwardly on the grass. Sierra landed directly on top of him. The dog continued after the tennis ball without a single apology.
Harry blinked up at the sky and Sierra blinked down at him. Their faces were suddenly very close. Close enough for Harry to notice the freckles scattered across her nose. Close enough for Sierra's laugh to brush against his face before she could stop it.
"Well."
Harry laughed too. "Well."
Neither moved immediately which was becoming increasingly obvious.
Sierra's grin slowly widened. "Dangerous."
"What is?"
"Falling for me already."
Harry looked offended. "I think you'll find you fell for me."
She considered this. "Technically. But..."
Harry groaned, "There's always a but."
"Pretty sure I fell on you." She shifted slightly.
Harry started laughing. Eventually they managed to untangle themselves and get back to their feet. Both still smiling. Both trying and failing to look unaffected. As they continued towards the corner shop, Harry glanced sideways.
"So..."
"So?"
"Same time next week?"
Sierra looked up. "Running date number two?"
"Unless you've got somewhere more impulsive to be."
She pretended to think about it. "Ready."
Harry laughed, "Steady."
Sierra bumped her shoulder against his. "Go."
Are You Listening Yet?
The applause followed Harry long after he left the stage. It clung to him in the corridor, where the walls shook faintly from the thousands of people still screaming his name. It followed him past the security guards and the tour photographer, past the crew members clapping him on the shoulder and telling him it had been unbelievable, unreal, one for the books. It stayed with him as he smiled, nodded, thanked people, accepted a towel, a bottle of water, another hand on his back, another voice telling him he should be proud.
And he was. That was the thing. He was proud. He had stood in front of a crowd so loud he could feel them through the soles of his shoes, and for two hours, he had given them everything. His voice, his body, his charm, his attention. The stupid jokes between songs. The big emotional speeches. The grin he knew reached the back row because they needed it to. The heart-hands, the running, the bowing, the performance of gratitude that was not fake simply because it was also practised.
He loved it. He did. But by the time he reached his dressing room and the door closed behind him, the silence felt less like relief and more like a question.
Harry stood in the middle of the room with his in-ears still hooked around his neck, chest rising and falling, sweat cooling beneath his shirt. On the table, there were flowers from the venue, a few cards, a bottle of expensive tequila someone had sent over, and his phone face down beside a half-eaten banana. His jacket was slung over the back of a chair. His boots had left a trail of dust across the floor.
Outside, everyone was celebrating. Inside, he could hear himself think. That was usually where the trouble started. He crossed the room, picked up his phone, and turned it over. Messages filled the screen before it even unlocked.
Proud of you.
Insane show.
You killed it.
Tonight was special.
Historic.
Legendary.
A hundred different versions of the same kindness. A hundred people reflecting something bright back at him. Harry stared at the messages until the words stopped looking like words. Everyone was there for him. But was anyone actually listening? The thought arrived before he could soften it into something less ungrateful. He set the phone back down.
It was not fair, really. People loved him in the ways they knew how. His friends showed up when they could. His family called. His team protected him. His fans sang the words back with an intensity that still knocked the air out of him if he let himself feel it too much. There were entire rooms of people who cared about whether he was eating, sleeping, resting his voice, stretching properly, making the car on time.
But caring was not always the same as hearing. And he had become very good at making noise around the things he did not want heard.
He knew that about himself. That was the worst part.
Harry sank into the sofa and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His body was exhausted, but his mind had started its familiar pacing, back and forth across the same worn floorboards. He could see the patterns clearly when he was alone, which made ignoring them feel less like ignorance and more like a choice.
He said yes when he meant maybe. He said maybe when he meant no.He disappeared into work when his heart felt too crowded. He called it ambition when sometimes it was avoidance. He called it privacy when sometimes it was fear. He kept relationships at a distance and then wondered why nobody reached him where he actually was. He gave people access to the polished, generous, steady version of himself and then felt quietly resentful when they believed that was the whole truth. He missed old friends but answered too late. He wanted love but treated vulnerability like something that needed to be scheduled between obligations.
Why won’t you listen to yourself?
The question landed harder than the crowd had. Harry pressed his palms over his face and breathed in. There it was. The voice inside his head. Not cruel, exactly. Not loud either. It had never screamed at him. That was probably why he ignored it so easily. It simply returned every so often, patient and inconvenient, asking the same thing in different ways.
Are you happy?
Are you tired?
Are you lonely?
Are you listening yet?
He lowered his hands.
The dressing room lights were too bright. He got up and turned two of them off, leaving only the softer lamp beside the mirror. The sudden dimness made the room feel smaller, more honest somehow. Less like a holding area for a global superstar and more like a box containing a man who had run out of places to perform.
He looked at himself in the mirror. His hair was damp. His cheeks were flushed. Glitter clung near one eye from where someone had hugged him earlier. He looked alive, but there was a thinness to his expression that he recognised from other nights. Nights after awards. Nights after shows. Nights after moments that were supposed to feel like the top of the mountain.
Career highs were strange things. Everyone expected you to feel full and sometimes he did. Sometimes he felt lit up from the inside, grateful in a way that bordered on religious, overwhelmed by the scale of what had been built from songs that had once existed only as rough voice notes and unfinished sentences. Other times, the higher he climbed, the more he became aware of the wind. The distance. The effort it took to stay upright.
He thought about the people in his life. The ones who knew him before all of this. The ones who arrived during it. The ones who loved the idea of being close to him more than the reality. The ones he had let drift because it was easier than explaining why he was unreachable even when he was technically free. He thought about love, too, because he always did when he was trying not to.
The relationships that had burned bright and fast because intensity was easier than steadiness. The almosts. The nearlys. The people he had wanted and not known how to keep. The people who had wanted him and found a locked door beneath all the charm. He had spent years pretending his heart and his head were in conflict, as though that absolved him of making decisions. As though living somewhere between the two meant he was simply complicated rather than responsible.
But there was another place, wasn’t there? Somewhere else entirely. Somewhere less romantic and more honest. The place where he knew the truth before he admitted it. He picked up his phone again, not to scroll this time, but to open his notes app. The screen glowed in his hand. For a moment, he did nothing. Then he typed:
What am I choosing because it feeds me?
What am I choosing because it distracts me?
His thumb hovered over the keyboard. It felt ridiculous. Dramatic, almost. Like something a therapist would make him do and then sit quietly while he tried to joke his way around it. But the questions sat there on the screen without flinching.
So he answered them. Not fully. Not neatly. Just honestly enough to begin.
Music feeds me.
Performing feeds me when I’m present.
People feed me when I let them be people and not proof.
Quiet scares me.
Being still scares me.
Needing someone scares me.
He stopped typing. Outside the door, laughter rose and faded. Someone knocked once, gently. “Harry? You good?”
He looked at the door. The old answer came easily. Always did. Yeah, all good. On my way. Two minutes. Instead, he rested the phone against his knee and allowed himself to pause. Not for long. Just enough to hear the small voice inside him before he buried it under movement again.
“I’m okay,” he called back, then swallowed. “Just need a minute."
Then, softer, “Take your time.”
Harry closed his eyes. It was such a small thing. Almost nothing. A minute. A boundary. A truth simple enough that nobody could misunderstand it. And still, something in his chest loosened.
Maybe self-awareness was not always a revelation. Maybe it was not a dramatic scene at the edge of something, not a breakdown, not a reinvention, not an ending dressed up as clarity. Maybe sometimes it was sitting alone after the biggest show of your life and realising the applause could be real, the gratitude could be real, the joy could be real, and so could the ache beneath it.
Maybe listening to yourself started there. Not with having all the answers but with finally hearing the question. Harry looked down at the notes app again.
Are you listening yet?
This time, he did not look away.
Taste Back
Harry knew she was back before he saw her. That was the annoying thing about her. She had always arrived like a change in weather. Something shifted first. A text from a mutual friend. Her name appearing in a conversation that had nothing to do with her. Tiny things that should have meant nothing and somehow meant everything. Then, inevitably, she appeared. This time it was at a pub in West London.
Harry had been halfway through a conversation when he looked towards the bar and there she was, leaning against the counter waiting for a drink. Three years later and she still had the same effect on him. Infuriating.
The breakup had been her idea. One day she'd simply sat across from him and explained that something wasn't right anymore. That she needed space. That she didn't know who she was. That she loved him but wasn't sure she was in love with him. The kind of breakup that left absolutely nowhere for anger to go. So he'd let her leave. And then every three months or so she'd find her way back.
A text. A drink. A conversation. A familiar hand brushing against his. And somehow they always ended up exactly where they promised themselves they wouldn't.
"Harry."
He looked up. She was standing beside him now, holding a gin and tonic. Still beautiful. Still looking at him like she'd never quite worked out how to stay away.
"Hi."
"Hi." The smile that followed was small. Tentative. Like neither of them trusted it. "How've you been?" she asked.
Harry laughed softly.
"There's the question..."
"It's a normal question." She rolled her eyes.
"You've never once wanted the actual answer."
Her smile widened. "Maybe I do this time."
He didn't believe her. The worst part was he wanted to. An hour later they were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in a taxi. Two hours later they were in his flat. Three hours later they were lying in bed staring at the ceiling. The pattern was embarrassingly familiar.
Every time. Every single time. She would leave. Months would pass. She would get lonely or sad or drunk or all three. Then somehow she would find her way back to him and Harry would let her. Because despite all the evidence suggesting he shouldn't, he still loved her.
The room was dark except for the streetlight bleeding through the curtains. She lay beside him, one arm draped across her stomach. Harry stared at the ceiling and then sighed, "Did you get your taste back yet?"
The silence that followed felt immediate. Predictable. She turned her head. "Was waiting for that," she murmured.
Harry laughed, "What?"
"You do this thing where you pretend you're joking."
He looked over at her. "I'm asking a question."
"No." Her voice softened. "You're asking ten questions."
"Okay." That irritated him mostly because she was right. Harry shifted onto his side. "Then answer one of them."
For a moment she didn't. Outside, a car passed beneath the window. The room settled around them. Finally she spoke, "Why does this have to mean something?"
"What?" Harry blinked.
"Why can't I just want to be here?" She sat up slightly. "Why can't I just miss you?"
The words landed somewhere uncomfortable because he wanted them to be true. God, he wanted them to be true but they'd done this before. Too many times.
"You disappear for months. You don't call."
"I know."
"You leave."
Her eyes dropped. "I know."
Harry ran a hand over his face. It was a cycle. Always a cycle. Every version of this conversation sounded vaguely familiar. Different city. Different year. Same script.
"Is this you settling in?" he asked quietly.
She laughed once. A sad sound. "Harry."
"No, genuinely." He sat up too. "Is it?"
She looked away towards the window. Looking anywhere but him. And suddenly he knew because she didn't say anything. The drinking had started after the breakup. At first socially and then more regularly. Then frequently enough that Harry stopped asking questions he already knew the answers to. She wasn't reckless. She wasn't out of control. She was lonely. And loneliness had a habit of disguising itself as other things.
"Have you been drinking again?" he asked.
Her jaw tightened. "Now we're doing this."
"No." Harry shook his head. "We're not. I'm worried about you."
The fight left her immediately. That was the problem. Every time he expected anger, he found sadness instead. She looked tired. The kind of exhaustion that came from carrying yourself through life alone.
"I don't know how to stop sometimes," she admitted.
Harry looked down because hearing it out loud hurt more than he'd expected.
"You don't have to do everything by yourself."
"You always say that." A small smile appeared.
"Because it's true."
Another silence settled between them. This one gentler. Less defensive. Eventually she lay back down beside him. Close enough that their shoulders touched. Harry stared at the ceiling again.
"Do you know what's annoying?" he asked.
"Everything?" She laughed softly. "Go on."
He exhaled, "I'll keep doing this."
"What?" Her head turned.
"This." He gestured vaguely between them. "You'll come back."
"Harry..."
"And I'll let you."
Because that was the truth. The ugly one. The one he rarely admitted. He knew how this story worked and how it ended. Knew she'd leave again. Knew he'd spend weeks convincing himself he was done. Then one day she'd text or call or appear and he'd open the door anyway. Love had a way of surviving logic.
She reached for his hand and they simply lay there. Fingers intertwined. The familiar intimacy somehow sadder than the unfamiliar kind.
"Maybe I just miss you," she said eventually.
"Maybe," Harry smiled sadly.
"And maybe I wanted to see you. It doesn't have to be more complicated than that."
He looked over at her. At the vulnerability she'd spent years disguising. At the loneliness she'd spent years outrunning. At the woman he'd spent years loving.
"That's the problem," he sighed, squeezing her hand. "It always is."
Because every time she came back, he wanted to believe it was different. Every time she appeared at his door or across a crowded room, some stupid hopeful part of him wondered whether she'd finally figured it out. Whether she'd finally realised what she'd thrown away. Whether she'd gotten her taste back. But lying beside her now, Harry wasn't sure that was the question anymore. Maybe the real question was whether she was looking for him. Or whether she was simply looking for somewhere the loneliness couldn't reach her for a night.
And the worst part? He wasn't sure either answer would stop him opening the door next time. Because he knew there would be a next time. There always was.
The Waiting Game
Harry knew he was being unfair. The worst part was that he knew exactly when it had started. Not the relationship, that had been the easy part.She had walked into his life at exactly the wrong moment and somehow become exactly the right person. She was thoughtful without being performative about it. Funny without needing to be the centre of attention. Independent enough to have her own life, her own friends, her own ambitions, but generous enough to make room for someone else alongside them.
She remembered things he mentioned once and forgot himself. She brought him coffee exactly how he liked it. She sat through films she hated because she knew he'd enjoy them. She never made him feel like being famous was the most interesting thing about him. If someone had asked Harry to write down everything he wanted in a partner, they would have accidentally described her.
That was the problem. Because somewhere along the way, he had started waiting for something. A feeling. A certainty. A click. The thing people always talked about when they described falling in love. And it hadn't come.
Not because there was anything wrong with her. Not because she wasn't enough. If anything, the opposite. The longer the relationship continued, the harder it became to explain why he wasn't fully in it. So instead of addressing it, he did something much worse. Nothing. The waiting game.
Maybe next month. Maybe after tour. Maybe when work calmed down. Maybe when his head felt clearer. Maybe when he felt less tired. Maybe when he stopped overthinking.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
Six months passed. Then eight. Then nearly a year. And somehow he found himself sitting across from her at dinner watching her talk about a friend's engagement while a knot tightened quietly in his chest.
"You've gone quiet."
Harry looked up. "What?"
"You've been staring at your pasta for like five minutes."
"Sorry," he laughed awkwardly. "Sorry."
"Tough day?"
"Something like that," he lied. The truth feeling impossible to explain.
How did you tell someone they were wonderful and still not enough? How did you explain a missing feeling without making it sound like a criticism?
So he didn't. Instead, he reached across the table and squeezed her hand. A gesture that looked like affection but felt like guilt. She smiled anyway and Harry hated himself a little for that.
A few weeks later they attended a friend's birthday. The kind of night where everyone ended up squeezed around sticky tables in a crowded She sat tucked beneath his arm while conversations flowed around them. At one point someone asked when they were moving in together—a harmless question.
Harry felt her body still slightly beside him. Waiting for his answer. Because they had spoken about it before but it was casual and careful. Just enough for him to know she wanted to.
Harry laughed. Deflected. Made a joke.
The conversation moved on and she smiled politely but he saw it—the disappointment. Later that night, walking home, she finally spoke.
"You know you don't have to joke every time someone asks."
Harry shoved his hands into his pockets. "Asks what?"
"Harry." She looked at him. The fact that she knew he was avoiding it immediately made him defensive.
"I'm just not in a rush."
"I know." Her voice stayed calm. "I didn't say you had to be."
"Then what are we talking about?"
There was a pause. One that stretched longer than he wanted. Finally she sighed, "I don't know anymore."
Something about those words lodged itself beneath his ribs. Because he did know—he knew exactly what they were talking about. The future. Commitment.
The fact that every road seemed to stop when it reached him because he never actively chose anything. He simply stood still. Waiting. Always waiting.
For clarity. For certainty. For something external to make the decision for him. And in the meantime, she waited too. Only she hadn't agreed to play the game.
The argument came months later. It wasn't explosive or dramatic, which somehow made it worse. She stood in his kitchen while Harry leaned against the counter. Both exhausted. Both aware they'd had versions of this conversation before.
"You keep apologising."
"What?" Harry frowned.
"You apologise every time." Her eyes met his. "You apologise and then nothing changes."
Sorry I've been distant. Sorry I've been distracted. Sorry work's been hectic. Sorry I've been in my head. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.
Emotionally dry apologies that sounded meaningful because they were technically honest. But honesty without action eventually became its own form of dishonesty.
She laughed softly, not because anything was funny, but because she seemed tired. "So tell me."
Harry's stomach tightened. "What?"
"Do you actually want this?"
Silence. The question sat between them. It was simple and brutal and... necessary. And Harry hated it because it required an answer. Not an explanation or another delay or apology. An answer.
She looked at him for a long moment and then nodded slowly, "There's the problem. You don't know."
Harry opened his mouth and closed it again. For the first time in nearly a year, he couldn't hide behind uncertainty. Not when uncertainty had become the answer. Not when waiting had become the decision. Not when doing nothing had become its own action.
"I think you care about me." A sad smile appeared. "But caring isn't the same thing."
Harry looked away because she deserved someone who couldn't wait to choose her. Someone excited about the future. Someone who wasn't standing at the edge of commitment hoping a feeling would arrive and rescue him from responsibility. Instead, he'd found someone to put his arms around while he waited.
Waited for certainty. Waited for clarity. Waited for something to happen. And it had all added up to nothing.
The realisation settled heavily in his chest. Not because he was losing her because he'd known for months that he might—he'd spent so long avoiding the truth that he'd forced her to carry it for both of them.
She nodded once, almost to herself, then reached for her coat while Harry watched her. For the first time, he understood that passivity wasn't neutral. Doing nothing wasn't harmless. Waiting wasn't kindness. And sometimes the cruelest thing you could do was refuse to decide because you cared just enough to keep someone close while never fully choosing them.
The waiting game. He'd been playing it for months. The only problem was that eventually time stopped waiting too.
Season 2 Weight Loss
Harry stood outside the house for eleven minutes before he knocked. He knew because he had checked the time when the taxi pulled away, mostly to give himself something to do that wasn’t look at the front door and remember all the ways he had left it. Sometimes drunk. Sometimes high. Sometimes angry. Sometimes so full of shame he could barely meet her eyes. Sometimes promising he would be better with the kind of certainty only people who had not yet learned themselves could afford.
Six months was a strange amount of time. Long enough for everything to change. Not long enough for the shape of the keyhole, the chipped paint on the step, or the lavender planted badly along the front path to become unfamiliar. He could still picture her crouching there in the rain, insisting the lavender would survive if they spoke kindly to it. He could still hear himself laughing at her, not unkindly, before pressing a kiss to the top of her wet hair.
He had thought about that in rehab more than he wanted to admit. Not the dramatic things. Not the screaming match that finally made her call his mother. Not the look on her face when she told him she loved him too much to watch him destroy himself in the same house where she was trying to build a life with him. Those memories had come too, of course, usually at night, usually with teeth. But the small things had been worse. The tea she made too strong. The way she tucked her feet beneath his thigh on the sofa. The lavender. The life that had been waiting for him until he ruined the waiting.
He knocked before he could lose the nerve. For a few seconds nothing happened, and Harry had enough time to imagine every possible version of her answer. That she would not open the door. That she had changed her mind. That she had waited because she said she would, but waiting and wanting were different things.
Then the lock turned. She opened the door wearing jeans and one of his old jumpers, and for a moment Harry forgot how to breathe. She looked exactly the same and completely different. Her hair was pulled back from her face, her eyes a little tired, her mouth curving into a tentative smile that looked like it had to travel through six months of pain before it reached him. Her hand tightened on the edge of the door, and he saw the moment she wanted to step forward. Saw her stop herself.
“Hi,” she said softly.
Harry swallowed. “Hi.”
Neither of them moved. Then she gave a small, nervous laugh that almost broke him. “I don’t know if it’s okay that I hug you or not.”
His chest ached so sharply he had to look down for a second. “You can hug me.”
She stepped into him then, carefully at first, like he might shatter if she held too tightly. Harry wrapped his arms around her and closed his eyes, and the relief of it moved through him so fast it was almost painful. He had missed her body against his. Missed the familiar place his chin found beside her head. Missed being held by someone who knew exactly how much of him was missing and still opened the door. For a while, neither of them said anything.
Inside, the house was cleaner than he remembered. Or maybe he was just noticing things properly now. His trainers by the stairs were gone. The half-empty bottles that used to gather in corners were gone. The air smelled like washing powder and tea and something faintly floral. She led him into the kitchen and filled the kettle, moving with careful purpose, giving her hands jobs because otherwise they might shake.
Harry sat at the table. The chair was the same. The table had a scratch across the middle from the night he dropped a mug and she cried because it had not really been about the mug.
She placed tea in front of him and sat opposite, wrapping both hands around her own cup. “Is it okay if I say I missed you?”
“Stop asking if everything is okay to do,” Harry said, but gently, because he understood why she was asking.
Her face fell anyway. “Sorry.”
“No, don’t.” He leaned forward, guilt already tightening around his ribs. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I just don’t want to rush this... process or whatever it is.” She let out a breath and stared down at the tea. “I don’t know how to act. I’ve never done this before. I mean, neither have you, obviously, but I don’t know what the rules are.”
Harry looked at her hands around the mug and had the sudden, horrible thought that loving him had made her cautious in her own kitchen.
“There aren’t rules,” he said. “I don’t think.”
Silence settled between them, not empty, but crowded. There was too much to say and no clean place to begin. Harry had practised parts of this conversation in rooms with beige walls and chairs that made everyone sit too upright. He had said things to counsellors. To groups. To himself in mirrors. He had learned how to name cravings without letting them become commands, how to sit in shame without letting it turn into self-pity, how to tell the difference between wanting comfort and wanting escape. But none of that had prepared him for her face.
“I’m better,” he said finally, and then immediately hated how small it sounded. How easy. “Not fixed. I know that’s not… I don’t want to make it sound like six months away and I’ve come back shiny and new.”
Her mouth trembled at the corner, but she nodded.
“I’ve done the work,” he continued, forcing himself not to look away. “And it was fucking hard. It was horrible, actually. Some days I wanted to leave. Some days I wanted to drink so badly I could feel it in my teeth. Some days I was furious at you for making me go, even though you didn’t make me do anything. You just stopped pretending it was fine.”
Her eyes filled then, and Harry had to pause.
“I kept thinking I had to come back as something impossible,” he said. “Like if I wasn’t completely fine, completely changed, completely worthy of you, then there was no point coming back at all. It was always everything or nothing with me. Either I was the man you deserved or I was a lost cause, and both of those were just excuses to avoid being honest about where I actually was.”
She wiped quickly beneath one eye. “And where are you?”
“Here,” he said. “Sober. Scared. Trying. Still selfish sometimes. Still ashamed of a lot. But here.”
The words sat between them, bare and unpretty. He reached for his tea but did not drink it.
“I let you down,” he said, voice quieter. “I know I did. Not just at the end. Before that. I made you live with the worst parts of me and then acted wounded when you couldn’t love me out of them. I wanted your love to fix what I wouldn’t face. And I’m so sorry.”
She pressed her lips together, tears slipping anyway.
Harry looked down at his hands. “I’m not asking you to forget it. I’m not asking you to trust me because I came home. I know I have to earn whatever happens next, if anything happens next. But I need you to know that I loved you the whole time. Even when I was awful at it. Even when I made it look like I didn’t. I loved you in there every day, and I’m hoping…” He laughed once, wet and humourless. “God, I’m hoping you still love me. Like I’ve been loving you for the past six months.”
She stood so quickly the chair scraped against the floor. For half a second, Harry thought she was leaving. Instead, she came around the table and sat beside him, close enough that their knees touched, close enough that he could smell the familiar warmth of her skin beneath the wool of his jumper. She did not throw herself at him. She did not promise anything. She simply took his hand and held it between both of hers.
“I do love you,” she said, and the relief almost knocked him sick. “But I’m scared too.”
Harry nodded. “I know.”
“And I can’t be the thing that keeps you sober.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
She studied him for a long moment, searching for something, maybe the old habit, maybe the old charm, maybe the version of him that knew how to make pain sound romantic instead of taking responsibility for it. Harry let her look. He had spent years wanting to be loved without being fully seen. Now he understood, with a clarity that still frightened him, that love without truth had nearly killed them both.
Eventually she leaned forward and rested her forehead against his shoulder. Harry closed his eyes. No grand forgiveness arrived. No clean ending. No sudden proof that everything broken had become beautiful because enough time had passed. There was only the warmth of her hand around his, the untouched tea on the table, and the quiet fact of being allowed to sit beside her again. Outside, the lavender bent gently in the wind—still there. Not thriving exactly but alive.
Coming Up Roses
The engagement ring sat in a velvet box on the bedside table. She hadn't given it back, officially, but neither of them quite knew what to do with it anymore. Harry glanced at it as he climbed into bed, the small box illuminated by the soft glow of the lamp beside them. A year ago, the sight of it would have made him smile. Six months ago, it would have made his chest tighten. Now it mostly made him feel tired. He wasn't tired of her—never her. He was tired of trying to solve a problem that didn't have a villain.
Ophelia slid beneath the duvet beside him and switched off the light. The room immediately settled into darkness, broken only by the orange glow of streetlights beyond the curtains. For a while, neither of them spoke. That had become normal too. A kind of silence that existed between two people who had already had every difficult conversation and still hadn't found an answer.
She rolled onto her side. "You were quiet tonight."
"So were you."
"Deflection."
"Observation."
He felt her smile against the darkness, then it faded. "Did you have a good time?"
The question wasn't really about dinner. Neither of them pretended otherwise.
Harry stared at the ceiling. "Yeah. Did you?"
"Yeah."
The answer sounded true which somehow made everything worse. Because the relationship wasn't failing. That would have been easier.
There had been no betrayal. No cheating. No screaming matches. No dramatic collapse. In fact, they'd spent the last year doing exactly what people were supposed to do when things became difficult. They communicated, went to therapy, listened, compromised, loved each other. The problem was that love wasn't the thing in question—the future was.
Harry felt Ophelia move closer until her head rested lightly against his chest. Instinctively, his arm wrapped around her shoulders. The familiarity of it almost hurt. He loved this and loved her. Loved the way she always ran cold and stole his body heat. Loved that she hummed absent-mindedly when she cooked. Loved that she still laughed at jokes halfway through telling them. But sometimes love felt like standing at a crossroads holding someone's hand. Not wanting to let go and knowing one of you eventually might have to.
"Can I ask you something?" Ophelia said quietly.
"Always."
For a moment she seemed to reconsider and then she asked anyway, "Do you think we're getting closer?"
Some days, yes. Absolutely. Some days they felt stronger than ever. More honest. More connected. More mature than the couple who had gotten engaged two years earlier. But then there were nights like this. Nights where he could feel the distance between what they wanted. Ophelia wanted roots. A home. Children eventually. Christmases that happened in the same place every year. A life that grew smaller and deeper. Harry wanted movement. He loved building things. Creating things. Taking opportunities when they arrived. His life kept getting bigger and every time it expanded, he saw the fear flicker across her face.
"Harry?"
He sighed, "I don't know."
Her body stilled. The answer hurt them both because it was honest—honesty wasn't always kind.
"I feel guilty sometimes," he admitted.
"Why?"
"Because I worry you think I don't want you here."
Ophelia lifted her head immediately. "What?"
"See?" His laugh went quiet. The darkness made confessions easier. "I know how often we have these conversations."
"Because they're important."
"I know." He brushed his thumb against her shoulder. "But sometimes I worry you leave them thinking I don't want this."
Her eyes searched his face. "Do you? Not want this?"
"I want you." Harry reached up and rubbed a hand across his jaw. "I've never questioned that."
Ophelia looked away.
"Then what's wrong with us?" Ophelia looked away, sadness in her voice. It nearly undid him.
There wasn't anything wrong with them. Not really. That was the tragedy. If she'd been cruel. If she'd been selfish. If she'd betrayed him. He could have pointed at the wound. Instead, they were two good people wanting different versions of a good life. And neither version was wrong.
"I think we're both hoping the other person changes their mind."
They knew it was true.
Maybe she'd eventually want more. Maybe he'd eventually want less. Maybe they'd wake up one day aligned. Maybe.
"I hate when you're right."
Harry smiled weakly. "It's my best quality."
She rolled her eyes—even now, even here. He could still make her laugh which felt cruel somehow. She settled back against his chest while he stared into the darkness. His hand rested against her arm.
Neither wanting the night to end.
Neither wanting to continue the conversation.
The strange middle ground they'd been living in for months.
"If we stay the course..." Ophelia began quietly. Harry looked down. She wasn't looking at him. Just speaking into the darkness. "...do you think we'd get it right?"
He thought about the engagement ring. The therapy appointments. The weekends away. The conversations. The effort. God, the effort. No one could accuse them of not trying or giving up too easily.
"I don't know." Harry closed his eyes.
Her breathing hitched slightly. She wasn't crying but she was close and guild flooded him instantly. Ophelia's tears on account of his wants. That was truth of it, wasn't it? His ambitions. His dreams. His inability to promise a smaller life. Every version of the future he imagined seemed to ask something from her, and every version she imagined seemed to ask something from him. Neither request unreasonable but neither request was free.
"I'm sorry." The words slipped out quietly.
"You're apologising." Ophelia laughed through what sounded suspiciously like tears. She reached for his hand, intertwining their fingers. "But you're not doing anything wrong."
The words should have comforted him but instead they made his chest ache. Sometimes nobody was wrong. Sometimes love wasn't enough. Sometimes compatibility and affection weren't the same thing. And that was far more frightening than heartbreak.
Harry squeezed her hand. They lay there for a long time after that. Just two people who loved each other deeply sharing a bed that still felt like home. Ophelia's breathing slowed while her head remained on his chest. Harry stared into the darkness, listening to the rhythm of her breath. Wondering whether all these fears were bringing them closer together or simply making them more aware of the distance that had always been there.
The hardest part was that he still had hope. Stubborn, ridiculous hope. The kind that whispered maybe. Maybe they could get it right. Maybe there was still a version of the story where neither of them had to give up everything they wanted. Maybe love could bridge the gap or maybe this was simply another night in a relationship neither of them were quite ready to let go of.
For now, he wrapped his arm tighter around her. For now, she stayed exactly where she was. And together, they watched the night pass.
Me and you. Just one more time.
Pop
The thing nobody told you about boxing was that the fight never started in the ring. By the time Harry climbed through the ropes, sweat already cooling across the back of his neck beneath his robe, he'd been fighting for weeks. Against the voice in his head that occasionally wondered whether willingly stepping into a space designed for another man to hit you was a sign of courage or a complete lack of self-preservation. Nerves and doubt.
Tonight's opponent was good. Very good. Harry knew that because every person in his corner had reminded him of it. Strong. Fast. Technical. Dangerous. The sort of fighter capable of changing the direction of your life with a single punch. Which was exactly why Harry had signed the contract.
Is he in over his head? Probably. Would he do it again? Absolutely.
The arena buzzed around him as he bounced lightly on the balls of his feet. Cameras flashed. Announcers shouted. Music pounded through the speakers hard enough to rattle the floor beneath him. Across the ring, his opponent rolled his shoulders and stared him down—Harry staring him right back.
Then his gaze drifted beyond the ropes and lights to where she was sitting. She'd promised not to look worried but she failed, spectacularly. Even from a distance, he could see it. The way she kept twisting the rings on her fingers. The way she leaned forward whenever he got hit. The way she loved this version of him and hated it in equal measure. After all, who falls in love with a boxer and expects peace?
Earlier that evening, before he'd left the changing room, she'd straightened the collar of his jacket and looked at him with that expression that always made him feel simultaneously invincible and completely helpless.
"Try not to get punched in the face."
"Bit late for a career change."
"I'm serious," she let out a large sigh.
"I know."
"Do good tonight." Her hands had settled briefly against his chest.
Harry had smiled. "Yeah?"
She'd rolled her eyes.
"Don't be smug." She'd rolled her eyes and then leaned close enough that only he could hear. "If you win..."
"If I win?" Harry's eyebrow lifted.
A smile appeared on her face. It looked dangerous, but it was also beautiful.
"If you win, I'll reward you later."
"That feels vague," Harry laughed.
"Maybe someone will be on their knees." She'd kissed him once and then pointed towards the tunnel. "Go do your job."
Now, standing beneath the lights, Harry wished she'd been slightly more specific. The bell rang and suddenly there was no room for anything else. The fight exploded into motion. The first round passed in flashes. The crowd became background noise. The world narrowed into split-second decisions and muscle memory. Every punch thrown. Every punch avoided. Every opening spotted and exploited before it disappeared.
By round four, Harry's lip was bleeding. By round six, he'd stopped noticing. By round eight, he was grinning.
Somewhere between fear and adrenaline existed a strange kind of freedom. There was no expectations or pretending in the ring. No carefully curated version of yourself. Just action—you either moved or you didn't.
Hit or got hit. Won or lost.
The simplicity of it felt addictive. Maybe that was the problem. Harry never did anything halfway. Not when it came to boxing, relationships love... certainly not her. The final punch landed in the tenth.
Clean. Sharp. Decisive.
His opponent hit the canvas and the crowd erupted. The referee stepped in and Harry knew the fight was over. The noise that followed felt almost unreal. People shouting his name and his team rushing the ring and cameras appearing from nowhere. Harry barely registered any of it because he was already looking for her.
He found her near the barrier. Beautiful. She was laughing and talking to some bloke. Harry froze. The bloke was harmless—probably. Tall. Well-dressed. Smiling. Far too comfortable for Harry's liking. The jealousy arrived instantly and Harry knew it wasn't reasonable or mature.
His coach appeared beside him. "Good fight."
"Cheers," Harry nodded distractedly.
"You listening?"
"No." Because all Harry could see was her smiling at another man. Which was ridiculous.
She was allowed to smile at people and have conversations. She was allowed to exist independently of him and Harry knew that. The problem was he didn't particularly care.
The dangerous thing about loving someone the way he loved her was that it occasionally made him irrational. It made him possessive. Greedy. Want all her attention. All her time.
Every laugh. Every smile. Every version of her. Not because she belonged to him. He just liked her so much it bordered on obsession.
By the time he reached her, the conversation was ending. The stranger looked up, noticed Harry, and understood. Smart man.
"Great fight," he offered.
Harry smiled. Friendly enough. "Cheers."
The stranger nodded at her and then wisely disappeared.
She turned towards Harry already smiling. "You need to practice your poker face."
"What?" Harry frowned.
"You're pretending you weren't jealous."
"I wasn't."
"Mm," she nodded, looking entirely unconvinced.
Harry wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her against him. He was still breathing hard from the fight and buzzing with adrenaline—still slightly out of his mind.
"You were talking to him."
"He congratulated me," she laughed. "For surviving being emotionally attached to a boxer."
"Rude." Harry looked genuinely offended.
"No. It's accurate." The smile she gave him was impossibly fond. It made his chest ache.
Boxing wasn't actually the risky thing. The risk was caring about someone enough that they could ruin your day with a look. Missing them while standing three feet away. Wanting to take up every spare second of their time. Wanting a future you couldn't fully predict. Not knowing how any of it would end.
Harry rested his forehead briefly against hers. The arena still roared around them. Cameras flashed and someone was probably waiting to interview him. He ignored all of it.
"You know," she said softly, "normal people celebrate victories differently."
"Never claimed to be normal."
"Aren't I lucky."
His hands settled on her hips. Grounding himself. The adrenaline still surged through him, wild and electric beneath his skin. Like he'd pulled a thread and couldn't quite stop it unravelling. Like he'd promised himself he'd behave and already knew he wouldn't.
"I love you, you know that?" he asked.
"I know."
"Good."
"So possessive," she laughed.
"Correct," Harry admitted.
"Ridiculously jealous."
Harry considered it. "Potentially."
She shook her head. Smiling the entire time. And as he looked at her, standing beneath the bright lights and noise and chaos, Harry realised he felt exactly the same way about her as he did about boxing. Completely in over his head. No idea where it was going. No guarantee it would end well. And absolutely certain he'd do it again.
Dance No More
Harry was perfectly happy standing by the bar. That was what he kept telling everyone, anyway. The nightclub pulsed around him with coloured lights and bass heavy enough to vibrate through the floorboards. People crowded around small tables. Drinks sloshed over the edges of glasses. Someone was attempting a backflip near the dance floor, which felt optimistic after four tequila shots.
Harry watched all of it with mild amusement with a drink in one hand and his other shoved into the pocket of his jacket. He was comfortable and safe. Exactly where he wanted to be until Nelly appeared.
"Absolutely not." Harry didn't even need to look at her.
"You don't know what I was going to say."
"Yes, I do."
Nelly grabbed his wrist. "Let's go."
"Nelly," Harry laughed.
"Harry."
The pair of them stared at each other and eventually she pointed dramatically towards the dance floor. "This crowd is so fucking dead."
Harry glanced over to the crowd. To be fair, she wasn't entirely wrong. The music was good but the energy was not. Half the room seemed determined to experience the night through their phones. The other half were nodding politely as though they were attending a networking event rather than being in a club.
Nelly looked personally offended. "Why do people not dance anymore?"
"I think they are dancing. Except for him. And her. And them. They're all sitting." Harry couldn't help laughing.
Nelly folded her arms. "No wonder everyone's miserable. People are supposed to dance."
"That's a bold statement."
"It's science."
"I don't think that's the word I'd use."
Before he could continue, she suddenly pointed at him. "You know what your problem is? You love dancing and yet you spend half the night pretending you don't."
"That's not true."
Nelly's expression suggested she thought he was a liar. A terrible one. Then, without warning, she spun on her heel and disappeared into the crowd.
Harry frowned. "Where are you going?"
She didn't answer. Which was immediately concerning. Five minutes later he found out why. The music cut abruptly. The DJ leaned into the microphone and suddenly the opening notes of Harry's favourite song blasted through the speakers.
Harry froze. "Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding."
Across the room, Nelly stood beside the DJ booth looking ecstatic. When she spotted him, she pointed directly at the dance floor. Like a general ordering troops into battle. Harry laughed because there was no chance of winning this.
His friends had already noticed. Already cheering and beckoning him over. By the time he reached the edge of the dance floor, Nelly was waiting. Hands on hips. Victorious.
"Your favourite song."
"I hate you."
"You love me."
"Unfortunately."
"Come on." She grabbed his hands. "Get your feet wet."
"Nelly," Harry groaned. "Everyone's looking."
"No they're not. Nobody cares."
She was probably right. Harry spent most of his life worrying about things nobody else noticed. Looking stupid. Dancing badly. Saying the wrong thing. Standing in the wrong place. Meanwhile Nelly seemed to exist in a completely different reality where none of that mattered.
The music swelled around them. The beat dropped.
Nelly immediately threw both arms in the air. "COME ON!"
Harry started laughing and she pointed at him. "Hands up high."
"No."
"Hands!"
With a dramatic sigh, he lifted them.
Immediately she cheered. "There he is!"
The rest of their friends joined in. The circle widened. The music grew louder. And something loosened. The self-consciousness, overthinking, constant awareness of himself—it all started to slip. Nelly danced like she lived inside the music. Just pure joy.
At one point she grabbed his shoulders. "See? This is better!"
Harry looked around to people laughing. Strangers dancing together. Spinning each other in circles. And Harry found his smile growing
"Okay."
Nelly gasped dramatically, "Okay?"
"The music is good," he laughed. The bass kicked through the room. The crowd finally waking up around them. The song building towards another chorus. It all made Harry grin. "No. This music is ten out of ten."
Nelly immediately screamed in triumph, "I KNEW IT!"
At some point another song started. Then another. Time blurred. The way it always did when you stopped paying attention to yourself. Harry found himself singing and dancing and laughing—actually participating rather than observing. Which was rare as he'd spent a lot of his life standing slightly outside of things. Watching and analysing. Even during good moments. Sometimes it felt easier to create the experience than live inside it. Easier to watch people have fun than simply join them. But standing there with his friends, sweat sticking his shirt to his back and music vibrating through his chest, Harry realised how exhausting that could be.
Nelly appeared beside him again. Her hair was messy and she was breathless. But she was still dancing.
"You look happier."
Harry glanced over. "I am happier."
For a moment they simply stood there, moving to the music. The crowd around them finally alive. Harry looked around at the strangers and his friends. At Nelly dancing like her life depended on it. And suddenly understood exactly what she'd been trying to tell him all night. Nobody remembered the people standing on the edge. Nobody got home and talked about how cool they looked leaning against the bar.
The fun was always out here. In the middle of it—messy and sweaty
"Told you," Nelly nudged his shoulder. Then grabbed his wrist again before he could protest and retreat back to the safety of observation.
"One more song!"
Harry smiled. The music surged around them. And this time, he followed willingly.
Paint By Numbers
The thing about ten-year-olds was that they could ask life-altering questions with the same level of seriousness they used to ask for a biscuit. Harry learned this on a rainy Saturday afternoon while sitting cross-legged on the floor of his living room, holding a tiny paintbrush and attempting to colour inside an absurdly small section marked with the number seven.
Across from him, his daughter was doing significantly better.
"Dad."
"Mhm?"
"You've painted outside the lines."
Harry looked down and sure enough, blue paint had escaped its designated area. "I'm trying. Sorry, love."
"You're cheating."
"Bit harsh," he laughed.
She smiled without looking up from her painting. The pair of them had spent nearly an hour working through the paint-by-numbers kit she'd begged him to buy. It was supposed to be a relaxing activity. Unfortunately, Harry had discovered he possessed neither the patience nor the fine motor skills required for tiny paint sections.
His daughter, meanwhile, was thriving. The rain tapped softly against the windows. Music played quietly from the speaker in the kitchen. For once, neither of them had anywhere to be.
No school. No work. No rushing.
Just an unfinished painting stretched across the coffee table between them. Harry reached for another colour.
"Question."
His daughter immediately looked suspicious. "What?"
"Why do you have a better attention span than me?"
"Because I'm ten," she giggled and then returned to her painting.
For a few minutes, only the sound of brushes against canvas filled the room. Until she spoke again.
"Dad?"
"Hm?"
"Do famous people get sad?" she asked quietly. The way it got when she was trying to figure something out.
Harry paused. Across from him, she continued painting as though she'd asked whether giraffes liked swimming.
A simple question. A very ten-year-old question.
Harry set his paintbrush down. "Yeah."
"Even really famous ones?"
"Especially really famous ones sometimes."
"Why?" She seemed surprise.
Harry thought about it. How do you explain fame to someone who still believed most problems could be solved with snacks and a good night's sleep?
"You know how sometimes people think they know exactly what you like?"
His daughter nodded. "Like Aunt Gemma always buys me socks with animals on them."
"Exactly."
"Even though I don't really like them."
"Exactly." Harry smiled. "Now imagine millions of people deciding who they think you are."
"Oh." She finally looked up.
"Sometimes they get it right and sometimes they don't.
She considered the next question very seriously. "And you can't tell all of them?"
"Nope."
"That sounds annoying."
"It can be," Harry laughed.
She dipped her brush into yellow paint. Thinking. Then she asked the question that really caught him.
"Do you ever get tired of being famous?"
The rain continued outside. Steady and gentle. Harry looked down at the painting between them. Hundreds of tiny numbered spaces waiting to be filled. A picture already decided before either of them had touched a brush.
Sometimes fame felt a little bit like that. People handed you a picture of yourself and said this is who you are. This is what you should say. This is how you should act. Stay in the lines. Use the right colours. Don't surprise anyone.
He'd spent years learning how to live inside that picture. Years learning to paint by numbers. And sometimes, despite his best efforts, the colours ran anyway.
"I don't get tired of the people," Harry said eventually. "I like meeting people. I like making music. I like knowing something I made means something to someone."
"Okay."
"But sometimes..." He searched for the right words. "Sometimes people think the picture is more important than the person."
Her eyes dropped to the canvas and then back to him. "That's silly."
"It is a bit," Harry said smiling.
She stared at him for another second before picking up her brush again. "Well. I know you're a person."
"Oh yeah?" His chest tightened unexpectedly.
"Obviously." She sounded genuinely confused. "As if I'd forget."
Harry laughed softly, "Thanks."
"No problem." Then, after a brief pause, "You're also bad at paint by numbers."
Harry shook his head and reached for his brush again.
Outside, the rain continued to fall. Inside, the colours slowly filled the blank spaces. Not perfectly. Not neatly. Blue escaping where it wasn't supposed to. Yellow mixing into green. The picture becoming something slightly different than the one printed on the box. And somehow, Harry thought, that was probably the point.
His daughter leaned across the table. "Hey, Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"You missed a number." She pointed at his section.
Carla's Song
Harry found the view at half two in the morning while she was asleep beside him, one leg thrown over his beneath the sheets, her phone still open on her chest to a video of a woman standing on the edge of a cliff somewhere impossibly green, crying like she had just seen God. She had watched three videos like that before falling asleep. Mountain ranges. Hidden beaches. A lake in Switzerland so blue it looked edited by someone with no respect for subtlety. Each time, she had sighed in that small, frustrated way she tried to swallow before he could hear it, and each time Harry had looked over and found the same expression on her face, not envy exactly, but longing. Like she was afraid the world was happening somewhere else and she kept arriving just after the beautiful part had ended.
It had been building for months, this quiet panic of hers. She would stand in museums and say the paintings were beautiful, but not in a way that changed her. She would walk through cities with him and love the streets, the food, the noise, the small things, but later, in hotel rooms or on trains or halfway through brushing her teeth, she would say, “I just keep waiting for something to knock me out of myself,” and Harry would sit with that because he understood wanting the world to reach inside you and rearrange something. He also understood that chasing that feeling too hard could make every lovely thing feel like a disappointment before it had a chance to become anything else.
So he had stayed awake, one arm behind his head, scrolling through hiking forums and badly designed travel blogs until he found it: a ridge walk two hours from where they were staying, not famous enough to be crowded, not easy enough to be accidental, with a final climb that opened suddenly onto a valley carved between mountains, a silver river running through it like ribbon, and a lake sitting at the bottom as though somebody had poured the sky into a bowl. The second he saw the photograph, Harry knew. He did not need to ask her whether it was too dramatic or too quiet, too high or too wild, too much walking for not enough reward. He knew the particular shape of her wanting by now. He knew the difference between the things she liked and the things she needed.
Which was why, the next morning, when he told her they were going on a hike and she looked at him over the rim of her coffee like he had personally declared war on her calves, he simply smiled and pushed her toast closer. “Before you start,” he said, “I’ve packed snacks.”
She narrowed her eyes. “That’s suspiciously competent.”
“I like to keep you on your toes.”
“A man who forgets where he put his sunglasses while they’re on his head likes to keep me in on my toes.”
“Whatever,” he said, tapping the rucksack by his chair, “snacks.”
The hike started beautifully enough to irritate her. That was the problem. The trail was pretty in the reliable way nature often was when it was not trying to ruin your ankles. Pine trees pressed close on either side, sunlight came down in moving pieces, and every so often the path opened enough for them to see hills rolling away in soft green folds. She noticed all of it. Harry watched her notice it. He watched her touch leaves as they passed, tilt her face towards the light, pause to look at a bird she couldn’t name and then immediately pretend she had not paused because she was trying very hard not to be impressed too early.
After forty minutes, she sighed.
Harry glanced over. “What's that sound?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Tragic.”
“No, it is beautiful,” she insisted, looking guilty, as though the trees might overhear and feel underappreciated. “I’m not being ungrateful.”
“I know.”
“I just don’t think this is it.”
Harry nodded solemnly. “Right.”
“I mean, I like it.”
“Good. I was worried the trees had failed their audition.”
She gave him a look. “Don’t be annoying.”
“Impossible request.”
“I’m serious, H. I don’t know what I’m waiting for, and that’s the worst part because I feel like such a brat walking through all this and thinking, no, not that, not enough, keep going.”
He stopped then, not dramatically, just enough that she had to stop too. Her cheeks were flushed from the climb, a loose strand of hair stuck lightly to her lip gloss, and her eyes were bright in that way they got when she was close to crying but too stubborn to admit it. Harry stepped towards her and brushed the hair gently from her mouth. “Baby,” he said, quieter now, “we have our whole life.”
Her face softened immediately.
“It’s all there waiting for you,” he continued. “We keep going until we see what it is you want.”
For a second, she only looked at him. Then she exhaled a laugh that sounded half affection, half disbelief. “You say things like that and then expect me to keep walking uphill.”
“I do, yeah. It's romantic.”
“Debatable.”
The final stretch was less romantic. The path sharpened, the ground turned uneven, and she spent ten minutes threatening to haunt him if this ended with “a field and a bench.” Harry let her complain because complaining was part of how she endured things, and because the more dramatic she became, the more he knew she was secretly beginning to hope. He could feel it in the way she stopped checking the time, the way her steps quickened whenever the trees thinned ahead, the way she kept looking at him as though trying to catch the answer before the world revealed it.
When they reached the last rise, she slowed. “Harry,” she started, breathless and wary, “if this is another very nice hill—”
“Will you just shut up and walk up that hill?”
Her mouth fell open. “Excuse me?”
“Lovingly,” he said, offering his hand. “Shut up lovingly.”
She stared at him for another second, then took his hand with exaggerated offence and let him lead her up the final incline. The grass was wind-flattened beneath their boots. The sky opened first, wide and clean above them, and then the land fell away all at once.
She stopped so abruptly Harry nearly walked into her.
For once, she said nothing.
The valley stretched beneath them in impossible layers of green and gold, mountains rising around it like the edges of some ancient secret, their peaks softened by cloud. Far below, the river moved through the landscape in a bright, winding line, catching the sun in flashes. The lake at the centre was utterly still, glassy and blue, reflecting the sky so clearly it made the whole world feel doubled. Wind rushed up the ridge and pulled at their clothes, but she did not move. She stood there with his hand still caught in hers, her breathing uneven, her eyes fixed on the view as though looking away would make it disappear.
Harry watched her instead. He had seen enough beautiful things to know the view was spectacular. But her seeing it was better. The hitch in her breath. The slackening of her shoulders. The way her eyes filled without sadness, as though something inside her had finally unlocked and all the longing she had carried for months had somewhere to go. This was what he had wanted for her. Not the mountain, not the photograph, not proof that he could plan a decent hike. This. The first hit of wonder. The sweetness that had always existed suddenly lighting up behind her eyes.
He let her have it.
No joke. No comment. No arm around her too soon. He simply stood beside her and held her hand while she took in the thing she had been waiting to feel.
Eventually, she whispered, “Oh.”
Harry smiled. “Yeah.”
“This is…” She shook her head, unable to finish.
“I know.”
She turned to him then, eyes wet, mouth parted in a stunned little smile. “You knew?”
He shrugged, but badly, because he was too pleased with himself to make it convincing. “I had a suspicion.”
“You found this for me?”
“I did.”
“Because of the videos?”
“Because of you.” Harry squeezed her hand. “I just want to make it known, for the record, that I know what you like and I don’t need to read your mind.”
She laughed through the emotion then, wiping quickly beneath one eye. “You look very satisfied right now.”
“I earned it.”
He looked back over the valley, the wind moving around them, the world spread wide and waiting. “I’d go anywhere with you,” he said, softer now. “To see everything you need to see.”
That was what did it.
She turned into him so fast he barely had time to brace before her arms were around his neck and her mouth was on his, laughing between kisses, her body warm and solid against him while the view opened endlessly behind them. Harry stumbled back half a step, caught her waist, and laughed too, helplessly, because she was kissing his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth, murmuring thank you like he had given her something instead of simply taking her where the world had been waiting.
A few minutes later, she pulled away just enough to take out her phone. “Stand there.”
Harry frowned. “Where?”
“In front of it.”
He obeyed, grinning as the wind tossed his hair across his forehead. She took the picture while he was laughing, not posed, not ready, one hand lifted as if to tell her she was being ridiculous.
When she lowered the phone, her face softened all over again.
“What?” he asked.
She looked from the screen to the valley and then back to him, smiling like she had finally found the exact shape of the feeling she’d been chasing. “Nothing,” she said. “Just my two favourite views.”
Summary: Before Harry and Nora built their little family, they almost fell apart. Nora was tired of getting only the scraps of him left over after the world had taken its share, and when he missed one of her biggest milestones, it felt like the final straw. This is the story of the near-ending that forced Harry to decide what, and who, he would truly show up for.
Series Masterlist: Here
Masterlist: Here
The kettle clicked off and sighed into silence. Nora stood in the kitchen, cupping the still-empty mug like it could warm her before anything was inside it. The morning felt delicate, like tissue paper, one wrong move and the whole day would tear. Harry shuffled in, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his wrist, curls a little flattened on one side.
“Morning,” he yawned, reaching for the French press. “Stay where you are. I’ve got this.”
“You’ve got a rehearsal in an hour,” she said, but she didn’t move. The sweet spot of him when he was barefoot, sleepy, domestic was her favorite mirage.
“I’ll be on time.” He measured out the grounds with theatrical care. “Big day.”
“Big night,” she corrected, then softened it with a smile. “You don’t have to play barista. I can—”
“I want to,” he said, and there was that quick, earnest smile that always got her. “Let me be good at something that isn’t singing and recording.”
She watched him pour the water, watched the steam drift up and fog the morning light. “You forgot your other skill.”
“Oh?” He pressed the plunger with two careful hands.
“Calendar optimism,” she said dryly. “Saying yes to three different events that magically overlap.”
He grimaced. “Cruel.”
“Accurate.”
He set a mug in front of her and stepped in close, bracketing her hips with his hands on the counter. “I moved the interview. Soundcheck is at four, I'm off by five-thirty. Car’s booked to yours at six. I’ll be at the venue by six-thirty, and I’ll make uncharitable comments about the MC into your hair by six-forty.”
She let the picture settle inside her, then nodded. “Because—” She hated the tremor in her voice. “They’re doing a little editors’ recognition before the actual award. It’s nothing, really, but… it would mean—”
“I’ll be there,” he said softly. “Nora, I’ll be there.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d said it. She let herself believe him anyway.
He kissed her forehead and pulled back. “Wear the green dress.”
Her mouth quirked. “Which green dress?”
“The one that makes me forget words.”
She pointed to the door. “Go to rehearsal. Be a rock star. Then be my plus one.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted with the mug, then glanced back from the doorway. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
When the door clicked shut, she breathed. The kitchen kept on humming, the kettle cooling, the street outside waking properly now. She opened her wardrobe and touched the silk of the dress he’d named, the one he always stared at like it owed him money.
At noon, she laid it across the bed, snapped a photo—the green slant of fabric, the corner of the window light—and sent it with: for your consideration.
Three hearts bubbled back a minute later, then, swooning. see you tonight.
She read it twice. Then she ironed the hem that didn’t need it and practiced not caring whether he made it in time. She was very bad at that.
──────────────
At 3:07 p.m., a selfie—tongue out, guitar tech photobombing, the caption running early. growth.
At 4:01, soundcheck starting. love you.
At 5:10, still on track. promise.
She pinned her hair slowly, methodically, until her hands stopped shaking. Haadiyah texted Editor Queen!!! and Nora sent back a crown emoji she immediately regretted as hubris.
At 5:50, pushing ten mins. don’t hate me. car’s waiting.
At 6:10, we’re nearly wrapped. five more. promise.
She stared at that word until it blurred. Then she slid into her cab alone.
The venue was all gleam—polished wood and white linen, fairy lights throwing soft coins of light across the room. Her table was near the middle: colleagues, a debut author she’d coached through three panic attacks and a mid-draft existential crisis, her boss, who wore his tie too tight when he was nervous.
“You look like a problem,” Haadiyah announced as Nora sat. “In the old Hollywood way.”
Nora smiled and sat on her hands so she wouldn’t check her phone again. “He’s on his way.”
“Good,” Haadiyah said, then lowered her voice. “But if he isn’t, I will be your trophy husband for the evening.”
“At least someone will be,” Nora muttered, then winced at herself. “Sorry.”
“You’re allowed,” Haadiyah said, eyes kind.
At 6:45, the MC launched into polished patter about “the invisible hands of publishing.” Nora applauded on cue. She checked the door between claps. Her boss leaned in. “Your fellow coming?”
“Yes.” Nora took a breath she tried to make sound casual. “He’s—yes.”
At 6:58, her phone buzzed against her thigh. Still going. They added a run-through. I’m so sorry. I’ll leave the second it’s done.
She slid the phone beneath her leg like she could smother the message with her thigh.
Names were called. Editors stood to polite applause. She recognized faces, clapped until her palms stung, smiled at jokes she’d heard before, glanced at the door that didn’t open.
At 7:12, Ten more. Don’t kill me.
She pictured his mouth saying it. Pictured his manager’s mouth saying something else. Pictured herself, exactly as she was: waiting for a man in a dark room.
The MC said her name. The sound landed in her ribcage like a dropped glass. Haadiyah squeezed her hand; it hurt in a good way. Nora stood. The walk to the stage felt longer than it was. Under the lights, the room blurred into a lake of faces.
“Editors,” she began, and her voice steadied by will alone, “are sometimes accused of being invisible. But the best part of this job is making someone else’s voice louder.” She thanked the people who made her brave. She was funny once and got a real laugh. She looked at the door once and got nothing at all.
She sat. She did not cry. Haadiyah slid a napkin toward her anyway and said nothing as Nora pressed it to the corner of one eye with surgical precision.
At 7:40, her phone buzzed. Here. Parking. Two mins.
At 7:43, Reception. They won’t let me in mid-segment. Will wait by the bar.
“Go,” Haadiyah murmured.
Nora stood on legs that didn’t feel like hers and walked out to the lobby.
He was by the column, cap low, T-shirt and blazer—industry camouflage. Relief brightened his face when he saw her. “There she is.”
She stopped a few feet away, kept her clutch gripped in both hands. “Hi.”
“I’m—” He took in her, properly, the breathing space between them suddenly a canyon. “Nora. I’m sorry.”
“Okay,” she said.
His mouth opened and then closed. “Okay?”
“What do you want me to say?” Her voice was gentle in a way that made him panic. “You’re here now. It’s like showing up at the hospital after the baby’s already born.”
His head jerked. “That’s not—”
“Fair?” She smiled without teeth. “No.”
He took a half-step closer. “I left as soon as I could. They—”
“They always need five more minutes,” she finished, not unkind. “I know. I’ve learned.”
“We can still catch the main award,” he said, grasping for logistics like driftwood. “We can—”
“It’s done.” She kept her voice low so it wouldn’t carry. “They did the bit. I went up. It was fine.”
He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I wanted to be there.”
“You wanted to be in two places.” She tipped her head. “You chose one.”
He swallowed. “Nora…”
“I’m tired,” she said, and the words came out like steam, quiet and visible. “Not because I wore heels or because I did a twelve-hour day. I’m tired because I only ever get scraps of you.”
He flinched like she’d struck him. “That’s not—”
“You say yes to everything until you’re empty,” she went on, each word softly placed. “And then you give me whatever’s left. I don’t want leftovers, Harry. I want you.”
“I’m here,” he said, hating how it sounded like a defense.
“Now.” The corners of her mouth lifted without joy. “For the five minutes you carved out between fifty other commitments.”
He reached for her hand and stopped when she kept both wrapped around the clutch. “Please don’t do this here.”
“Where then?” she asked, and the question wasn’t rhetorical. “At my flat after midnight when you’re already half asleep? On FaceTime between your car and your door? Which slot did your assistant leave for the girlfriend who wants a life with you?”
“Honey—” It slipped out before he could catch it. He saw the way her eyes softened and then steeled against it.
“I want a life,” she said, and her voice cracked on the word like something giving way. “I want dinners that don’t get canceled and Sundays that belong to us and—” She paused, let herself hurt. “I want to dream about kids and a marriage and not feel stupid for wanting it with someone who’s never home.”
He didn’t reach for her. He wanted to. He didn’t. “You think I don’t want that with you?”
“I think you want it in theory.” She held his gaze. She had never looked braver. “And in practice you are terrified to cost anyone anything. So you say yes to everyone and leave nothing for me.”
Silence. The bartender pretended not to listen, polishing the same glass past the point of reason.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she said softly.
He laughed, because terror is a strange alchemist. “This conversation?”
“This version of us.”
His mouth opened around her name. She spared him.
“I love you,” she added, and that hurt more than anything. “But I won’t beg to be chosen.”
“Come home,” he said, and the words felt like a prayer. “Please. We’ll talk there.”
“I’m going to Haadiyah’s.” She reached and touched the sleeve of his blazer—a benediction, a mercy, a goodbye—and then she turned and walked back toward the noise and the lights and everything that wasn’t him.
He didn’t follow. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he recognized the line she had drawn and he refused to be the man who stepped over it.
──────────────
Two weeks were both long and nothing. He called the first night and the second. By the third he stared at his phone like it was a lit stove and left it alone.
He watched her in other people’s pictures: couch night at Haadiyah’s, Nora in pajama shorts and an overwashed hoodie that was absolutely his, legs tucked under her, smile small but real. He saw a bookstore bag at her feet and wanted to know what she bought and if she liked it and whether there was a funny copyedit on page 213. He did not text.
Anne called. “You’ll hate this,” she began. “Love isn’t only in the big yeses. It’s in the noes you say to make room for the person you picked.”
“I’ve tried,” he said.
“Try harder,” she replied, and he could hear her smile.
He bought a paper planner because the seriousness of a pen felt like accountability. He wrote NORA across three consecutive Sundays and underlined them hard enough to dent the page underneath. He didn’t send her a picture of it because that would make it a performance. He closed the book and put it on top of his guitar case.
He called Nora’s Dad. “Can I take you to lunch?”
He hummed, unfooled. “You can.”
They ate at a pub that smelled like wood and onion gravy. Harry talked about nothing at first—the dog, the neighbor who sang off-key, the biscuit brand he was inexplicably loyal to and he let him. Then, poised over his tea, the father of the love of his life said, “If you love my girl, you’ll have to learn to disappoint the world sometimes.”
Harry stared at his hands. “I’m not very good at that.”
“Start small,” he said. “Work up.”
Harry started small. He said no to a shoot that would have been shiny and mostly empty. He said no to a panel that would have let him talk about himself for forty minutes. He said yes to a long walk with no destination. He booked therapy and sat with a stranger and said, “I am scared of not being enough so I try to be everything and end up being nothing to the person who matters.”
On a Thursday, he stood under Nora’s office awning at 7:45 a.m. with a tray: oat milk, one sugar; a ginger shot she would hate but drink; a croissant she would nibble and forget on her desk.
She turned the corner in a trench coat and sensible shoes, hair damp at the ends from the shower. She saw him, stopped, didn’t move closer.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, neutral.
“Delivering to my favorite editor,” he said. When she didn’t smile, he sobered. “Just coffee. No conversation required.”
She looked at the cup like it might be a trap. Then she took it. “You can’t… you can’t think this—”
“I don’t,” he said quickly. “It’s not a fix. It’s a morning.”
She nodded, a microscopic concession. “Thank you.”
He didn’t ask to walk her the rest of the way. He stood there after she went inside and watched the door until it swallowed the last hint of her coat.
He sent flowers once, neutral and quiet: white ranunculus and eucalyptus, a small card that read Proud of you. No reply needed. — H. He did not text to ask if they arrived.
He replaced the squeaky hinge on her bathroom cabinet the next week because it had bugged her for months and he remembered the way she’d flinch every time it complained. He left a note on the mirror: WD-40 is my love language and a smiley face that made her snort despite herself.
He went to therapy again. Said, “I confuse urgency with importance. I fill my days with urgent things. The important thing is a person who doesn’t shout.”
On a Sunday, he took a risk. There’s a table in the corner at Ella’s, he texted at 9:04. If you want space, I’ll leave. If you want pancakes, I’ll be there. Either answer is okay.
She left him on read. He sat anyway, hands folded, every cell braced to stand without protest.
At 9:28, the bell over the door jingled. She walked in, sweater sleeves pushed over her hands like she was colder than she looked.
“What are you doing here,” she said, but the bite was dulled.
“Waiting or leaving,” he said. “Dealer’s choice.”
She slid into the booth. “I only have an hour.”
“I’ll take ten minutes,” he said. “Then I’ll shut up and let you finish your pancakes in peace.”
She gestured. “Proceed.”
“I’m sorry,” he said simply. He let it sit until the words meant something. “I’m not sorry because it looks bad. I’m sorry because I hurt you. Because I made you feel like a placeholder in your own life. Because I kept pretending I could be everywhere and ended up nowhere you needed.”
Her eyes flicked up. The diner clattered around them. A kid dropped a fork and giggled. She said nothing.
“I can’t mend it in one speech,” he continued. “But I can change the way I choose.” He swallowed. “I have been. Quietly. Not for credit. For us.”
“Harry,” she said carefully, “I don’t want you to hate your job. I don’t want you to give up things that light you up.”
“I’m not giving up the things I love,” he said. “I’m giving up the things I agreed to so I wouldn’t disappoint anyone.” He almost smiled. “Turns out disappointing strangers is survivable.”
“What happens when your calendar looks like Jenga again?” she asked. “When it’s all shiny and urgent and you’re the one everyone wants?”
He glanced at the window, then back at her. “Then I ask if any of it matters more than sitting on your sofa while you read me paragraphs out loud and ask, ‘Does this sentence land?’ Most times it won’t. Sometimes it will. But I am done letting ‘sometimes’ be an excuse to leave you waiting.”
She stared at him like he was a text she’d read a hundred times and was only now understanding. “Where were you,” she said finally, “when they called my name?”
He didn’t hedge. “In the reception area, behind a column, wishing I could be the kind of man who deserved the smile you gave the room.”
She took a breath that looked like a decision. “I don’t trust you yet.”
“I know,” he said, and the lack of defense was the bravest thing he’d done in years. “I’ll earn it.”
The server set down pancakes. They split them without ceremony. He didn’t fill the silence with charm. She didn’t patch the holes with grace.
After, she shrugged into her coat. “I have errands.”
He stood. “Can I carry the heavy bag from the pharmacy?”
Her mouth twitched. “Fine.”
They walked. He carried. At her door, he didn’t ask to come up. He nodded toward the bag. “Text me if you need anything that requires either strength or ridiculous amounts of patience.”
“That’s specific,” she said, amused despite herself.
“Those are my only two other talents,” he said. “Besides hot beverages.”
She unlocked the door. “Okay.”
He called the next day and left a message that said only: I hope your Monday is kind. She texted a thumbs up. He didn’t screenshot it and send it to anyone. It lived by itself in his phone like a rare bird.
On Wednesday, he stood at the back of a bookshop because her author had a reading and Haadiyah had sent him the flyer with come if you want; don’t be weird. He tucked himself behind a pillar and watched Nora introduce the author. She was luminous in a way that had nothing to do with lights.
After, he waited. When she finally saw him, she stopped like she’d run into a glass door.
“You came,” she said, not a question.
“Wednesday matters too,” he said.
She sighed, and it felt like a thaw. “Walk me home.”
They did. They didn’t hold hands. It was fine. At her stoop, she said, “I can’t do declarations.”
He nodded. “I can do steady.”
She searched his face for the joke. Didn’t find it. “Okay.”
She kissed his cheek. The universe shifted an inch back toward its axis.
It didn’t fix in a montage, but it did, slowly, change.
He said no to Paris for a very cool collaboration and yes to bagels and a nap on her sofa. He left an afterparty at eleven instead of three because she had a migraine and “no one is expecting Harry Styles to be responsible” had stopped being a cute punchline and started being a lie he didn’t want to tell.
He messed up once. Double-booked. He called before she found out. “I did a stupid,” he said. “Option A: I cancel the studio day and suffer the consequences. Option B: I move our dinner to tomorrow and book the place you like with the chairs that don’t squeak. Option C: you choose C because neither of those is secretly the right answer, you are.” She picked A because she wanted to see if he meant it. He did.
Three Sundays in a row, he showed up and did nothing with her. They sat. They read. He played two chords and stopped because her book was getting good and he wanted to hear the end of the scene where the detective finally confessed. She read it out loud, voice shifting for each character, and when she finished she said, “Tell me if the rhythm works,” and he did.
One morning, he texted: Bagels or pancakes or nothing?
She answered: Sit first. Then pancakes.
He knocked twenty minutes later with coffee and the ginger shot and a stupid grin.
“You showed up,” she murmured, almost to herself.
“That’s the plan,” he said, and it wasn’t a line. It was a calendar, in ink.
She looked at him for a long heartbeat like she was still deciding. Then she stepped into him, arms sliding around his waist, cheek pressed to his chest, green dress replaced by an old T-shirt and no audience, no bar, no column to hide behind.
“Okay,” she said into his shirt, and in that one word were all the other words they were no longer rushing to say.
He kissed the top of her head. “Okay.”
Years later, on a Sunday that happened to be Father’s Day, when he cried and told her he never thought he’d get this life, he remembered the bar and the column and the pancakes and the hinge he’d oiled and the Sundays he had underlined. He had almost lost her.
im thinking angst, you usually both watch shania, but you had an argument before, so he is watching by himself, leaving you alone backstage, the ending can be whatever you decide xx
Still The One.
masterlist || ask me anything <3
my blurb masterlist is here!!
authors note - hey everyone, happy sunday, enjoy this little bit of angst and a little surprise near the end.
word count - 4.3k
in which, usually you watch shania twain together, she’s your artist, but after a tense argument backstage, your not stood next to him and it’s absolutely killing him inside.
The thumping bass rattled the floorboards, a physical manifestation of the adrenaline pulsing through the stadium, but Harry couldn't feel it.
He was standing precisely where you had seen him earlier, pressed back against the cold, teal-blue wall, His hands were loosely clasped in front of his dark athletic shorts, his body entirely still while his friend—one of the crew members—stood beside him, gesturing and talking animatedly about the stage cues for Harry's upcoming set.
Harry wasn't processing a single word.
His eyes were completely glazed over, staring blankly toward the bright lights of the stage wings. His mind was trapped in a suffocating loop, replaying the look of absolute heartbreak on your face in the dressing room just twenty minutes ago.
The air in the dressing room was thick and humid, the kind of heavy, backstage heat that a single oscillating fan could do nothing to fix.
To your right, the soft, rhythmic puffing of your eight-month-old baby boy was the only sound cutting through the quiet. He was fast asleep in his buggy, stripped down to nothing but a nappy, his little chest rising and falling.
The poor thing had been up since 4:00 AM, teething and restless, which meant you and Harry had been running on fumes before the sun even came up.
You were sitting on the plush velvet sofa, your arms raised over your head, completely immersed in trying to get a neat French braid down the back of your head. Your fingers were tangled in your strands, your focus entirely narrowed down to sections of hair, blindly weaving them together by feel.
The heavy dressing room door clicked open and shut with a sharp thud.
Harry walked in, smelling faintly of sweat and the crisp afternoon air outside. He had just finished a grueling pre-show workout with Brad, and every line of his body screamed pure exhaustion.
He was flushed from the workout, wearing his slouchy white long-sleeve tee, dark athletic shorts, and the grey compression sleeves still pulled up over his knees. His white socks were slipped into his striped slides, dragging slightly against the carpet.
His eyes were bloodshot, heavy-lidded, and desperate. All he wanted—the only thing keeping him going—was the thought of crashing onto the sofa for a thirty-minute nap before the frantic pre-show schedule kicked into high gear.
But as he closed the door, his eyes landed on you. Sprawled out right in the middle of the couch, arms up, taking up the entire space.
Harry’s jaw instantly tightened, his brow furrowing into a hard, agitated line. The sheer fatigue of the 4:00 AM wake-up call, combined with the physical drain of his workout, had left his fuse dangerously short. He was vibrating with irritation, a dark cloud settling over his shoulders.
Your hands froze in your hair, but you didn't drop your arms. You were so hyper-focused on keeping the braid tight that you completely misread the rough edge in his voice, assuming he was just groaning about being tired.
"Oh, good, you’re back," you said, your voice breezy and fast as your fingers kept weaving. "Listen, Brad didn't keep you too long, did he? Because the tour manager was already in here looking for you. Apparently, the schedule got pushed forward by fifteen minutes. And oh, before I forget—the hotel in the next city called back about the crib. They don’t have the one we requested, so we might have to use the travel one from the bus, but the zipper on the travel bag is stuck again. Did you manage to look at it? Harry? Also, we’re almost out of the specific nappies he likes, the ones that don’t give him a rash in this heat, so I was thinking maybe one of the runners could—"
"Can you just shut up for five seconds?"
The words didn't come out as a tired grumble. They cut through the room like a whip, loud, sharp, and dripping with pure venom.
Your hands instantly dropped from your head, the half-finished braid unraveling down your neck. The sudden, violent volume in the quiet room made your heart leap into your throat. You stared at him, stunned.
Before you could even process the shock of him yelling, a sharp, frightened wail pierced the air.
To your right, the buggy rattled. The sudden shout had violently jarred your eight-month-old out of his precious sleep. He kicked his little bare legs, his chest heaving as he burst into a hard, breathless cry, terrified by the loud noise.
"Look what you did," you whispered, your own anger flashing through the shock as you immediately stood up to tend to the baby. "Harry, he’s been teething all day, he barely slept—"
"No, look what you're doing!" Harry snapped, his voice staying dangerously high, completely unravelling from the sheer exhaustion of the 4:00 AM wake-up and the crushing pressure of the tour. He threw his hands up, gesturing wildly at you and the buggy. "I have a two-hour show to give to thousands of people, I’ve been running on three hours of sleep, and I walk in here to a bloody barrage of noise! You’re suffocating me! I just wanted thirty minutes of peace on the couch, but you're taking up the whole room, prattling on about zippers and nappies!"
You froze, your hand hovering over your crying son, staring at your husband as if he were a stranger. "It's our son, Harry. It's our life. If you're stressed about the show, don't take it out on—"
"I wouldn't have to take it out on anyone if I could just get some space!" he roared, the final filter of his exhaustion snapping entirely. He stepped closer, his eyes wild and dark, and delivered the blow that made the room go completely cold. "Honestly? Maybe you shouldn’t have come on the tour if this is what you’re going to be doing every night. You’re just in the way."
The silence that followed was suffocating, save for the heart-wrenching cries of your baby.
The moment the words left his mouth, you saw the instant flash of horror in Harry's eyes. The anger drained out of him so fast it left him looking pale, his jaw going slack. He reached a hand out, his chest heaving. "Wait—no, I didn't—"
"Don't," you choked out, your voice barely a whisper but sharp enough to stop him in his tracks.
Your eyes stung with hot, furious tears, but you refused to let them fall in front of him. Carefully, deliberately, you scooped your crying baby out of the buggy, pressing his warm, nappy-clad body against your chest, bouncing him gently to soothe his whimpers. You didn't look at Harry again. You just grabbed your bag with your free hand, walked right past him—forcing him to step back against that teal wall—and marched straight out into the corridor, leaving him alone in the wreckage of what he’d just said.
His eyes were completely glazed over, staring blankly toward the bright lights of the stage wings. His mind was trapped in a suffocating loop, replaying the look of absolute heartbreak on your face in the dressing room just twenty minutes ago.
Maybe you shouldn’t have come on the tour... You’re just in the way.
The words tasted like poison in his mouth. How could he have said that? To you? To the person who had spent the last eight months sacrificing sleep….comfort.
"...and then we'll transition straight into the encore, mate. Sound good?" his friend asked, clapping him on the shoulder.
Harry just gave a dull, numb nod, not even knowing what he was agreeing to. He felt hollow, stripped of his usual pre-show energy, looking utterly defeated against that stark blue backdrop. He wanted to turn back, run down the corridor, and find you—to beg, to explain that the exhaustion had completely hijacked his brain.
But his feet felt like lead.
Suddenly, the roaring crowd let out a collective, deafening cheer as the high-energy track Shania was performing faded out. The stadium lights dimmed into a soft, intimate amber glow.
Then, the first tender, unmistakable acoustic chords of a guitar rippled through the monitors.
Harry’s entire body went rigid against the wall. His breath hitched violently in his throat.
It was "You're Still the One."
Your wedding song.
Every defense mechanism he had built up over the last half hour crumbled to dust. That wasn't just a song on Shania's setlist; it was your song.
The song you had slow-danced to at your wedding, your foreheads pressed together, whispering promises that no matter how crazy his career got, you would always be each other's home.
Hearing it right now, with the sting of his venomous words still hanging fresh in the air, felt like a physical blow to his chest.
"Looks like we made it
Look how far we've come, my baby
We mighta took the long way
We knew we'd get there someday..."
Shania’s smooth, emotive vocals soared through the backstage monitors, crisp and crystal clear. Each line felt like a targeted strike. The contrast was agonizing—the song was singing about overcoming the odds, about proving the doubters wrong, but Harry had just become the biggest threat to his own marriage over a petty argument about a stroller zipper.
As the chorus hit, the massive stadium crowd joined in, a stadium of thousands of voices echoing the declaration of enduring love.
"You're still the one I run to
The one that I belong to
You're still the one I want for life..."
Harry dropped his head. His jaw clenched so hard it ached, his eyes burning as a wave of pure, unadulterated regret crashed over him. He felt so far away from being the man you belonged to right now.
He couldn't just stand here anymore. He didn't care about the schedule, the crew, or the impending stage time. He needed you.
Slowly, his head turned, his heavy, guilt-ridden gaze tearing away from the stage and sweeping down the dim, crowded corridor, desperately searching the shadows for the only person who could put him back together.
The crushing weight of everything became too loud to bear, suffocating him. Harry couldn’t stand there for another second. He couldn't just stand against that teal wall and pretend his world wasn't ending.
Abandoning his spot, he broke into a frantic jog, his slides slapping against the concrete as he tore through the backstage corridors. He was a man possessed, his chest heaving as he threw open the heavy door to the green room.
The room was a bright, noisy haven of family life, completely oblivious to his internal agony. Across the carpet, your eight-month-old boy was wide awake, happily babbling and playing with Sarah and Mitch’s kids, alongside Jeff and Glenne’s little one. The tour family was doing what they always did—rallying around, babysitting, keeping the kids entertained.
But as Harry’s eyes frantically swept the room, his heart plummeted. You weren't there.
"Hey, man, you good?" Pauli asked, noticing the pale, frantic look on Harry’s face.
"Where is (Y/N)?" Harry panted, his voice tight and breathless. "Have you seen her?"
Pauli blinked, sensing the gravity in Harry's tone. "She's back in the dressing room, mate. Said she needed a minute."
Harry didn't even say thank you. He turned on his heel and sprinted down the final stretch of the hallway, practically throwing himself against the dressing room door.
When the door swung open, the sight inside made his breath leave him completely. You were there, but you weren't resting. You were frantically moving around the room, packing the baby’s toys, formula, and extra nappies into a travel bag. And right next to the buggy sat your own canvas duffle bag—halfway zipped, stuffed with your clothes.
"What are you doing?" he choked out, his voice cracking.
He didn't wait for an answer. He crossed the room in two large strides, his hands coming down over yours, firmly but gently wresting the baby blanket out of your grip and setting the bags down on the floor out of your reach.
"Don't touch them," you said, your voice dangerously quiet, though you didn't look up at him. You kept your eyes glued to the empty space where the bag had been. "I'm just taking him back to the hotel. It’s better if the little one gets a decent night's sleep. And... like you said. It’s probably better if we aren’t on the tour if we’re just going to be in the way every night."
"No. No, absolutely not. I am not letting you leave," Harry broke out, his voice raw and pleading. He reached for your hands, his fingers trembling as he caught your wrists, forcing you to look at him. "Please, just look at me. Look at me, sweetheart."
You finally raised your eyes, and the sheer devastation in them made him flinch.
You didn't yell.
You didn't pull away.
You just stood there, completely exhausted, as the first silent, hot tear spilled over your eyelashes and tracked down your cheek.
Then another. You were silently sobbing, your chest trembling with the effort to keep from breaking down completely.
"I am so, so sorry," Harry rushed out, the words tumbling over each other as he stared down at you, his own eyes swimming with tears. "I am a bloody idiot. I’m an absolute monster for saying that to you. I was tired, and I was stressed about the set change, and I took it out on the only person in this entire building who doesn't deserve it. The only person who keeps me grounded."
He squeezed your wrists gently, his head dropping for a second before he looked back up, his face pale with desperation.
"I was running on pure adrenaline and exhaustion, and my brain just completely short-circuited. It was a stupid zipper, a stupid schedule change, and I let the pressure of everything turn me into a stranger. I looked at you taking care of our boy, doing everything on your own while I went off to a workout, and instead of thanking you, I snapped. It’s disgusting. I hate myself for how I made you feel just now. I saw the look in your eyes when I said those words, and it's going to haunt me for the rest of my life."
You didn't answer, a choked, silent gasp escaping your lips as you closed your eyes, more tears streaming down your face. Harry’s hands moved up from your wrists to cup your face, his thumbs gently wiping at the wetness on your cheeks, though his own hands were shaking.
"You aren't in the way," he whispered, his voice cracking completely as his forehead came down to rest against yours. "You could never, ever be in the way. You and our baby are the only reasons I do this. This entire tour, the crowds, the music—it means absolutely nothing if I don't have you waiting for me when I walk off that stage. You are my home. I am so sorry I made you feel like a burden when you’re the most precious thing I have. I need you here. I need you beside me. Please don't leave me, sweetheart. I love you so much."
You closed your eyes, a broken, hitching breath tearing out of your chest as his words tore down the final wall of your anger, leaving nothing but pure, aching exhaustion.
Harry didn’t wait.
The second he felt your posture soften, he pulled you into him, his arms wrapping around your waist like a vise, burying his face into the crook of your neck. He was trembling, his chest heaving against yours as he held you so tightly it was almost hard to breathe, anchoring you to him as if he were terrified you might still vanish if he let go.
"I've got you. I'm so sorry, I've got you," he muttered frantically into your skin, his voice thick and rough.
When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark, dilated, and swimming with a volatile mix of leftover adrenaline and sheer desperation. He looked down at your wet cheeks, his gaze dropping to your trembling lips, and the restraint in him snapped completely.
He leaned down and crashed his mouth against yours.
The kiss was heavy, raw, and completely unraveled—an explosive release of all the suffocating tension that had been building since he walked through the door. It wasn't gentle; it was a bruising, breathless apology, a silent plea for forgiveness translated through the hard, demanding press of his lips.
He tasted like the salty sweat of his workout and the sharp sting of regret, his tongue tangling with yours in a chaotic, bruising rhythm that made your knees instantly buckle.
You let out a soft, muffled sob against his mouth, your hands flying up to grip the fabric of his baggy white long-sleeve tee, fistfuls of the cotton bunching in your fingers as you pulled him closer.
The sudden, intense heat of his body washed over you, melting away the cold isolation of the last hour in a single, devastating second.
"Harry," you gasped out when he parted your lips, your voice catching in your throat.
He didn't let you speak.
He caught your lower lip between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to make you whimper before his tongue swept back into your mouth, deeper and hungrier this time. He backed you up blindly until your spine hit the edge of the dressing room vanity, the jars of makeup and water bottles rattling behind you.
He crowded into your space, his heavy thighs pinning yours against the wood, completely trapping you beneath him.
His hands left your face, sliding down the column of your neck to your shoulders, before his large, warm palms slipped entirely under the hem of your shirt. His fingers were slightly damp and burning hot against the bare skin of your waist.
He gripped your hips with a possessive, unhinged tightness, his thumbs digging into your skin to lift you up onto the edge of the counter.
You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, the friction of your bodies rubbing together through your clothes sending a sharp, electric jolt straight to your core.
Harry let out a low, wrecked growl at the contact, burying his face in your neck.
His mouth traveled down your jawline, biting and kissing a feverish path down to the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, sucking deeply until he knew it would leave a mark.
"Tell me we're okay," he breathed against your heated skin, his chest heaving violently against yours as his hands slid up to frame your ribcage, his thumbs stroking the underside of your breasts. "Tell me I didn't break us. Please."
"We're okay," you whispered, your fingers tangling into his short, damp curls, pulling his head back up so you could look into his blown-out eyes.
Your own breath was coming in ragged shorts. "We're okay, Baby. Just kiss me."
He didn't need to be told twice. He captured your mouth again with a desperate, sweeping hunger that stole the remaining air from your lungs. It was an angsty, tangled mess of teeth and tongue, both of you fighting to get closer, trying to erase the cruel words he’d spoken with the sheer, bruising force of your bodies pressed together.
His hands moved frantically over your back, mapping the curve of your spine, pulling you so flush against his chest that you could feel the frantic, hammering rhythm of his heart beating in perfect sync with your own.
He ground his hips into yours, a heavy, agonizingly slow rub that made you arch your back and cry out into his mouth. The sound only drove him wilder; his kisses grew faster, sloppier, his breathing completely ruined as he devoured your lips over and over again, cementing the fact that you were his, that he was yours, and that neither of you was going anywhere.
"I want you," you breathed against his lips, the words a jagged confession that broke through the last of the frantic chaos between you. "H, I want you. So much."
The desperation in his movements instantly shifted, a profound, heavy silence settling over him at your words. He pulled back just an inch, his dark eyes searching yours, looking at the honesty in your tear-stained face. The frantic, bruising energy melted away, replaced by something deeply reverent and achingly tender.
"Yeah?" he whispered, his voice incredibly thick as his thumbs gently brushed a final tear from your cheek. "You've got me. Always, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise me," you whispered, your fingers tightening in his shirt.
"I promise you," he murmured, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. "I promise. Look at me... I am so sorry for what I said. Let me show you how much I need you."
Slowly, deliberately, he reached down to guide your legs down from his waist so you could stand on your own feet, though he kept his body pressed completely flush against yours.
With slow, trembling hands, he reached for the hem of his baggy white long-sleeve tee and pulled it over his head, tossing it onto the floor beside your duffle bags. He looked exactly as he had against the teal wall in image.png, but the defensive shield was entirely gone.
"You're so beautiful," he breathed, his eyes traveling over your face as he reached down, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants. Slowly, gently, he pushed them down past your hips, helping you step out of them until there was nothing left between you but bare skin and raw emotion. "Just... stay with me. Please."
"I'm here," you replied softly, your voice trembling. "I'm not leaving."
He lifted you back onto the edge of the vanity, and this time, when you wrapped your legs around his waist, he stepped into you with a quiet, agonizing slowness. His eyes never left yours as his hands anchored underneath your thighs, supporting your weight.
When he slid inside you, it wasn't a sudden rush. It was a slow, deep, and unyielding push that made you both let out a long, shaky sigh.
He filled you completely, his chest rising and falling heavily against yours as he froze, letting the absolute perfect fit of your bodies sink in.
"Oh, God," he groaned quietly, closing his eyes for a brief second as he pressed his forehead against yours. "You feel so good. You have no idea how much I missed you today."
"Then don't stop," you whispered, your hands tracing the line of his bare shoulders. "Harry, please."
He began to move, and it was the furthest thing from the frantic pacing of before. It was a slow, rhythmic, agonizingly beautiful tempo.
He withdrew almost entirely, pulling himself out until the very tip of his length brushed against your entrance, making you gasp and arch into him, before he plunged back in, slow and deep, pressing his hips firmly against yours.
"Harry..." you whimpered, your fingers burying into the short curls at the nape of his neck, your forehead dropping against his shoulder as the intense, slow friction began to build a deep coil of heat in your stomach.
"I'm right here," he murmured, his breath warm and steady against your skin. "I've got you. Tell me what you need."
"More," you gasped, tightening your legs around his waist as he pulled out again, agonizingly slow, before sinking all the way back inside. "Just like that. Don't hurry."
"I'm taking my time," he whispered against your ear, his voice rough and laced with a quiet intensity. "We have all the time in the world right now. I'm right here with you. Every single part of me is yours."
He repeated the motion, pulling almost completely out, teasing the sensitive opening of your core until you were silently begging, before sinking all the way back inside you with a heavy, grounding weight.
Every single thrust was deliberate, an unspoken vow, a physical manifestation of the apology he had spoken earlier. He was taking his time, making love to you with a quiet intensity that healed the ache in your chest with every stroke.
"I love you," he murmured between shallow, heavy breaths, his lips grazing your jaw. "I love you so much. Say it."
"I love you, Harry," you cried out softly, your hands gripping his back as the pleasure started to overwhelm you. "I love you."
The room was silent save for the soft, rhythmic sound of skin against skin, your ragged, synchronized breathing, and the quiet declarations whispered between kisses.
He held you like you were the most fragile, precious thing in his world, his lips constantly pressed to your temple, your jawline, your shoulder, whispering quiet assurances between deep, slow pulses.
The tension in your core coiled tighter and tighter, driven by the torturous, beautiful slowness of his movements. You gripped his shoulders, your muscles clamping around him as the edge of your release drew closer.
"Harry, I'm close," you breathed, your voice breaking. "I can't—"
"Go ahead, sweetheart," he whispered fiercely, his pace gathering just a fraction of momentum, his deep thrusts becoming a steady, relentless rhythm that pushed you completely over the precipice. "I'm right here with you. Let go."
You let out a choked, breathless cry, your body trembling with the waves of your orgasm. The tight contraction of your walls tore the last of his restraint away. With a low, guttural groan that vibrated against your chest, Harry drove into you one last time, burying himself as deeply as possible as he came, his muscles locking tight as he poured himself into you.
"You're mine," he panted against your neck, his voice fading into a ragged whisper. "Always mine."
Summary: Y/N meets Harry Styles in the middle of a random Berlin night, just a diner, a city that never sleeps, and one hell of a spark. Neither of them is supposed to be there, and yet, suddenly, nowhere else makes sense. It’s messy and sweet, forbidden and hot, and oh yeah... there’s banter, breakfast food, and a hotel room where it all goes down.
A/N: hi besties! ok so imagine you’re on vacation, doing your little solo trip thing, and then HARRY STYLES just appears in your life looking like sin in a hoodie. what do you do?? (spoiler: you do him.) this fic is for the girls who love tension, humor, and a lil “we really shouldn’t but oops we did” moment. enjoy, stay hydrated, and don’t text your ex xxx
Word Count: 4,1k
Warnings:
18+ smut
strangers-to-lovers
explicit sexual content
oral (f receiving)
protected sex
flirting
light dirty talk
emotional intimacy
alcohol (light)
soft!Harry
forbidden vibes
one-night-stand energy with feelings
mild cursing
☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆
The thing about Berlin at night is that it doesn’t sleep, it just shifts moods. One second it’s loud and neon and chaotic, and the next it’s quiet and cold and humming like the city’s holding its breath. Y/N had been walking for an hour without really planning to. Just wandering, headphones in, coat wrapped tightly, breathing in the kind of freedom that only comes when you're alone in a place where no one knows your name.
She spotted a diner, that was weirdly American in the most German way possible - red booths, neon signs, a jukebox no one was using. She slid into a corner seat and shrugged her coat off, her fingers red from the wind. A waitress with tired eyes handed her a laminated menu and walked off before Y/N could even crack a joke. Fine. Solo trip rules. No expectations, just vibes and overpriced pancakes.
She was halfway through reading about the “Elvis Special” (which involved bacon and Nutella for reasons she didn’t care to understand) when someone walked in. She didn’t look at first, but something about the air changed. Her eyes flicked up automatically. Tall. Hood up. Rings on his fingers. Head down.
Y/N immediately looked back at her menu, which suddenly seemed riveting. Because the guy walking in looked exactly like Harry Styles, and she was not about to be the weirdo making eye contact in case it was Harry Styles. This was Berlin, not TikTok. Things like that didn’t happen.
Except apparently, they did. Because two minutes later, he was sliding into the booth opposite her. She blinked. “Uh. Pretty sure this isn’t your seat.” The man looked up slowly, and yeah - no denying it now. Messy curls, green eyes, lazy smile that looked both tired and amused. Harry Styles, very much real and very much sitting across from her like this was totally normal.
“I know,” he said, voice low and rough in that 2am way. “Place is dead. Figured I’d ask if I could share. Didn’t think you’d mind.”
“I do mind,” she said automatically, even as her stomach flipped. “But I’m also curious enough not to kick you out yet.” That made him grin. “Fair trade.”
He pulled his hood down, and now it was just… obvious. She was sitting across from him. Harry Styles. And he looked like someone who had snuck out of somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be, like maybe a fancy hotel or a safe little bubble he paid people to maintain. There was a shadow under his eyes, a slight flush in his cheeks from the cold. He didn’t look famous. He looked real.
“You’re brave,” she said, sipping her water like she wasn’t suddenly sweating. “Or stupid.” He leaned back against the booth, eyes glinting. “Which one do you think?”
She tilted her head. “Bit of both. You’re not even pretending to hide.”
“You recognized me, didn’t you?”
“That’s not hard. You’re very… facey.”
“Facey?”
“Yeah. You’ve got one of those faces. Very symmetrical. Very irritating for the rest of us.”
He laughed, soft and genuine, and Y/N had the bizarre realization that Harry Styles had a really good laugh in person. Not that she was collecting data. Obviously.
“You’re funny,” he said. “What’s your name?”
She hesitated for a second. Something about this whole thing felt like a dream she shouldn’t poke too hard.
“Y/N.”
“Nice to meet you, Y/N. I’m Harry.”
She raised a brow. “No shit.” That made him laugh again, and this time he looked away like he didn’t want her to see how much he liked her sarcasm. Too late.
They ordered food - he got toast and eggs and something green she refused to acknowledge; she got pancakes with a side of hash browns and zero shame - and slowly, the space between them got less weird. He asked about her trip, and she told him bits and pieces. Solo travel, burnout recovery, a breakup she was mostly over but still kind of mad about. She was sarcastic but not guarded. He liked that.
He told her he was supposed to be asleep right now, that his team would lose their minds if they knew he snuck out alone, that he just needed to breathe for a second. “I can’t even get room service without someone writing about it,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “It’s mental.”
Y/N studied him. “So why come here?”
“Because I wanted to remember what it felt like to be nobody for a minute.”
She sipped her coffee. “You picked the wrong face for that, love.” He laughed again, but softer this time. His smile faded slowly as he looked at her, like maybe he was noticing how her eyes crinkled when she smirked or how her lip gloss was a little bit smudged. Something shifted.
“You’re not what I expected,” he said.
“Good?”
He nodded. “Very.”
Their food came, but the space between them was already full of something heavier than hunger. Something rare and warm and dangerous, the kind of feeling you only get when you meet someone you’re not supposed to want but do anyway. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and said, “Can I walk you back to your hotel?” She should have said no. It was late. He was Harry Styles. This was reckless.
She nodded. “Yeah. Alright.”
The streets were almost empty when they stepped outside. The cold hit her first, sharp and slicing against her cheeks, but then there was Harry, hands in his coat pockets, head ducked down against the wind like he’d done this a thousand times before. The city was quiet in a way that made every step feel louder than it should’ve. Their shoes scuffed the pavement as they walked side by side, brushing shoulders now and then in that accidental-not-accidental way.
“You always this charming with strangers in diners?” she asked, her tone light but her pulse stupidly fast. “Only when they insult my face within the first five minutes,” he said, glancing over with a smirk.
“You’re welcome.”
He chuckled and nudged her gently with his elbow. “Seriously, though. You’re easy to talk to. It’s rare.” She snorted. “You don’t talk to people?”
“Not like this. Usually it’s interviews or rehearsals or someone asking for a selfie when I haven’t even had coffee.”
She looked at him. His hair was a bit messy from the hood, eyes soft and heavy, and there was a line between his brows that hadn’t fully relaxed since he sat across from her. She wondered if it ever really went away.
“I won’t ask for a selfie,” she said. “But I do kind of want to see if your accent holds up when you’re drunk.”
“Oh, you’re dangerous,” he murmured.
“You have no idea.”
They reached the corner near her hotel, and she slowed down instinctively. There was a small bar across the street still open, music floating out into the air. When she turned to face him, he looked almost out of place in the best way. Like he didn’t belong to the world but had decided to visit anyway.
“This is me,” she said, nodding toward the entrance.
“Right.” He glanced up at the building, then back at her. “Thanks for letting me crash your booth.”
“Thanks for being weird enough to just slide in without aksing.”
A pause. A long one. The kind that stretches out like gum between fingers, sticky and unwilling to snap.
“I should go,” she said, though she didn’t move.
“Yeah,” he said, not moving either.
She could feel it. That flicker of stupid, electric tension, the way his eyes lingered on her lips for a second too long, how her body had already started leaning in before her brain caught up.
“I don’t do this,” she said quickly. “I mean, like, taking people upstairs. That’s not a thing I do.”
“I’m not people,” he said softly.
“You wanna come up?” she asked, quiet now, the sarcasm worn down to something raw.
“Only if you want me to.”
“I really shouldn’t,” she whispered.
“I know.”
Another pause. Another choice.
“Fuck it,” she said, already digging for her keycard.
In the elevator, they didn’t speak. She could feel his gaze on her, the quiet hum of anticipation crackling between them. It wasn’t just sex. Not really. It was something slower, messier. Like they both knew this moment existed in a bubble and didn’t want to pop it just yet.
When the doors opened and they stepped into the hallway, she glanced at him over her shoulder.
“If you’re a terrible kisser, I’m kicking you out.”
He smiled like he already knew he had nothing to worry about.
The second the door closed behind them, he kissed her. Hands on her hips, mouth insistent. She dropped her coat without thinking, fingers slipping under his hoodie to feel the heat of his skin, the softness of his stomach, the edge of a tattoo. He groaned when her nails grazed just below his ribs.
He pushed her gently against the wall, kissing down her neck like he’d been waiting his whole life to find that exact spot behind her ear.
“Jesus,” she breathed. “Do you train for this?”
He laughed against her skin. “Bit of a natural talent, I guess.”
“Oh, you’re that guy.”
He grinned and kissed her again, slower now. His hands slid up under her shirt, dragging it off in one motion before dropping it to the floor. His eyes lingered on her, appreciative, warm, and focused in a way that made her feel suddenly very seen.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured.
She rolled her eyes, flustered. “You probably say that to all your diner booth hookups.”
“You’re my first,” he said, leaning in. “Be gentle with me.”
Her laugh turned into a gasp when he kissed down her chest, his tongue tracing along the curve of her bra before unclasping it with ridiculous ease. Show-off. But god, the way he looked at her, like this was something holy and human all at once. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t mechanical. He touched her like he meant it. When he finally dropped to his knees, fingers hooking in the waistband of her jeans, she tangled her hand in his hair.
“Wait,” she said, breathless.
He looked up immediately, concern flashing in his eyes. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just... don’t fall in love with me or anything.”
He smirked. “No promises.”
And then his mouth was on her.
She didn’t expect it to feel like that. Like he knew her already. Like this wasn’t the first time. He worked her open with his tongue and his hands, humming softly when she moaned his name, eyes fluttering shut as her thighs trembled around his shoulders. She came fast, embarrassingly fast, and he didn’t stop until she was pushing his head back, breath shaking.
He stood and kissed her, slow and deliberate, letting her taste herself on his tongue like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You alright?” he whispered.
She blinked up at him, legs still shaking. “I take it back. You definitely train for this.”
His laugh was low and pleased as he lifted her effortlessly, carrying her to the bed like she weighed nothing. She reached for his hoodie, tugging it off to reveal more tattoos, more skin, more of him, and then he was above her, hovering, waiting.
“You sure?”
“Yes. Come here.”
And he did.
His body settled against hers like it belonged there, warm and heavy, his skin hot against the cold hotel sheets. She didn’t realize how close they were until he kissed her again and her brain short-circuited completely. There was something different about kissing Harry—less about performance, more about intention. He kissed like he had nowhere else to be, like her mouth was the only thing he’d been craving all night.
Their hands moved together without much direction, tugging, exploring, her nails dragging down his back just to feel him twitch. He was shirtless now, fully hard against her thigh, and he hadn’t rushed anything. That was the part that got her—he wanted to take his time.
She reached between them, palming him through his boxers, and felt his breath stutter against her cheek.
“Fuck,” he whispered, forehead pressing against hers.
She leaned up and bit his lower lip gently. “Don’t fall apart on me yet, pretty boy.”
He huffed a laugh, kissing her again like it hurt to stop. “Bossy.”
“You like it.”
“Maybe I do.”
They undressed each other slowly, not perfectly - her jeans got caught on her ankle, his boxers ended up half on the floor and half hanging off his foot - but it didn’t matter. Nothing about this was clean or rehearsed. It was messy and breathy and so real it almost hurt.
When he rolled the condom on, she caught the way his hand shook just slightly.
“Nervous?” she teased, voice quieter now.
He looked at her like she was the only thing tethering him to the planet. “I just want to do this right.”
She kissed him, hands framing his face. “You already are.”
He pushed into her slowly, filling her with this quiet intensity that made her eyes flutter shut, made her legs tighten around his waist. He cursed softly under his breath, burying his face in her neck as he bottomed out.
“You feel... fuck, you feel unreal.”
“Talk less, move more.”
He laughed, breathless, and started to move - slow at first, dragging it out, rocking into her like he had nowhere to be and nothing to prove. Every thrust made her gasp, made her fingers dig into his shoulders like she was anchoring herself to him.
It wasn’t just the physical. It was the way he looked down at her, dazed and gentle, the way his lips kept finding her skin like he couldn’t help it. He murmured her name once, not loud, almost like he wasn’t even aware he said it.
She cupped his cheek, tilting his face toward her. “Look at me.”
His eyes locked with hers, green and glassy, and for a second everything slowed down. Just breathing and skin and the sound of her moans under his.
He started to move faster then, the rhythm building into something that wasn’t quite frantic but definitely close. Her back arched, head tipping back as he hit just the right angle, over and over, until her thighs were shaking again and she couldn’t keep her mouth closed.
“Fuck, Harry, I’m gonna-”
“I’ve got you. Let go.”
And she did.
Her orgasm rolled through her like heat under her skin, hips bucking as she cried out against his shoulder. He followed not long after, hips stuttering, fingers gripping her tighter as he spilled into the condom with a broken moan.
They didn’t move for a while after. Just breathing. Just hearts hammering, skin cooling slowly, the buzz of the city still distant through the windows.
Eventually, he rolled to the side and pulled her with him, keeping her close like it wasn’t a question.
“Well,” she said after a minute, “that was a decent use of Berlin.”
He laughed against her collarbone, warm and sleepy. “Best diner detour I’ve ever taken.”
She looked at him, smiling. “You gonna write a song about this?”
“Maybe.”
“If you do, I want royalties.”
He grinned and kissed her forehead. “Noted.”
They fell asleep tangled up, two strangers who weren’t quite strangers anymore, in a city that didn’t care what happened behind hotel doors. And maybe that was the best part.
She woke up to the sound of soft breathing and the unfamiliar weight of an arm across her stomach. The curtains were cracked open just enough for sunlight to spill through, casting pale gold over tangled sheets and bare shoulders. For a split second, she forgot where she was. And then she turned her head.
Harry. Asleep, messy-haired and shirtless, face half-buried in the pillow, mouth parted slightly like he was dreaming of something soft. Or someone.
Y/N blinked at the ceiling, the memories of last night trickling in like molasses. Diner. Walk. Kissing. The wall. The bed. His hands. Her noises. Them.
“Jesus Christ,” she whispered under her breath.
His arm tightened slightly around her waist like his subconscious heard her. She stared at him again. He was dangerously pretty in the morning, all flushed skin and stubble and quiet. Too much. Too real. She didn’t do this - waking up next to someone she barely knew, especially not someone famous. This was a very specific kind of chaos she usually avoided.
She didn’t move. Instead, she stayed right there. Let herself exist in the stillness. His thigh was pressed along hers. Her hand was awkwardly trapped under the pillow. They were skin to skin, and somehow it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was warm.
After a while, he stirred. Groaned a little. Shifted. His eyes opened slowly, unfocused and glassy, and then they landed on her.
He smiled. Sleepy. Unbothered. “Hi.”
“Hi,” she said, voice raspy from sleep.
There was a moment. A real, long, unhurried moment where neither of them rushed to fill the silence. “So... this is the part where you sneak out and leave a mysterious post-it note, right?”
He laughed, nose scrunching a little. “That’s not really my style.”
“No? What is your style then? Croissants and a discreet PR exit?”
He rolled onto his back and stretched, groaning like it hurt. “My style is hoping you’ll stay in bed a little longer before we figure out how weird this is supposed to be.”
She stared at the ceiling with a small smile. “You’re surprisingly chill for someone who accidentally had sex with a sarcastic tourist.”
“Not accidental,” he murmured. “Also, I like sarcastic tourists.”
“Good, because I’m booked here for three more days.”
He turned his head toward her again, brows lifted. “Seriously?”
“Yep.”
“Well, fuck. Looks like we’re gonna have to figure out what we are now.”
She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Romeo.”
“Too late. I’m emotionally invested.”
She snorted. “You’re a menace.”
He laughed and reached for her hand under the covers, lacing their fingers without ceremony. It was too casual. Too easy. And it shouldn’t have felt this good.
They got up eventually. She stole one of his shirts, which he pretended to protest but absolutely loved. He made shitty instant coffee in the little hotel room machine and burned his tongue. She mocked him for it relentlessly.
There was no awkwardness. No morning-after tension. Just two people who hadn’t planned for this but also didn’t seem in a rush to undo it.
They sat on the window ledge, looking out over the grey Berlin skyline. Quiet for a while. Then he said it, soft and unsure.
“I don’t want this to be just a night.”
She looked at him. At the way he didn’t try to take it back.
“Me neither,” she said.
And just like that, the door stayed open.
They didn’t plan to see each other again the next day. Not really. But Berlin had this way of letting things happen without permission, and so when she walked into the same diner - because, yes, she absolutely went back for the pancakes - there he was. Sitting in the booth. Hoodie pulled up. Sunglasses on. Like a disguise could erase the fact that she’d already seen him naked and soft and murmuring her name at 2 a.m.
She stopped by the door, unsure if she should pretend she didn’t see him. Give him the out. Keep things breezy and simple.
But then he looked up and smiled. Not the polite kind. The you’re-here-I’m-glad-you’re-here kind.
She sat down.
“You stalking me now?” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“I liked the coffee.”
“You burned your tongue on it.”
He shrugged. “Pain builds character.”
She shook her head, fighting the grin. “This is dangerous.”
“What is?”
“This thing. You. Me. Diner déjà vu. I don’t know what this is, and I’m leaving in two days.”
“I know,” he said simply.
“And you live in...?”
“London. But I’m here until Monday.”
They stared at each other for a moment, something unspoken bubbling underneath the surface.
“So we’ve got, like, forty-eight hours,” she said.
“Forty-seven, technically.”
“Wow, what a romantic countdown.”
He smirked. “Wanna waste them with me?”
She didn’t answer, just waved the server over and ordered coffee for both of them. He rested his chin in his hand, watching her like she was the most interesting thing in the room. Maybe she was.
They spent the day wandering. No big plans, just walking. Talking. Laughing. They found a small bookstore tucked into a side street, and she picked up a cheesy romance novel just to make fun of it. He bought it for her anyway.
“You’re going to read this and think of me,” he said, slipping the receipt in between the pages like a bookmark.
“I’ll think of you every time I cringe at a shirtless duke.”
“Perfect. That’s the dream.”
He held her hand in public. Didn’t flinch when a couple of girls did double-takes. Didn’t let go when someone clearly recognized him. He wasn’t hiding. Not really. Just choosing what to show.
Later that night, back in her hotel room, they didn’t rush. The sex was slower. Not less intense - just less about heat, more about want. Wanting to remember it. Wanting to leave fingerprints on each other’s skin that wouldn’t fade for a while.
After, she lay on his chest, listening to his heartbeat thud steady beneath her ear.
“What happens now?” she asked quietly.
He ran a hand up and down her spine, pausing every few seconds like he was thinking through each word.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I don’t want this to disappear just because we’re not in the same place.”
She tilted her head to look at him. “You’re suggesting what? Long-distance flirting? Weekly postcards?”
“I’m suggesting we figure it out.”
She nodded. “That’s terrifying.”
“Yeah,” he said. “But I think we’d be stupid not to try.”
She sighed and buried her face back against his skin. “If I end up writing a moody playlist about this, it’s your fault.”
“I’ll consider it a compliment.”
Two days later, they kissed goodbye at the train station. No big declarations. No promises they couldn’t keep. But he did press his phone number into her palm like it was something sacred. Told her he’d text her that night. Told her to get home safe.
She got on the train. Checked her phone halfway to the airport.
Miss you already. Let me know when you land. X
And that’s how it started.
☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆
Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and rebog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖
You became his sugar baby to survive, but Harry’s possessiveness soon turns into something softer. The black card pays the bills, but it’s the unexpected love that threatens to ruin you both.
TITLE: Baby
PAIRING: Harry Styles x Reader
RATING: Explicit (18+)
STATUS: 10 Parts (Completed only on Patreon)
WORD COUNT: > 25,000 words
TROPES: Corporate Sugar Daddy / University Student Sugar Baby , Age Gap (45 & 21) , Forced Closeness (The 40-Hour Weekend Rule) , Strict Contracts / NDAs , Size Difference , Wealth Gap , Dominant/Submissive Dynamic , Academic Mentorship
THE VIBE:
Signing a strict NDA for a £15,000 monthly allowance.
"In the bedroom, I want to be obeyed.".
Getting a MacBook Pro because your broken Dell offends him.
Terrifying public jealousy over a young waiter.
Skipping an Aspen ski trip for a vintage typewriter.
Obliterating his elite ex-wife at an art gallery.
Maliciously complying with the contract until he snaps.
"Do you want to get what you paid for?".
A billionaire hiding in Soho out of pure jealousy.
Watching her graduation from a parked Range Rover.
Dropping the penthouse key and shattering a crystal bow
EXCERPT:
"Do you want to talk about poetry, Harry?" she asked, tilting her head. "Or do you want to get what you paid for?"
The words were a slap in the face.
Harry stopped moving. He looked at her naked body, and for the first time in his life, his desire warred with a crushing sense of shame.
"Don't say it like that," he said roughly.
"Like what?" She stepped closer, placing a hand on his chest. Her palm was warm, but her touch felt mechanical. She began to undo his buttons. "You were very clear, Harry. You pay for my time. You pay for my company. I'm just trying to be... efficient."
She pushed his shirt open and leaned in to kiss his neck. It was a practiced move. A move a courtesan would make.
"Y/N, stop," he said, grabbing her wrists.
She looked up, her eyes wide and innocent. "Stop? Is something wrong? Do you want me to do something else?"
"I want you to stop acting like an employee!" he shouted, the frustration finally boiling over.
Y/N didn't flinch. She just looked at him, and a small, sad smile touched her lips.
"But I am an employee, Harry," she whispered. "You fired the girlfriend. Remember?"
Harry stared at her, his chest heaving. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to scream that he hadn't fired the girlfriend, he had just panicked. He wanted to drag her downstairs and make her pasta and dance in the kitchen.
But the ghost of his own words hung between them. I am not your boyfriend.
He couldn't take them back. Not without admitting he was wrong. And Harry Styles did not admit he was wrong.
Summary: What starts as a simple suggestion from Harry "Let me film you tonight." quickly turns into a night of absolute filth, passion, and pleasure as you and your boyfriend make your very own sex tape. From slow, deep thrusts in the bedroom to messy, desperate fucking in the kitchen, the camera catches everything—every moan, every gasp, every filthy whisper. And when it’s all over, Harry is more than satisfied with his directorial debut… but he might already be planning a sequel.
Wordt Count: 5k
A/N: This steamy masterpiece was based on this absolutely legendary request! (hope it turned out how you wanted it!!)😏🔥 You guys never fail to come up with the filthiest ideas, and I am so here for it. I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Let me know what you think! 💗
It’s late at night, and you’re curled up against Harry on the couch, scrolling through TikTok, your legs draped over his lap.
The soft glow of your phone screen flickers against the dimly lit room, casting shadows across his sharp jawline. He’s warm beneath you, solid and effortlessly relaxed. His arm is stretched along the back of the couch, fingertips occasionally brushing your shoulder, but his other hand... that one is settled on your thigh. Barely noticeable at first. Just resting. Comfortable.
Until his thumb starts moving—slow, lazy strokes that send shivers creeping up your spine. Absentminded, possessive. It’s nothing new, but tonight, it feels different. Like he’s not just touching to touch. Like he’s waiting.
That’s when it pops up on your feed—a thirst trap about couples making sex tapes. The comments are flooded with strangers talking about how hot it is. How intimate. How fun.
You let out a quiet hum, amused, half-joking, “Would you ever film us?”
Harry’s fingers tighten. Visibly. His whole body shifts under you.
Your lips part, confused by his sudden change in posture. His darkened gaze snaps to you, scanning your face like he’s trying to decide if you’re being serious or just teasing him.
“Say that again.” His voice is lower now, thicker, heavy with something that makes your stomach twist.
Your breath catches. Your skin prickles. You chew your lip, suddenly shy under the weight of his attention. “Would you… want to record us?”
His pupils are blown. His jaw flexes. His cock twitches beneath your thighs, and you feel it. The hard press of him through his sweatpants.
“You wanna watch yourself get fucking ruined?”
Heat rushes straight between your legs. The air in the room thickens. Your thighs clench on instinct.
He notices. Smirks.
And then his hand moves higher, fingertips slipping beneath the hem of your shorts, brushing against the bare skin of your hip. He leans in, lips ghosting over your jaw, his breath hot when he whispers—
“Then strip, baby. Let’s make a fucking movie.”
His voice is dark, edged with something primal, something that sends a delicious shiver down your spine.
You don’t hesitate—how could you? Not with the way he’s looking at you, standing at the foot of the bed with the camera propped on the nightstand, its red light blinking. Watching. Waiting.
Your fingers tremble slightly as you reach for the hem of his t-shirt, lifting it over your head and tossing it aside. The air feels cooler on your skin now, your nipples already tight from anticipation, the way his gaze drags over your body like a physical touch.
“Fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, reaching for you, guiding you down to your knees between his legs.
He’s already hard, thick and heavy, his cock resting against the toned plane of his stomach. You watch as a bead of precum glistens at the tip, the sight alone making your mouth water.
“C’mon, angel,” he coaxes, his fingers threading into your hair, tilting your chin up so your eyes meet his. “Be my good girl, yeah?”
You obey without question, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along his inner thighs, teasing, taking your time. His breath hitches when your tongue flicks out, trailing over the sensitive skin just beside his cock, your nails scraping lightly over his hips.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, watching you through hooded eyes. “Look at you, always so eager to please me.”
Your lips finally part over the tip, your tongue circling, savoring the taste of him. His fingers tighten in your hair when you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, letting him slide against your tongue.
The camera catches everything.
The way your lashes flutter when he pushes deeper.
The obscene sound of your lips and tongue working him over.
The way his head falls back, a low, guttural groan slipping from his throat.
His hips twitch, his body struggling not to thrust. But you want it—you want to feel him lose control, want to let him take what he needs.
So you pull back, lips slick and swollen, and whisper, “Use my mouth, H.”
His eyes darken. His jaw clenches.
“Fuck.”
Then his grip tightens, and his hips snap forward, pushing himself deep, forcing you to take every inch. You moan around him, your throat constricting, tears pricking at your eyes as you relax, let him fuck your mouth like he owns it.
“God, baby, taking me so fucking well,” he groans, watching the way your lips stretch around him, how messy you’ve gotten. “Knew you’d look so good like this. Knew you’d love it.”
You whimper, nails digging into his thighs as he thrusts deep, holding you there for a second before pulling back, letting you catch your breath. Barely.
“Get up here,” he rasps, voice thick with need.
Before you can fully catch your breath, he grabs your thighs, dragging you down the bed, positioning you right beneath him.
“Can’t fuck you yet, baby,” he mutters, kissing a trail down your stomach, his voice thick with something wicked. “Need to taste you first.”
Your thighs tremble when his fingers curl into the waistband of your ruined lace panties, dragging them down slowly, savoring the way your slick clings to the fabric.
“Christ,” he breathes, eyes locked onto your dripping cunt, his voice somewhere between reverence and hunger. “Been teasing you all night, haven’t I? S’why you’re so fucking messy already.”
He spreads you with two fingers, his thumb gliding through your slick, gathering it before bringing it to his lips. Tasting you.
“Shit,” you whimper, your hips jerking up desperately, but he presses a firm hand against your stomach, pinning you down.
“Uh-uh,” he tsks, smirking. “Be good for me, yeah? Let me take my time with you.”
Then his mouth is on you.
His tongue licks a slow stripe, so filthy, so deep that your back arches off the bed instantly. He groans at the way you react, at the way your thighs tighten around his head.
“Fuck—yes, H,” you gasp, fisting the sheets.
He eats you like he’s starving—like this is the only thing he’s ever wanted. His tongue flicks, swirls, presses, teasing and torturing you until your thighs are shaking.
The camera is still rolling.
And he fucking knows it.
“You’re being so good for me, angel,” he praises, his lips brushing against your clit, his voice a vibration against your skin. “Gonna let the camera see how pretty you look when you come on my tongue?”
You moan, nodding frantically, your body already climbing so high, so fast.
He sucks your clit into his mouth, two fingers slipping inside you at the same time, curling, finding the spot that makes your vision blur.
“Oh my god—Harry, I’m—”
“C’mon, baby,” he coaxes, fucking his fingers into you faster, drinking in the way your body tenses beneath him. “Give it to me. Let me see how pretty you are when you fall apart.”
And when you do—when the orgasm rips through you, making your body tremble, your fingers pull at his hair so hard he groans—he doesn’t stop.
He keeps going, licking you through it, drawing it out until you’re whimpering, shaking, pushing at his shoulders.
Only then does he pull away, lips glistening, eyes dark.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You taste so fucking sweet.”
Then he’s grabbing you, flipping you onto your back, caging you beneath him.
“Now,” he growls, lining himself up, his cock dragging through your soaked folds. “Let me feel you.”
The first thrust is slow, deep—pushing in inch by inch, stretching you, making sure the camera catches everything.
“Fuck, yes—”
Your fingers claw at his back, nails leaving red lines down his skin, but he just groans, loving it, drunk on the way you feel wrapped around him.
He pins your wrists above your head, trapping you, his breath warm against your jaw.
“That’s it, love,” he murmurs, his hips rolling in deep, languid strokes, making sure you feel every inch of him. “Taking me so fucking well.”
Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, pulling him closer, deeper. His pace quickens just a little, still controlled, still making you feel every drag, every pulse.
“Gonna let me film you coming on my cock, yeah?”
His voice alone is enough to push you to the edge, body tightening, trembling, already so close.
And from the way his thrusts get just a little rougher, the way his jaw clenches—he’s close, too.
The red light blinks.
The camera is still rolling.
And you never want it to stop.
Your legs are still weak, trembling, your body buzzing from the last orgasm he pulled from you. But Harry’s far from finished.
His hands are on you before you can even catch your breath—rough, insistent—pulling you upright, pressing his chest to your bare, sweat-slicked back.
“C’mere,” he rasps, dragging you across the room, guiding you toward the floor-length mirror against the wall. The phone is already in position on a chair, the screen glowing, capturing every moment, every angle.
Your eyes flick to the reflection—to the way his arm wraps around your waist, holding you close. The way his lips brush over your jaw, his voice nothing but a sinful whisper in your ear.
“Wanna see how gorgeous you look when I fuck you.”
A shudder runs through you, anticipation coiling in your stomach. His hands slip under the rumpled shirt you’re still wearing, gliding over your heated skin, before he lifts it over your head and tosses it aside.
Now you’re completely bare, standing before the mirror with his hands roaming, gripping, claiming.
“Look at you, baby,” he murmurs, one hand trailing down your stomach, fingers teasing at where you’re still soaked, so sensitive. “Fuck—you’re dripping.”
You bite your lip as his fingers slide between your legs, gathering the evidence of what he’s done to you. He smirks when you twitch, knowing how overstimulated you are, but still—you push into his touch, wanting more.
“Always so fucking greedy,” he chuckles darkly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.
Then, in one swift motion, he bends you forward, just slightly—enough to put you on display.
Your hands fly to the mirror, palms flat against the cool glass, balancing yourself as he kicks your feet apart with his knee.
His hips press flush against your ass, his cock hard and heavy, sliding between your folds, teasing.
“Fuck, H,” you whimper, your reflection blurry with want. “Please—”
He grips your chin, forcing your gaze up.
“Look at yourself,” he demands, his other hand slipping around your throat, gripping lightly.
Your breath hitches.
His fingers tighten just enough, the pressure delicious, dizzying—and then he thrusts inside you in one slow, deep stroke.
Your eyes go wide, lips parting as a broken moan spills out, watching as his cock disappears inside you in the reflection.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans, his fingers digging into your hips, holding you steady as he starts to move, his pace slow but punishing.
The phone catches everything.
The way his body pins yours to the mirror.
The way his muscles flex with every sharp snap of his hips.
The way your lips part, eyes fluttering as you start to fall apart.
“That’s it, love,” he praises, his grip tightening in your hair, pulling your head back against his shoulder. “Taking me so well.”
The rhythm is perfect—deep, slow, filthy. You can hear everything—the wet, obscene sounds of him fucking into you, the way his breath gets rougher, hotter, against your ear.
Then he reaches for the phone, lifting it, angling the camera down.
You know what he’s doing.
He wants a close-up.
“Fuck,” he groans, watching the screen, watching the way you swallow him whole, the way your body trembles, gripping him tight.
His free hand slides between your thighs, fingers circling your clit, rubbing slow and firm, matching the deep thrusts of his cock.
Your knees buckle instantly, but his arm around your waist keeps you up, keeps you open, keeps you his.
“Wanna see you come just like this, baby,” he murmurs, lips brushing over your ear, his voice pure sin.
And you do.
Right there—legs shaking, body arching, moaning his name like a fucking prayer.
The pleasure rips through you, making you collapse against the mirror, gasping for breath as the aftershocks leave you wrecked, trembling, ruined.
His grip tightens, his thrusts getting sloppy, desperate, his breath turning into ragged groans as he follows you over the edge, spilling inside you with a low, guttural moan.
The phone is still in his hand. Still recording.
You can barely focus, barely function, but through the haze, you hear him chuckle, breathless, voice hoarse and wrecked.
“Shit, baby,” he pants, pulling you against his chest, kissing your temple.
Your gaze flickers to the reflection, to the way you both look—flushed, fucked-out, completely ruined.
And then, through his heavy breaths, you hear him smirk.
“Think we need another angle.”
Your body is still buzzing, legs barely functioning, but Harry doesn’t give you a chance to recover.
He grabs your hand, tugging you toward the living room, his grip firm, unwavering.
“C’mere,” he mutters, pulling you down onto his lap as he drops onto the couch, his cock already hard again, heavy between his thighs.
The phone is on the coffee table now, angled perfectly, capturing the way you straddle him—bare, flushed, completely fucked-out.
“You ready for me, angel?” he murmurs, trailing his fingers down your spine, his other hand stroking himself, teasing the tip against your soaking folds.
Your thighs tremble as you hover over him, hands braced against his broad chest.
“Already so messy,” he mutters, watching the way your slick coats his cock, the way your body shivers in anticipation.
And then—he grabs your hips, guiding you down, making you take every inch in one slow, aching stretch.
“Fuck—yes, baby, that’s it,” he grits out, his head falling back, eyes squeezing shut as he watches you sink onto him.
Your lips part in a silent moan, nails digging into his shoulders, your thighs burning as he fills you to the hilt.
His hands are everywhere—palming your tits, sliding down your waist, gripping your hips, guiding your movements.
You start to ride him, slow at first, savoring the way his cock drags against every sensitive spot inside you.
But Harry—he wants more.
His grip tightens, fingers digging into your flesh, and suddenly—
A sharp slap lands on your ass.
You gasp, your body jerking forward, the sting sending a shockwave straight to your core.
Harry smirks.
“Feel good?” he taunts, bringing his hand down again, harder this time, making you jolt on his cock.
Your moan is wrecked, your fingers clawing at his chest, needing something to hold onto.
“Fuck, H—”
“Shh, baby,” he coos, thrusting up into you, deep and brutal, his voice all low, sweet filth. “Take it.”
The sound of skin-on-skin fills the room, loud, obscene, mixing with your whimpers, his gritted groans.
He pulls you down onto him harder, his hands forcing your hips to move exactly how he wants—deep, fast, relentless.
Your thighs burn, but the pleasure—fuck, it’s overwhelming.
And then—his thumb finds your clit.
A desperate moan spills from your lips as he rubs tight circles, not letting up, not giving you a second to breathe.
“You’re close, aren’t you?” he pants, his eyes locking onto yours, wild and intense. “I can feel you fucking shaking.”
You nod, frantic, barely holding on, the pleasure so sharp, so consuming.
“Yeah?” he taunts, thrusting up, harder, deeper. “Gonna come for me again? Gonna let the camera see how fucking pretty you look when you fall apart?”
Your body tenses, pleasure coiling so tight it’s almost unbearable.
“Come on, angel,” he urges, gritting his teeth, voice rough. “Give it to me.”
And then—you snap.
The orgasm rips through you, your legs trembling, body collapsing against his chest, your cries muffled against his neck.
“Fuck, yes,” Harry growls, feeling you clench so tight around him it nearly makes him lose it.
But he isn’t done.
His hands dig into your hips, keeping you moving, forcing you through the aftershocks, overstimulating you until you’re whining, twitching, trying to pull away.
“Nuh-uh, baby,” he groans, holding you there, fucking up into you, chasing his own release.
The pleasure is too much, your body too sensitive, but the way he ruins you, uses you, fucks you through it—
It only makes you want more.
He thrusts once, twice, a third time—
And then—he breaks.
A guttural moan rips from his throat, his grip tightening, bruising, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he spills, filling you so full it’s dripping down your thighs.
His chest heaves, his fingers loosening, his head falling back against the couch.
For a long moment, neither of you move—just panting, tangled together, completely wrecked.
The camera is still rolling.
And Harry—the smug bastard—
He fucking smirks.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, tilting his head up to kiss you slow, deep, filthy.
Then his hands skim down your thighs, his voice low, teasing.
“Think we’ve got one more in us?”
“Think we’ve got one more in us?”
Your body is wrecked, every nerve buzzing, muscles shaking, but Harry—Harry isn’t done.
Not even close.
His hands grip your waist, lifting you off his lap, and before you can protest, whine, beg for a second to recover—
He’s dragging you toward the kitchen.
The cool air chills your overheated skin, but it’s nothing compared to the way his body presses against yours from behind, his cock already hard again, pressing insistently against your ass.
He laughs—low, smug, completely in control.
“Still shaking, baby?” he murmurs, lips grazing the shell of your ear, his hands roaming, greedy, possessive.
“You can take it.”
His fingers trail down your spine, slow, teasing, before he pushes you forward, bending you over the counter.
A glass tips over, spilling forgotten water across the marble, but neither of you care.
The only thing that matters is the way he spreads you open, the way he groans when he sees how soaked you still are.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters, reaching for the phone, propping it up against the fruit bowl, making sure it catches everything—
The way you arch.
The way you tremble.
The way your pussy is already dripping, swollen, ready for him.
His hand comes up, taps your jaw, and instinctively, you open your mouth.
“Good girl,” he purrs, slipping two fingers past your lips, pressing down on your tongue.
You suck.
You wrap your lips around them, swirling your tongue, hollowing your cheeks, moaning around his fingers as your lashes flutter.
Your hips wiggle back, ass brushing against the thick length of him, feeling him twitch, his thighs flexing behind you.
“Fuckin’ filthy little thing, aren’t you?” he groans, watching your tongue work, watching you get messy, drool pooling at the corner of your lips.
You whimper, humming around his fingers, and he curses, pulling them from your mouth.
A wet pop, strands of saliva connecting his fingers to your lips, and he fucking smirks.
“So fuckin’ desperate,” he murmurs, dragging those fingers down, down, down—
Until he’s sliding them through your folds, pushing two inside you with no warning.
The obscene squelch is loud, echoing in the quiet kitchen.
Harry chuckles darkly.
“You hear that, baby? Bet the camera’s picking up every fucking sound your pretty pussy is making for me.”
Your cheeks burn, but you’re too far gone to be embarrassed.
Your moans are wrecked, desperate, your hips rocking against his hand, chasing more, more, more.
“You like it?” he taunts, fucking his fingers into you faster, curling them just right, hitting that spot that makes your whole body jolt.
“Y-Yeah,” you gasp, arching against him.
His other hand grips your ass, squeezing, spreading you wider.
“Like being my little mess? Letting me use you?”
Your legs nearly give out, the words going straight to your core, making your walls clench around his fingers.
“Fuck, yes, yes—please, H, need it.”
He groans, removing his fingers, leaving you empty, whimpering.
“Shh, baby,” he soothes, lining himself up, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing.
“You want it?”
You nod frantically, pressing back against him, whining, but it’s not enough.
“Use your words, angel,” he murmurs, gripping your hips, still not pushing in.
You nearly sob.
“Harry, please—need you. Need your cock, please, I’ll be so good.”
He groans, fingers digging into your skin, cock throbbing against your entrance.
“Yeah?” he taunts, voice rough, wrecked. “Let the camera hear you. Let them hear how much you fuckin’ need it.”
Your breath stutters, but you don’t care anymore, the words tumbling out, soaked in desperation.
“Please, fuck me—fuck me so good, make me scream for you. Let them hear how wrecked I am. Want them to know I’m yours.”
That’s all he needs.
He slams inside.
Your cry is instant, loud, your nails clawing at the countertop, overwhelmed, stretched to the brink.
Harry doesn’t wait.
Doesn’t ease you into it.
He’s relentless, snapping his hips in deep, ruthless thrusts, the counter digging into your stomach with every movement.
The phone catches everything.
The way his cock slides in and out, glistening with your arousal.
The way your body jolts with each thrust, tits bouncing.
The way you’re fucking losing it for him, shaking, screaming, babbling absolute nonsense.
“Too much—fuck, fuck—”
His hand wraps around your throat, pulling you upright against his chest.
“Nah,” he growls, panting against your ear, lips brushing the shell.
“Gonna take every inch, baby. Gonna let me fuck you stupid, yeah?”
You nod, whining, voice wrecked.
“Yes—fuck, yes, yes, yes—”
His hand moves from your throat to your mouth, shoving two fingers inside again.
“Suck.”
You obey, tongue swirling around his digits, drool spilling past your lips, whimpering as he keeps fucking you.
“You’re fuckin’ perfect, baby,” he groans, watching it all—the way your lips wrap around his fingers, the way your eyes roll back, completely wrecked.
And when he presses his palm to your lower stomach, feeling himself inside you—
You scream.
Your body locks up, clenching so tight he chokes on a breath.
“Jesus—fuck, that’s it, come for me, angel—”
The orgasm rips through you, sharp, all-consuming, leaving you boneless against the counter, your body trembling uncontrollably.
Harry hisses, his thrusts stuttering, and then—
He pulls out at the last second, dragging his cock through your slick, teasing, tormenting, refusing to let you come down from the high.
Your legs buckle, but his hands hold you up, keep you there, keep you open for him.
The camera is still rolling.
And Harry—smug, breathless, completely ruined—
Still wants more.
“Think we’ve got one more in us?”
You barely register the words, still trying to catch your breath, every muscle weak, trembling, spent.
But Harry—your insatiable, relentless boyfriend—
He doesn’t rush this time.
No dragging, no flipping you over, no eager hands guiding you into place.
Instead, he lifts you carefully, presses soft kisses to your spine, carries you back to the bedroom as if you’re something fragile, breakable.
And maybe you are.
Maybe he’s already ruined you.
Maybe you’ll be feeling him for days.
The bed is soft, warm, and as soon as your bodies sink into the sheets, you exhale a shuddering breath, melting into his chest.
He reaches for the phone, props it back up on the nightstand, and then pulls you in close, his body wrapping around yours.
His lips brush your shoulder, your jaw, your temple, trailing soft, lazy kisses.
“You’re fucking perfect,” he whispers, his voice deep, warm, his fingers dragging up and down your arm.
You hum, eyes fluttering shut, completely boneless, content.
But then—
He rolls his hips.
A slow, teasing press, his cock hard again, nudging between your thighs.
Your lips part, breath hitching, but you don’t stop him.
You tilt your hips back, letting him slide against your soaked entrance, teasing, brushing.
“You sure?” he murmurs, lips at your ear, voice softer now, more tender.
You nod, pressing back against him, chasing more.
“Need you,” you whisper, reaching behind you, guiding him in. “Just like this. Just wanna feel you, H.”
He groans as he pushes inside, inch by inch, slow, deep, deliberate.
The stretch is familiar now, easy, perfect.
His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you impossibly close, his lips at your neck, your shoulder, your hairline.
It’s different now.
No desperation, no rough hands or fast thrusts or filthy taunts.
Just this.
The slow, steady roll of his hips, the way he fills you completely, holds you close, breathes against your skin.
The way he worships you.
And for the first time tonight, you take the lead.
You slide your hand down his arm, lacing your fingers with his.
Turning your head, you press soft kisses to his jaw, his cheek, whispering between them.
“You feel so good inside me,” you murmur, voice soft but sinful.
His breath shudders, his hand gripping your hip as you tilt your pelvis back, grinding against him.
You moan, deliberately loud, knowing the camera is catching everything.
“Wish you could feel how deep you are,” you whisper, pressing your ass back against him, rolling your hips slow and deliberate.
He groans, hips jerking forward involuntarily.
“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead pressed against your shoulder.
You take his hand, guide it down your stomach, between your legs.
“Touch me, H,” you beg softly, turning your head, lips brushing his.
“Want you to feel how messy you’ve made me. How soaked I am just for you.”
A deep growl rumbles in his chest, and he’s gone.
His fingers slip between your thighs, stroking slow, lazy circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.
“You like that, baby?” he murmurs, voice wrecked, breathless.
You nod quickly, pressing your face into the pillow, but he isn’t having it.
“Wanna hear you,” he says, nipping at your ear.
You give him exactly what he wants.
A whimper, a broken moan, his name tumbling off your lips as you clench around him.
His hand tightens in yours, his hips stuttering, his voice shaky, wrecked, desperate in a whole new way.
“M’gonna come inside you,” he murmurs, holding you so tight, so close.
Your heart pounds, body trembling, completely consumed by him.
You moan softly, turning your head slightly, lips brushing his jaw.
“Want you to,” you whisper, lacing your fingers even tighter.
His breath catches.
He groans deep in his chest, rocking into you again, again, again—
Until you’re both falling apart together.
Your name leaves his lips in a broken moan, your body locking up as you clench around him, his hips stuttering as he comes, burying himself as deep as he can.
The camera catches everything.
The way his arm stays wrapped around you, holding you close even after.
The way his lips keep pressing soft, lingering kisses to your shoulder.
The way his breath evens out, matching yours, completely tangled together.
“Think that’s a wrap?” you whisper, smiling sleepily.
Harry laughs softly, pulling you even closer.
“Yeah, baby,” he murmurs, kissing your hair, your jaw, your lips.
“That was the best fucking movie I’ve ever made.”
You barely have the energy to respond, still trying to steady your breath, limbs tangled with his, skin sticky, flushed, glowing.
But you feel it—the way his chest shakes slightly with laughter, the way he presses a final, lazy kiss to your temple.
Then, with one last deep exhale, he shifts, reaching for the phone on the nightstand.
You groan, instantly knowing what he’s about to do.
“Harry,” you mumble, hiding your face in his neck, still floating in the warmth of your high.
But he just chuckles, unlocking his phone, scrolling back through the clips, and letting out a low, satisfied hum.
“Holy fuck, baby,” he mutters under his breath, eyes glued to the screen.
You can hear it.
The faint, filthy echoes of your moans, your gasps, the wet, obscene sounds of your bodies moving together.
And then—his voice.
Deep, wrecked, whispering the filthiest things in your ear, groaning your name, telling you how fucking good you felt.
You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head as you attempt to bury yourself beneath the duvet.
“Shut up,” you mumble, mortified, still breathless.
But Harry just laughs, victorious and smug, tugging the blanket down and tilting your chin up to meet his gaze.
“S’fucking hot,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your cheek, your jaw.
You huff, playfully smacking his chest, but he just grins against your skin.
“S’just for us, angel,” he reassures, softer now, tucking your hair behind your ear. “Just for me.”
He scrolls through the clips one more time, selecting them carefully, before locking them away, safe and private.
You watch him do it.
See the way he treats them like something sacred.
Because that’s exactly what they are.
Not just a filthy little home video.
Not just a collection of moans and gasps and pleasure.
But a perfect, intimate reminder of the night you let him make a movie out of you.
His own personal masterpiece.
And when he tucks the phone away, finally rolling over to face you, his fingers tracing slow circles on your bare back, his expression softens.
“Feel okay?” he murmurs, searching your face, his voice gentle now.
You nod, a small, lazy smile tugging at your lips.
“Yeah,” you whisper, curling into him, nuzzling into his chest.
You feel his lips press against your hair, warm, lingering.
“Good,” he breathes, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you even closer.
And just before sleep finally pulls you under, you hear him murmur—
“Gonna need a sequel.”
☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆
Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️🔥
Harry's Erectile Dysfunction Gets in the Way of Your Sex Life (SMUT)
AN: i don't know much about anxiety medication side effects so if this isn't 100% accurate, don't come at me. i really hope you enjoy. i know so many ask for me to write angst and i normally don't feel comfortable writing it but i did write just a bit in this story. enjoy!!!
This story contains: erectile dysfunction, mentions of anxiety and anxiety medication, body insecurities, crying, tiny bit of angst, smut, fluff sprinkled in everywhere
{ dadrry/dilfrry - husband!harry - soft!harry - both in late thirties - have four kids }
word count: 2,718
After months of no sex, you think Harry isn't attracted to you anymore but after confessing your assumptions on why the lack of sex has occurred, Harry breaks down and confesses his secret that he's been trying to hide from you out of pure embarrassment.
Over the past few weeks Harry hasn't been feeling himself. In several aspects too but the one that sticks out to you the most is his sex drive. Normally anytime you're in the mood he'll be all for a little shag under the sheets while keeping quiet so not to wake your kids up. Or normally he'd be up for you giving him a blowjob in the shower. But it's been weeks and nothing, barley even a kiss. And you're starting to think he's not attracted to you anymore.
You've always been told that after being with someone for so long and after having a couple of kids, your sex life will dissolve. You don't want that. You loved the sex you once had together. You and Harry may be in your late thirties but just months ago were having sex nearly every day. So what's changed, you ask yourself.
Is he turned off by your body? The body that has extra fat on the tummy from housing your four babies. The stretch marks that are on your plushy hips and thighs. Your not so perky boobs. Does Harry think of your body and get the urge to throw up from looking at it? The thought makes you want to cry.
But then again you have to remember who you're talking about. You're talking about your Harry. The Harry that would always tell you he loved your body. The one that would liter your skin in kisses while making love. The one that runs his fingers over your stretch marks while cuddling but not in a weird way, just in a haphazard way.
----------------------------
Tonight you think it's gonna be different. You've both just finished putting your children to bed and now you're doing your bedtime routines. Harry is fresh out the shower, the shower he insisted he take by himself for whatever reason, brushing his teeth at the vanity in your shared bathroom, dressed in only a pair of his boxer briefs. While you on the other hand is sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing your creams and lotions on your skin, dressed in a silk blue nightgown.
A minute later Harry comes walking out the bathroom and goes around to his side of the bed, slipping into the covers. He's about to reach over to turn the bedside lamp off when you stop him with your words. "Hey," you say in a slow drawl before maneuvering over to him, "why don't we, you know, have sex tonight. It's been a while and I want you."
Harry looks over to you with droopy eyes and mutters, "Love, m'so tired. How 'bout tomorrow, m'kay. Just want to sleep." That's what he's been saying, tomorrow, but that promise is never fulfilled. It's always pushed away with another promise of tomorrow.
With tears in your eyes that Harry is unable to pick up on, you say a quiet "Okay." before shuffling under the duvet to get ready for sleep. You turn away from your husband's body to lay on your left side and now in the dark room, you attempt to just fall asleep and forget you even asked for sex. But of course sleep doesn't come easy tonight.
The more you lay there the more you drowned in the thoughts of what your friends have told you about how their partners stopped wanting sex with them after a while. The thought of Harry never wanting sex with you again has actual tears running down your cheeks. And before you realize it, your shoulders are shaking as a quiet sob leaves your body.
The shaking from your sobs has Harry jolting awake from his sleep that he just entered. He sits up in the dark and scoots over to you worriedly and questions, "Baby, what's that matter? Why'r you crying?"
Barely able to catch your breath, you spit out, "You..... you don't find my body attractive anymore. I must be ugly and gross you out, don't I?" That's the only rational thing you can come up with as an excuse for why your husband has been not wanted sex with you. Or the last resort thoughts of, you know, him possibly cheating on you. But your Harry would NEVER, would he.
Harry reaches to turn the lamp back on so he can see you clearly, then retorts a bit offended, "What the hell are you talkin' 'bout? You're beautiful, m'love. You know I think you're the prettiest women in the world."
"Then, then why don't you want to have sex anymore?" you ask back, tired of not knowing the answer. That question has Harry stiffening up and wanting to recoil back into his skin. The short answer is, he doesn't know. He wishes he could tell you but he can't because he truly has been puzzled himself.
About three months ago Harry started to lose his sex drive. At first he tried to keep it a secret and still enjoy having sex with you. But after a time or two it just felt forced for him and he never wanted to have sex with the love of his life when he wasn't feeling into it for whatever reason. It felt untruthful to himself and to you.
Along with the fact that after the last time you did have sex he could barely get hard. You didn't notice because it was dark in the bedroom and he went heavy on the clit rubbing to make up for his lack of erection, but he was mortified. So after that night Harry's been scared to have sex if he's honest.
The thought of you realizing he's not getting hard and thinking it has something to do with your abilities to please him would destroy him. Plus, he's cheeked and he can't even get himself hard when he's alone. So it's definitely not you. "Um," he stutters, "I..... I dunno, really."
You finally turn around to take a peek at your husband and when you do, you feel so incredibly bad. Harry looks sad and hurt, even confused is a word you'd describe how he's looking. Maybe the problem all along wasn't you but rather him. You never thought about it that way.
You sit up so you're more face level with him and ask much more shyly this time, "What do you mean, you don't know? Just haven't been in the mood lately or....?"
Taking a deep breath, Harry starts to explain with a shaky voice, one with emotions evident, "Just, yeah, haven't been in the mood and I can't get it hard. Dunno what's wrong with me. Makes me feel like a shit husband when you ask for me but I can't even get hard to satisfy you. M'scard somethin' is wrong with me."
"Oh, baby," you coo, leaning in to wrap your arms around his tattooed body, "shh, it's alright. In the morning I can make you a doctors appointment if you'd like? To see what they say has been causing your low sex drive. I'm sure it's nothing serious."
"Okay, sounds good. And I love you. Sorry I haven't been able to take care of your needs. Was just embarrassed to tell you that I can't get m'dick hard. Because it's so embarrassing." Harry relies after taking a defeated breath and placing a kiss to the top of your head.
You pull back from his body to look him straight in the eyes and state, "It's not anything you should be embarrassed to share with me though, okay. I'm your wife. I'd never judge you. I love you. And because I love you I miss our sex. But until we can figure out what's wrong with you, I can wait. I'd wait forever with you."
Harry can't help himself when he pushes his head forward and locks his lips to yours. It's a simple kiss mixed with a bit of your snotty nose and wet cheeks but he doesn't mind. After the kiss is over with, you pull him down into bed with you, re-covering yourselves back up with the blankets. and cuddling into one another.
You allow Harry to rest his head on your chest because you know when he's feeling sad or down about something, he likes you to hold him, no matter how old he is. So that's what you do. You hold him while caressing his damp curls away from his face until he falls asleep on top of you. Then you follow right after, falling into a sleep state now knowing that all your worrying thoughts were debunked but also still have a lingering worry as to what could be wrong with your husband. You'll just have to wait and find out tomorrow.
----------------------------
Once you've gotten your kids ready and drove to school, you and Harry make your way to the doctors office. You'd called first thing this morning to make him an appointment and luckily they had a spot available for him. He told you that you didn't have to come with him but you wanted to be there and support him. Also to just be a comfort for him knowing how his anxiety gets when going to the doctors.
After waiting in the little waiting area for about twenty minutes, they call Harry back. You walk hand in hand to the room designated for him and wait for the doctor to come visit. "M'so nervous, y/n. I feel nausous." Harry confesses, his legs bouncing up and down uncontrollably.
You stand off to the side of where he's sitting on the bed wrapped in plastic paper and coo softly, "It's gonna be alright, baby. It's just your anxiety making you feel that way. You'll be okay, promise."
A minute later the doctor comes walking in with a brown clipboard, introducing herself and questions your reasoning for coming in. "Hi, I'm Dr. Coalett. What can I do for you today, Harry?"
Taking a deep breath, Harry musters up the courage to confess to the doctor, "Well, um, see, I haven't been, you know, in the mood lately when it comes to sex or being sexual with m'wife. I can't even get an erection anymore. M'scared somethin' is wrong with me. It just started happenin' about three months ago. Before then, we had sex a normal amount, maybe even more than average.*nervously laughs at his own words* But now, it's zero sex."
Dr. Coalett listens intently and when Harry finishes speaking, she replies understandingly, "Okay, I see. Well, many factors can come into play with your erectile dysfunction and loss of sex drive. Like age, stress, medications you may be taking. But I'd say we can cancel out the age factor because you've just told me that you've never had a problem up until recently and you're only thirty eight. So, stress and medication could be the cause. And it shows on your paperwork you take, let me see, anxiety medicine?"
You keep one hand running circles over Harry's back to comfort him which is definitely helping him open more up to the doctor. To answer Dr. Coalett back, he answers, "Um, yes. Been strugglin' with anxiety for years but just this past year it got to the point where I needed more help than I could give m'self. So I was put on anxiety medicine and it's been working alright I guess." You're so proud of your husband for speaking so openly with the doctor. You know this doesn't come easy for him.
She gives you both a gentle smile and says, "Alright, well, I think I may know your problem then. I'm not 100% sure but I believe the anxiety medication you were prescribed is the cause of your issues. One of that medications side effects is sexual dysfunction. So here's what I can do. We can switch you to another brand of anxiety medicine and see if that helps with your problems. If it doesn't, you can come back to us and we can examine you more in depth. If it does work, then you should be fine and we can refill the medicine for you next month."
You and Harry both sign in relief. So it's not something too serious. Thank God. As Dr. Coalett is writing Harry's prescription, you speak up to ask her, "So, when should he expect to notice changes with his lack of sex drive, if that's not a weird question to ask?"
She giggles and responds, "No, not weird at all. It can vary person to person but I'd say within the next few days of switching the medication. It may be subtle at first where Harry won't get fully erect or it could be straight forward from the start. You'll just have to wait and see." She hands Harry the new prescription and now you're free to leave after sending the prescription to the pharmacy.
----------------------------
Harry started his new anxiety medication the following day and within hours he could feel a difference. Or maybe it was the placebo effect playing tricks on him. But to be 100% positive, he waited to do anything sexual until he felt absolutely feral. Also he wanted your first time in three months to be special. Not just some quickie in the shower.
When the weekend rolled around and your kids went to spend the night with their grandma, Harry's mother Anne, he knew it was the perfect time to start rekindling your sex life. At this point you knew his erectile dysfunction was fixed and that he was in the mood for sex but wanted to wait until you had the house to yourselves.
Harry set up some candles around the bedroom and laid some towels down so you wouldn't have to change the sheets later that night. Then once everything was set up perfectly to his standards, the love making began. It was possibly greater than your first time ever having sex when you were both twenty years old. Mainly because you're both way more experienced now and know how to properly pleasure each other.
You started out on top, riding his VERY erect cock, but then from the lack of sex recently, fell too weak and tired to stay in that position for long. So Harry worked quickly to flip you over and he took the place of the topper. He skillfully thrusted into your wet cunt just like old times and ground his pubic bone into your clit for extra pleasure on your end. You held hands and Harry lent down to leave subtle hickies to your skin. Subtle so your kids wouldn't question the marks on their mothers neck.
A few minutes before your orgasms Harry broke down crying. You worried he was hurt for a second only to have him explain that he's crying happy tears. Happy tears that steam from being so happy to have you like this again. He thought he was gonna be broken forever. Even when he had erectile dysfunction though, he still had these feelings of missing being intimate with you. He loves you so much and your sex is so special to him.
After you calmed him down enough, Harry was able to concentrate at his task at hand. The task of helping you both achieve orgasms. And within another minute you came together. Both letting out breathy moans that you didn't have to conceal, beings you had the house to yourselves. Holding each other close and realizing just how much you missed having his naked body pressed to yours.
Once you were finished, Harry helped you walk to the bathroom where you went to pee and he helped to clean you up. Then removing the soaked towels filled with bodily fluids, you crawled into the sheets together and fell asleep holding each others naked body. You choose to sleep naked because you both just really missed his skin on yours and normally when your kids are home you don't have the privilege of sleeping without clothes on. You know, in case of an emergency throughout the night with one of them.
You both slept like babies the entire night and when you woke up, you woke up to Harry's face between your legs, eating his once favorite meal that he just got the cravings for again.
(PLEASE REBLOG BECAUSE WRITING IS NOT EASY AND ITS FREE SO JUST DO IT)
(no more tags are allowed because i've hit my number limit. sorry : ( )
Summary: When fame creates a nasty imbalance between Harry’s public and personal life, he is forced to let go of his very real relationship. // Arrogant — “someone who has an exaggerated sense of their own importance, abilities, or superiority, often acting in a way that is boastful, dismissive, or disrespectful toward others.”
CW: Heavy angst (couple in crisis, verbal fighting, emotional instability, breakup, toxic behavior, dismissive behavior) Smut (MDNI - dirty talk, p in v sex, unprotected sex), strong language used, nicknames (baby, angel, love, sweet girl, pretty, no y/n), depression mentioned, toxic inner dialogue!
Word Count: 4.5k
Pairing: Famous!Harry x girlfriend!fem reader
Location: London, UK
POV: Harry's, third person
💌 A/N: Hi my loves! This one is a bit heavy and sad, no happy ending here! In the beginning, I left it kinda up to interpretation of what you’d think the reader was saying! I pulled from Harry’s song — “To Be So Lonely,” one of my favorites! Be prepared for an emotional rollercoaster 🙂↕️ Hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think.
“You don’t jus’ get to say that!” Harry yelled, his short, brown hair disheveled as he ran his fingers through it once more. A vow of frustration for him, wide eyed and utterly amused by his girlfriend's behavior.
“Well, I said it — so,” she stood there, defiant and all. Harry almost laughed as her arms crossed, standing her ground in an obvious desperate attempt to gain some control. She was testing him, being a brat. She did it the whole day, the whole fucking day she’d been nipping and poking at him. If it wasn’t something he didn’t do, then it was something he did. Harry was beginning to feel useless, angry at the world for breaking them apart and even angerier at her for letting them.
Harry let his eyes melt over her figure, taking in the way her hip popped out, arms crossed against her chest, marking her cleavage up. Despite his fued of desire and frustration, his determination won the battle. He took a small step back, in utter disbelief.
“Delete it,” Harry barked.
“No, I’m not deleting it,” she challenged. “Your fans can’t just say whatever they want and get away with it, Harry.”
“Yes, they can. It’s Twitter, not the government.”
“You’re just gonna let them think that?” She asked in disbelief.
“I told you not to look at it,” Harry argued. “You’re better than that. Y’know how this goes,” he barked out, attempting to place blame on her. “I have commitments, a contract. Media training, for fuck sakes. You understand this, don’t make it seem like you don’t,” Harry accused.
“And that’s always priority, right?” She argued back, rolling her eyes.
“Yes,” he admitted, letting his shoulder drop. “Yes, it is. Y’know why, love?” The term of endearment held no sweetness, just all bitter and salt to the wound. “I have a responsibility, a job to do. Something more meaningful than sitting and watching fucking love island on the the telly!” Harry let out a breath, placing his hands on his hips. “Why did you have to look at it? I told you not to from the beginning.”
“It’s kinda impossible not to when it comes up as a fucking Google notification on my phone!”
“Fucking ignore it!” Harry yelled, frustrated. “I brought you here because I miss you and now, it’s all useless drama, shit that could’ve been avoided.”
“You’re so inconsiderate, you know that?” She judged, moving to grab her things and pack them into her small purse, barely fitting in her rushed attempt. “It’s only about how you feel.”
“I’m inconsiderate?” Harry nearly lost it, he felt the heat rise from his core. Not the good kind, all bubbly and hot. “Was I inconsiderate when I booked you a trip to the Caribbean for your little friend getaway? Or all the bloody, useless shit I bought you that you barely even touch? Is that inconsiderate?” He stepped forward, voice raised. “If you haven’t fucking noticed, you haven’t spend a dime since were together. Why is that?” He questioned rhetorically.
“Okay, big deal. You can buy things, congratulations. I’d figure you wouldn’t care if you spent pennies of your millionaire pound salary, Harry.” She scoffed, “I’m talking about emotions, do you have them?”
“I work hard for that!” He yelled, at his wits ends. “And emotions? It’s just some stupid rumor.“
“It still hurts me,” she admitted. “ And you don’t say anything to me,” she argued. “or them!”
“What am I supposed to say? I’m not allowed to just say shit and neither are you. I have to stick to the schedule, stick to the contract. I can’t be out here just saying whatever I feel like with no consequences. I have an image to —,” he began but she interrupted, hand placed in the air.
“Oh, God. Don’t start me on your fucking image! Just say it, Harry.” She coerced. “I’m not good for you, I’m not good for your image.”
“For fuck sakes, would you listen to yourself?” He said, turning his back on her. “It’s all that self doubt that is breaking us,” he muttered more to himself, a reflection that was too spot on and too late to make a difference.
“No. We had cracks long before,” she argued. “All I wanted, Harry, was a bit of your time.”
“Time is precious,” Harry turned, stepping forwards. His frame towered over hers. “I have to be wise about my time and you know that. So, sorry I can’t be where you want me to be or… or say exactly what you want me to say,” Harry dropped his arms in defense. “I flew you from Roma to London in hopes of making you happy but every single second has just been miserable.”
“Oh, so it’s miserable now? Can you barely bear it, Harry?” She challenged, staring up at him.
“Jesus Christ, that’s not what I meant,” he ran his fingers through his coarse hair, his eyes jumping to wear his phone buzzed on the nightstand — lighting up with notifications.
“See, that’s what I mean. Every second we have together is so… tainted by someone or something! I’m tired of it,” she admitted, selfishly telling him the truth.
“Well, I’m tired too. Tired of trying to be fucking perfect for you, for the media, for Jeff! I’m over it,” he sighed, “nothing is ever good enough and I just fucking got back,” Harry grumbled, closing his eyes shut in defeat. He was determined not to make his tears visible to her, she didn’t deserve that amount of vulnerability from him now. “Listen,” he breathed out. “I have to get ready for the show but if you’re here when I get back —,” he started.
“You don’t want me at the show?” It came out accusingly and in disbelief.
“It’s not that I don’t want y’there,” Harry argued, walking a few steps to retrieve his phone. “Jeff advised against it for now.” His voice was firm, devoid of any emotion and feeling about how he felt.
“And you’re just going to let the puppy master tell you what to do?”
God, fuck. That hurt. It fucking burned and she’d knew it.
“Real rich,” Harry replied, snarky as he grabbed his belongings. “It wasn’t me who tweeted out some dumb shit but now, I have to pay for the consequences. I’ll be lucky if fans even show up tonight after what you said!”
“It needed to be said, Harry! I’m tired of it, I’m tired of fans thinking they know shit when they don’t! I was defending us, our relationship!”
Harry sniffled, for once in agreement with her.
“The way you went about it was all wrong and that’s final. Next time, don’t invite a whole bunch of strangers into our relationship. It’s our relationship, not theirs.” Harry walked towards the door, utterly exhausted. “Sit this one out and if you’re here when I come back, we can talk.”
“Think we talked enough,” she rushed out, pushing past him. Harry stood by the door, watching her pull at the handle and disappear down the corridor.
“Fuck!” He yelled, his frustration boiling over into a puddle of want and need for her to understand that their was no use in defending themselves, people would think what they wanted. He learned it the hard way, trying to fit himself in a box wherever he could. That only ruined him and now, he was trying to be his most authentic self and that was hard enough, vulnerable but still not enough.
It was different now. Crowds demanded more of him, the media accused him, accused her and always spread rumors about what they thought— he said, she said bullshit. It was an endless battle of control that broke his confidence and rained on any conviction of hope.
Maybe I just needed to be alone, he thought to himself. His buzzing phone hissed in his hand, reality was calling and it wasn’t pretty.
“Yeah, I’m on my way.” Harry answered quickly and ended the call, shutting his door. He crept down the corridor of his home, eyeing the blacked out Range Rover that idled in his private driveway. It was unmistakably his girlfriend. He let out a sigh, watching it as he pulled away before he could even think of calling the car to stop.
This is what they wanted — the media, the fans, the public who think they know me. Harry thought, mentally preparing myself for the outlash from all sides. Harry blindly drove to the stadium, distraught and lost in his thoughts.
Harry schooled his face just as he pulled up to the stadium, he got a sneak peek of a few fans waiting outside the entrance and felt whole again for a few seconds. The routine began — hair, makeup, last minute song changes, double checking everything, and endless amounts of rundowns. His manager caught him once he’s all dressed, a neutral look on his face.
“How you feeling?” His manager questioned.
“Like shit,” Harry sighed, narrowing his focus. “But I’ll be fine for the show,” he ran his fingers through hair, needing to busy his hands.
“I wasn’t going to say anything but,” Harry already knew it was coming, the lecture. “You need to talk to your girlfriend about media training,” Jeff said, “she can’t just blow up on her story and think it’s —,” Harry interrupted.
“It won’t be a problem anymore,” his tone was firm but the anger shined through. “It’s not like she said shit that wasn’t true,” he stuttered, “it’s just — all fucked up,” Harry rolled his eyes.
“Fiix it, Harry. Go out there and have the best fucking show of your life and make fans forget it, okay?” He demanded firmly. “That’s your job, your responsibility. Not airing out your relationship drama that’s —,” Harry stood from his chair abruptly.
“For fucks sakes,” he cursed, “please, just be quiet. I know what to do, okay? I’ve been doing this shit for years. I got it, Jeff. Now, can you leave so I can take a fucking piss?” Harry wanted to scream, to yell, to cry but he couldn’t. Jeff was right, he had to put on the best show ever — make the drama irrelevant. Harry had to put on a brave face, go perform and make them all happy when he was the saddest and angriest he’s ever felt.
When he went to do his small ritual of high fives before the show, his heart dropped when he realized his girlfriend wouldn’t be there. He promised himself he’d apologize, smooth it over and fix it as soon as he was off stage. As big as their argument was, his girlfriend was right even if she went about it the wrong way.
The show went smoothly, Harry loosened up within a few songs and nobody noticed a thing, or so he thought. He joked, talked with fans and sang his heart out, pouring his emotions into every song. When the crowd roared one last time, he did a few bows — thankful that he got to make so many happy at his job.
“Thank you, thank you,” he mouthed as he walked around the stage before disappearing into the back. His adrenaline was so high that when he rounded the corner, he almost missed her. His eyes did a double take as he walked and glanced at a familiar figure.
“You came,” a small smile crept to his lips as he instinctively hugged her. His heart raced against her chest, pulling her in before grabbing her hand. He walked her back to his dressing room, only asking her one simple question.
“When did you get here?” He asked a little breathless as he closed the door behind them.
“Just now,” she stood in front of him with an expression he couldn’t really make out. “Harry, I —“
“Wait, let me say that I’m so, so sorry. I fucked up…” Harry cupped his palms around her cheeks. “You have to forgive me. I’m just so stressed and I don’t know what I was thinking. I was just worried about what the public might think and not —,” she cut him off.
“Harry, I’m just —,” he knew that expression, he knew it well. She wasn’t angry, she certainly wasn’t happy — she was sad. Which, he could understand, he accepted sadness but selfishly — he couldn’t handle it. Before he could stop himself, his lips moved against her frown, kissing her softly.
“I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry love.” He repeated as he kissed her. “Forgive me, forgive me please.” His lips went to her neck, his nose inhaling her sweet scent that calmed his nerves and brought him home.
“Harry, I —,” she started, gripping onto the side of his sweaty shirt. “I can’t do this anymore,” she breathed out.
“No, baby no. You can, you can do this.” Harry begged.
“I just came to say… goodbye, I have a flight soon and I —,” Harry let out a weak cry.
“No. You have to forgive me. I’ll release a statement about… about privacy, I’ll do anything.”
She broke free from his embrace, shaking her head — tears falling down her cheeks. The same cheeks he’d pinch and munch on. Harry let his own tears fall.
I did this, I broke her, I broke us. Harry thought, his mind racing.
“Baby, please.” Harry begged, trying one last time.
“I can’t, Harry. I’ll never be perfect for them, perfect for you.”
“You are perfect,” Harry fought, “you’re perfect for me, angel.”
“Please, just let me go.”
“No, I can’t. Not now,” he struggled, voice breaking as he went to hug her again. “I love you so much,” he held her as she didn’t reciprocate the embrace.
“We both know that’s not enough.”
Harry let his arms fall at his sides, taking a step away from her.
“If that’s what you want,” he started, shaking his head. “It’s just gonna prove that they're right, y’know.”
“I just… I can’t do it anymore. It was easy, so easy to love you when you were just…” she started.
“Just what?”
“Just Harry,” she sighed, revealing what he already knew. Harry could sense it from the moment he came back to the public and started to do promotion for his debut album. The time together wasn’t the same, stressed and short. The luxury of privacy was quickly ruined once they were spotted together. He worried that it would be too much to handle and it easily became too big, too much, too fast.
Harry had no choice but to let her go, he was at the height of his career and understood if she was overwhelmed, he was overwhelmed.
“Ok.” Was all he could say back, his vision blurred again and he felt so defeated. He knew there was a fine line between himself and his persona but he never expected their relationship to end due to the imbalance.
Months went by, time was non-existent as he traveled from country to country, performing in venues larger than life itself. He was hurt, broken even for a long time and deeply missed his ex-girlfriend. Rumors spread quickly but died out fast, fans happy that he was once again single. Work, music, and sex were an easy distraction from his mental state. The depression crept in and stayed but writing and performing helped.
One late evening in London, Harry decided to go out. Harry stayed connected with friends of his ex-girlfriend, they were all close. “Harry!” Amelia beamed, pulling him into a warm hug. “So glad you could make it, missed your sweet face.”
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Harry chuckled, eyeing the intimate party space filled with all their friends. Harry had a small break in between his tour and was using the time to record his second album, Fine Line. With only a few songs left to complete, he allowed himself a night out.
“Oh, uhm. I forgot to mention,” Amelia voice trailed off, whispering into his ear. “she’s here… Chloe invited her and I didn’t get the chance to tell her you're coming either and now, well… it’s a true reunion.”
Harry let out a loud sigh, carefully looking around the room but never finding her. “It’s fine,” Harry shrugged, playing it off. “We’re cordial,” Harry lied. He barely had time to recover because when he rounded the corridor into the kitchen, they nearly bumped into each other.
“Shit,” Harry cursed, his drink spilling all over his white shirt.
“Oh sorry —,” she started before her eyes went wide, “Harry? What… What are you doing here?”
“Getting drinks spilled on me, I guess.” He chuckled, flicking his wrist and reaching for a napkin. He wiped over his shirt, the napkin doing nothing to save it. His butterfly tattoo peaked through his stained shirt. “Amelia invited me,” Harry revealed.
“Didn’t think you’d still talk to her,” Harry watched as she played defense immediately. The way her arms crossed, cleavaged pushed up. It was a fever dream, a bit too familiar.
“Well, I do.” He let out a sigh, “we’re all friends,” Harry added.
“Well, we’re not all friends, Harry.” Her voice turned sinister and cold, Harry chose to ignore it. He stepped around her, grabbing a bottle of water. He felt like he needed to wash down the bad taste in his mouth and the thoughts he had about her.
Fuck, she looked so gorgeous. More gorgeous than he’d ever seen.
Throughout the night, the tension grew with small side comments and a lot of eye rolling — Harry’s personal favorite.
While their group of friends played games together and let the night turn into morning, the tension became very apparent to everyone else.
“So, what happened between you two? Harry said, "You were cordial.” Amelia stated.
“Cordial?” She chuckled, sipping her drink. “Far from that,” she told the group. Harry’s gaze dropped and he felt everyone’s eyes shift from him back to his ex-girlfriend.
“We just… “ Harry shrugged, “fell out,” Harry swallowed hard, avoiding eye contact.
“Fell out?” He heard her scoff, shaking her head. “You are so arrogant, Harry.”
“Arrogant?” He questioned with disgust. “How am I arrogant?”
“Okay, Amelia… Chloe, should we check on those desserts,” Tom practically pulled the group of girls away to give them a more private moment.
“Harry, I don’t want to do this here.” She argued, stepping closer to him. “We’re with friends and remember, it doesn’t matter what I think.”
“Is that what this is?” Harry questioned, blinking as he tried to connect the dots. His tired eyes shifted to the group of friends that were listening behind the panel. As the tension grew, Harry stood and grabbed his ex-girlfriends hand. “I’m not doing this in front of an audience,” leaving her no choice but to follow. He led her into a guest bedroom down the hall and shut the door.
“Tell me,” he demanded. “Tell me how I’m arrogant,” he needed to know. Harry usually prided himself on not having bad breakups. He’d do whatever to make the other person happy or at least on better terms.
“You didn’t listen to me! It was all about you and your image, how you felt!” She yelled, her frustration boiling over. “We didn’t fall out, Harry. You stopped caring!”
“Stopped caring?” Harry’s voice raised, “I was trying to protect you!”
“I didn’t need your protection, I needed your support!”
“No,” Harry took a half step closer. “Nothing I did was ever good enough for you,” he exclaimed. “I gave you my everything when I was struggling the most and asked you to please, please not do one thing and you did it!”
She crossed her arms in defense.
“So what, that’s what you think of me? I’m some arrogant son of a bitch who only cares about himself?” The words were harsh but he had to know.
“Pretty much, yeah.” She deadpanned, standing there with her arms crossed over her.
Harry scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief as he turned his back towards her. He needed a minute to breathe, feeling his chest burn with hatred and hurt. When he turned around, he stepped towards her — slowly.
“That’s how you want to leave it? Like this?” Harry asked, defeated.
“I don't know what else you expect,” she replied, her eyes dropping to his lips then back up again.
“I don’t expect anything but,” he stopped, letting his head fall. “I walked into this party tonight hoping I’d see you, hoping that I’d get to see you again and know that you’re okay.” Harry admitted, “I’ve missed you and this,” Harry gave a tight lipped smile. “Is not what I was expecting.”
He saw her expression soften just a little, her eyes running over his face.
“I… I missed you too but it won’t work,” she fronted, “we don’t work.”
Harry let out a sigh, “we don’t have to work, we just have to be… together.”
“Harry, I — ,” Harry hesitantly cupped her cheeks, invading her space.
“Look at me,” he whispered, drowning into her eyes. “I’m so sorry, I’m so… so sorry, for everything. I never wanted to break us,” he said. “I just wish we didn’t have to end our love like this” he added, a small sad smile coated his face. His gaze dropped to her lips, his thumb brushed gently over the corner of her smile lines.
“I… I don’t want to end things like this either,” she admitted. “I just.. I miss feeling your love, your warmth… “
“Let me… love you again,” Harry whispered, his heart felt so heavy, stuck on making things right with her. “Can I, please? Even if it’s jus’ this once,” he begged, his thumb rubbing the side of his face.
“Okay,” she nodded her head, “just one last time,” she said, sadly. She closed the distance between them, pressing her lips softly against his.
Home. She felt like home. Harry thought, instantly kissing her back. He took his time, parting his lips, exploring her mouth. The kiss was gentle but all consuming, felt everywhere.
“God, I missed this, missed you,” he mumbled against her lips, his hand reaching around and down to the small of her waist. He pulled her closer, keeping their lips connected. He followed her lead, the moment she added tongue, he added his — not fighting for dominance but moving together. He felt the vibration when she moaned into the kiss, pulling him even closer. They stumbled back towards the bed, Harry groaned in relief.
“Need to feel you,” he begged, his fingers skimming the hem of her top, pulling it over her head.
“Take it off,” she pleaded. Her hands went to his trousers, undoing the button as Harry pulled his own shirt over his head. They rushed for skin to skin contact, craving the feeling of warmth and solitude.
Harry shrugged out of his trousers and briefs as she pulled down her skirt and underwear. His hands immediately went to her hips, pulling her flush against him. Harry sat on the edge of the mattress, her straddling his waist. His lips connected to her neck, kissing down her skin, all over her collarbone.
“Oh baby,” she moaned once he reached over the curve of her breast. Harry flinched at the familiar nickname but kept kissing her. His hand cupped her, angling his head to taste her. His tongue was hot against her peaked nipple as he licked and sucked down on the bud. Simultaneously, her hips rolled in a circular motion, allowing for sweet friction between them. His shaft rubbed against her vulva, feeling her wet arousal.
“Oh shit,” he cursed, nipping her skin as his hands gripped her waist, “feels so good when y’do that.”
“I missed your cock,” she moaned, moving faster to stimulate her clit.
“Yeah?” Harry asked. “Miss the way I fuck’d you?” Harry thrusted up, grazing against her entrance. She nodded in response, moaning. “Please, baby.”
Harry didn’t hesitate any longer, his hand reached between them holding his shaft so she could easily sink down against him. They both let out a gasp, Harry’s eyes shutting in overwhelming relief mixed with a dangerous feeling of pleasure.
“Fuck,” he cursed out. He leaned back a little, watching as she took him all the way. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this, sitting pretty on my cock.”
She moaned in response, moving her hips slowly. “Oh, Harry,” her lips found his again, kissing hungrily as they began to move together. He felt the way she gripped his shoulders, using them as leverage to ride him. The feeling was surreal, so familiar that Harry wondered how he’d been away from her for so long.
“That’s it, jus’ like that. Doing s’good,” His hands gripped her hips, guiding her as she moved.
“Oh, Har, fuck me please.” She begged, Harry shifted their position, placing her back against the mattress without breaking contact.
“Whatever you want, sweet girl.” Harry pushed into her with long, deep strokes — fucking her just how she liked. His eyes watched her face as she moaned out, his necklace swinging like a pendulum between them.
“Shit, ‘m not gonna last.. “ Harry forced out, already feeling the tight, warm feeling built deep in his abdomen. “So good, so, so perfect f’me.” Harry groaned into the crook of her neck, his hand spread against the bottom of her thigh as his pace increased.
“I’m close,” she breathed out, gripping onto him.
“I know, I know, angel.” Harry panted above her, watching her face as she clenched around him, covering her mouth as she cried out. He followed seconds later, spilling into her with one last thrust. “Fuck,” he cursed, breathless against her skin as his body weight evened out over her. He did move right away, pressing a kiss to the corner of her jaw.
“Thank you,” he muttered, pulling himself up a little to look at her face. His lips pressed one last soft kiss before he pulled away, distancing his body from her. The reality instantly hit him, goosebump rose against his skin. He looked out of the corner of his eye, watching as she sat up and grabbed her scattered clothes.
“Guess… this is it.” She said quietly, reclothing herself.
“Yeah,” Harry sighed, all the energy drained from his body. He didn’t pretend to be happy, he was just… there. Feeling incredibly satisfied but thoroughly numb.
“Take care of yourself, Harry.” His ex-girlfriend said once she was fully dressed, heading for the door.
“You too,” he muttered out, swallowing hard. He didn’t watch her go, just gathered his things quietly. He didn’t say anything to their friends when he slipped out the front door after a few minutes. He couldn’t stay, it would hurt too much.
Harry forced himself not to think about that night much until he was back at the studio, desperate for inspiration.
“Don't blame me for falling, I was just a little boy, don’t blame the drunk calling, wasn’t ready for it all.”
Harry wrote, humming the melody.
“You can’t blame me, darling.” He said, writing the lyrics down in his notebook. “Not even a little bit.”
Harry mouthed the lyrics over again, finding the flow. He chuckled when he thought of the next line,
“I was away and I'm just an arrogant son of a bitch who can't admit when he's sorry.”
Summary: After Wembley N2, Harry wakes up at 3 am to find you missing from bed and causing chaos in the kitchen with a very questionable midnight craving.
London, N2 — 13 June 2026
Harry wakes up because something clatters. At first, he doesn't think much of it. It sounds distant enough to belong elsewhere, maybe outside on the street, maybe from a neighbour’s house, maybe from the strange world that exists at night while sensible people are asleep. London is never properly quiet, not even in Hampstead, not even with the house tucked into a softer corner of the city. There's always some car passing too late, some fox screaming like it has personal issues, some bin lid moving in the wind.
So Harry simply frowns into the pillow, half-asleep, and reaches for you without opening his eyes. It's a completely instinctive movement, one arm sliding over the mattress to find the familiar warmth of your body, because if he wakes during the night and you're near him, the answer to most problems is to pull you closer. He is tactile even on normal days, but after a show it becomes nearly absurd. His body comes down from two hours of noise and movement and adrenaline, and once he's home, once he has showered and dragged himself into bed, he wants contact. Your hand in his, his face near your neck, one leg tangled with yours until neither of you can move properly. Except now his hand lands on empty sheets. He pats the mattress once, then twice, slower the second time as his mind catches up: nothing.
At that, his eyes open reluctantly. The bedroom is dark, softened only by the faint wash of London night coming through the curtains and the open window. The duvet is warm where his body has been under it, but your side of the bed is empty, the sheets pushed back messily as if you left in a hurry or without much thought. He pouts, a genuine, sleepy little frown that no one is there to see. “Love?” he mumbles, but there's no answer coming from you.
He turns heavily onto his back and squints towards the nightstand. The clock glows at him with merciless clarity — 3:12 am. He stares at it for a moment, almost offended, then he looks towards the ensuite bathroom door. There's no light beneath it, no sound of running water, no little movements that would explain your absence. Still, he tries again, voice rough with sleep. “Y/n?”
But again, nothing.
Another clatter comes from somewhere downstairs then, and this time, it's followed by a faint metallic scrape, then what sounds suspiciously like a spoon hitting a countertop. Harry blinks, that is not outside, that is very much inside his house. He groans, because the only thing worse than waking up at 3:12 am after playing Wembley is discovering that his girlfriend has somehow escaped the bed and started a mysterious midnight project without him. He throws the duvet back and immediately regrets it. Cool air from the open window slips over his bare skin, and he shivers, looking down at himself with a sleepy sort of betrayal. Boxers, nothing else, excellent preparation for a household investigation.
He sits on the edge of the bed for a second, head bowed, trying to convince his body that standing up is a reasonable request, but his body disagrees. He stands anyway, the floor cool beneath his feet as he shuffles out of the bedroom, one hand running through his messy hair. He’s not fully awake, and every step downstairs feels as if it belongs to someone else. The house is dark in the hallway, quiet apart from the now unmistakable sounds coming from the kitchen; another clatter, a cupboard closing, something being stirred with great determination.
Halfway down the stairs, he smells food. Not a snack, or toast, no, actual food. Warm potato, melted cheese, something savoury, something sharp, and, strangely, something minty enough to make his nose question the entire situation. Harry pauses at the bottom of the stairs, brows drawing together. “What the hell,” he mutters, mostly to himself.
He crosses the open-plan ground floor, following the smell and the noise towards the kitchen. A soft light is on over the counters, warm and domestic, turning the dark glass of the garden doors into a mirror. When he reaches the corner and looks into the kitchen, he has to stop, then rub his eyes, then look again. The kitchen is a disaster. A very specific, highly organised disaster, but a disaster nonetheless. There are bowls on the island, two pans on the hob, a cutting board covered in chopped jalapeños, an open tin of sweetcorn, another of tuna, a small mountain of grated cheddar, potato skins, spoons, knives, spices, a bottle of mayo, salt, pepper, and a jar of mint sauce sitting proudly in the middle of the chaos like it has been invited to a party it shouldn't be attending.
And in the centre of it all is you.
Bare legs, feet planted on the kitchen floor, body swallowed in one of Harry’s old shirts that hangs loose over your thighs. Your hair is messy from sleep, your face is bare, your expression is focused to the point of comedy, brows furrowed as you move between the counter and the hob like you're running the pass in a restaurant that might lose a Michelin star if the garnish is wrong. Harry leans against the edge of the wall, crosses his arms over his bare chest, and watches with so much fondness he forgets to be annoyed about being awake.
You're muttering to yourself under your breath. “Needs more pepper. No, not too much. Where’s the fork? Fork, fork, fork. Cheese first? No, tuna first. Obviously tuna first.”
Harry’s mouth starts to curve, while you still don't notice him at all. You lift a bowl, stir something vigorously, taste it from a spoon, pause, then nod as if you have made a crucial professional decision. “Correct,” you whisper.
Harry presses his lips together to keep from laughing. There are many things he expects after a Wembley show. Exhaustion, aching legs, a voice that feels slightly used, the strange echo of a massive crowd still living somewhere in his head. But he doesn't expect to wake up at 3:12 am and find you in his kitchen building a jacket potato with the seriousness of a surgeon.
You reach for the spoon again, but your fingers knock it off the counter and it hits the floor with a loud, sharp clatter. You jump, one hand flying to your heart. “Jesus Christ,” you hiss at the spoon, then bend to pick it up. “Why would you do that?”
Harry loses it immediately. The laugh comes out sudden and loud, entirely unrestrained and you gasp and jump again, nearly dropping the spoon a second time as you whip around towards him. Your eyes go wide, then narrow immediately when you see him standing there, barefoot and sleep-warm and far too amused.
“Harry!”
He's still laughing. “Sorry.”
“You scared the shit out of me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You were just standing there like some half-naked Victorian ghost?”
That makes him laugh harder. “Victorian?”
“Yes. Looming in doorways at ungodly hours.”
“I live here.”
“So do I, and I wasn't prepared for a haunting.”
He pushes away from the wall and walks over to you, still smiling, his eyes moving over the counter. “I heard clattering.”
“I’m cooking.”
“Obviously.”
“You could've announced yourself.”
“I was busy watching Gordon Ramsay in my kitchen.”
You huff, turning back to your creation. “Do not mock the process.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” He steps beside you, scanning the island with growing amusement. “Good thing I bought the house with the big counters.”
You pause. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing.”
“No, what was that?”
He clears his throat, face too innocent. “I said it’s a good thing we’ve got room.”
“For my culinary vision?”
“For whatever this is, yes.”
You point the spoon at him. “This is dinner.”
“It’s quarter past three in the morning.”
“Then it’s breakfast.”
“Looks like it’s expecting guests.”
“Of course it’s not expecting guests. It’s the middle of the night.”
“You’ve used six bowls.”
“They were necessary.”
“One of them has three pieces of cucumber in it.”
“That one is emotional support.”
He looks at the cucumber bowl, then back at you. “Right.”
You turn away with dignity and return to the potato waiting on a plate. It's already split open, steaming faintly, butter melting into the soft middle. You spoon tuna mayo over it, then add sweetcorn, jalapeños, a generous handful of cheddar and a sprinkle of pepper. The whole thing is messy, excessive, and clearly exactly what you want. Harry opens his mouth, likely to make a joke, but then you reach for the mint sauce and he goes still.
You shake the bottle once, open it, and pour it over the top with complete confidence. Harry’s entire face changes. He tries to control it, because he loves you, but he can't. He inhales through his nose, slow and careful, as if preparing himself for bad news. He's not generally a picky eater. He likes trying food, he respects strange combinations, regional habits, tour catering experiments, whatever someone’s aunt makes at Christmas and insists is traditional. But tuna mayo, sweetcorn, jalapeños, cheddar and mint sauce on a potato at 3:17 am sends a visible shudder over him.
You look at him from the corner of your eye. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face said enough.”
“My face is processing.”
“My food is none of your business.”
“It’s happening in my kitchen.”
“Our kitchen.”
“Our kitchen has rights, too.”
You place the mint sauce down and look proudly at the plate. “Perfect.”
Harry steps closer, unable to help himself, sleepiness makes him softer, clumsier with affection, and he wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin near your shoulder. His skin is warm against the back of your shirt, his bare chest pressing lightly into you, and despite his obvious horror at the meal, he kisses your neck once. “Are you seriously eating that?” he asks, voice low and rough from sleep.
“Yes.”
“Voluntarily?”
“Yes.”
“After making it yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Just checking.”
You lean back into him for half a second, amused. “I’ve been craving it all night.”
“You were asleep all night.”
“No, I was thinking about it in my sleep.”
“That’s worrying.”
“It’s impressive.”
“It’s called dreaming, love.”
You laugh and reach for a fork. “Do you want one?”
Harry answers too quickly. “No.”
You turn your head. “You didn’t even think about it.”
“I thought very quickly.”
“I could make you one.”
“I love you, but absolutely not.”
“You’re missing out.”
“I’ll live with that.”
“You sure?”
“I’m thrilled for you and your potato, but I don’t want to come between you.”
You roll your eyes, but you're smiling, and Harry kisses your cheek before reluctantly letting go. “Come on then, little jacket potato gremlin.”
Your mouth falls open. “What did you just call me?”
“Affectionately.”
“You called me a gremlin.”
“A beloved gremlin.”
“You’re on thin ice, popstar, very thin ice.”
“At least I’m not eating mint tuna.”
You glare at him, but he only takes the plate from your hand before you can protest, then nods towards the garden doors. “It’s warm out. Eat outside before you destroy another part of the house.”
You grab a fork and follow him out, the night air soft when Harry slides the door open, the garden dimly lit by the outdoor lamps along the patio and the faint wash of the city beyond the trees. It's warm enough to sit outside comfortably, though the stone beneath your feet still carries a night-time coolness. The large sunbed near the edge of the patio is piled with cushions from earlier in the week, and Harry places your plate on the small table beside it before lowering himself down with the heavy grace of someone who has just realised he's still exhausted. You settle next to him, pulling one leg beneath you and keeping the plate balanced in your lap.
Harry yawns so widely his eyes water, and guilt flickers through you. “You can go back to bed.”
He shakes his head once and sinks further into the pillows with a sigh. “Don’t want to.”
“You’re exhausted.”
“So are you.”
“I’m eating.”
“I can see that.”
“You don’t have to stay awake for my potato.”
“I don’t want to be alone in bed,” he says simply, and the sentence is so soft, so completely Harry in the middle of the night, that teasing him would feel unfair, so you only smile.
He shifts closer, slipping one hand beneath the back of your shirt, his palm warm against your skin. His fingers begin tracing slow, aimless patterns over your back, gentle enough to be half-asleep already and a shiver runs through you before you can stop it.
Harry’s mouth curves. “Cold?”
“No.”
“Ticklish?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
You take your first bite, and Harry watches very carefully. He's absolutely convinced your face will change, it has to. There is no possible way that combination tastes good. He waits for the regret, the pause, the brave little swallow, the admission that perhaps the mint sauce was too far. But instead, your eyes close and a deeply satisfied hum leaves you. Harry stares in disbelief as you chew with complete contentment, shoulders relaxing, the entire strange mission of the night apparently fulfilled in one bite. You look more peaceful with a forkful of chaotic jacket potato than you did in bed, and Harry, against all sense and reason, is suddenly overwhelmed by how adorable you are. His little weirdo, sitting in his garden after an exhausting day of work, cheeks full of food, bare knees tucked beside you, looking like the happiest person on earth because your stomach apparently requested the strangest meal in Britain and you obeyed without question. He cannot believe he gets to love you.
You notice him staring and turn your head, still chewing. “What?” you mumble around the food.
He lets out a breathy laugh. “Nothing.”
You squint. “You’re looking at me weird.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m admiring.”
“Admiring what?”
“My girlfriend and her questionable life choices.”
You huff, chew, swallow, then immediately take another bite. “It’s good.”
“I’m happy for you.”
“You sound traumatised.”
“I’m adjusting.”
He keeps his hand moving on your back while you eat, slow strokes up and down, occasionally circling his thumb near your spine. The night around you is quiet in the way only late hours can be, when even London seems to pause for breath. Somewhere beyond the garden, a car passes, leaves rustle lightly. Inside, the kitchen remains a disaster, but neither of you is thinking about that yet.
You're halfway through another bite when a little trail of sauce escapes down your chin, a pale mixture of tuna mayo and mint sauce that makes Harry’s stomach question his loyalty. He reaches up with his thumb and catches it. “You’re adorable,” he says.
You pause, eyes lifting to his. “Hmm?”
“I said you’re adorable.”
Then, because he's not thinking clearly and because his thumb is already there, he licks the sauce off. His regret is immediate, his face folds into a grimace so dramatic that you almost choke on your food. He swallows like a brave little boy forced to take the worst medicine of his life, eyes squeezed shut for half a second and you burst out laughing with your mouth still half-full, clapping one hand over it to avoid disaster.
Harry points at you weakly. “Don’t.”
You keep laughing.
“That,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “is vile.”
“It’s not.”
“It assaulted me.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“It tasted like a salad got lost in a fish market.”
You laugh harder, nearly dropping your fork while Harry recovers slowly, looking betrayed by both you and the condiment. “How are you enjoying that?”
You shrug, still grinning. “I don’t know. My body told me exactly what it wanted, and apparently it was right.”
“Your body needs supervision.”
“My body is satisfied.”
“My taste buds are filing a complaint.”
“You chose to lick your thumb.”
“I was being romantic.”
“You were being nosy.”
“I was caring for you.”
“You were judging my potato.”
“I’m still judging your potato.”
You point your fork at him. “And yet you’re still here.”
“Because I love you more than I fear mint sauce.”
You soften for half a second, then ruin it on purpose. “That’s beautiful, put it in a song.”
“I will not.”
“Too vulnerable?”
“Too disturbing.”
You smile and keep eating.
The silence that follows is warm. Harry stays beside you, one hand under your shirt, fingers still tracing over your back. His eyes grow heavier as the minutes pass, but he doesn't stop touching you. You finish the potato slowly, savouring the last few bites with a seriousness that makes him shake his head more than once.
Eventually, he blinks himself a little more awake and asks, “Have you checked Twitter?”
You pause with the fork halfway to your mouth, then turn to him. “Twitter?”
“Yeah.”
You stare.
“What?”
“You mean X.”
He groans immediately. “No.”
“It’s called X.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It has been called X for almost three years.”
“Not in this house.”
You laugh. “That’s not how apps work.”
“It’s Twitter.”
“Twitter is dead.”
“Twitter’s not dead. It’s just wearing a stupid hat.”
You set the empty plate down on the small table and look at him with deep amusement. “That might be the most old-man thing you’ve ever said.”
“I’m not old.”
“You just refused to acknowledge a social media rebrand like a pensioner refusing contactless payment.”
“The rebrand didn’t make the app better, so why should I reward it?”
“That’s actually a fair point.”
“Thank you.”
“Still old.”
Harry nudges your thigh with his knee. “Did you check it or not?”
“I checked Instagram, X, and TikTok.”
“Twitter.”
“X.”
“Twitter.”
“Fine, Twitter.” You lean back against the cushions. “Yes, I checked.”
“And?”
“They loved the show.”
Harry’s face changes in the dim patio light, not into ego, not exactly. More relief than pride, though both are there in gentle amounts. He's chronically offline, but immediate feedback after a show still matters if it's taken carefully. It tells him what reached people, what made them lose their minds, what moments travelled beyond the stadium. He doesn't live there, but he knows enough to look sometimes, or ask you to look for him. “They did?” he asks.
“They really did.”
“What were they saying?”
You bite back a smile.
Harry notices. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“What were they saying?”
“They were very complimentary.”
“About the show?”
“Partly.”
“About the songs?”
“Somewhat.”
“About what, then?”
You turn your head towards him with wicked calm. “Your top.”
“My top?”
“Mhm.”
“The cropped one?”
“The cropped one.”
Harry laughs softly. “They liked it?”
“They were feral.”
“Feral?”
“Truly, deeply, historically feral.”
He looks pleased now. “Because it was cropped?”
“Because it was cropped and because it accentuated the hitties.”
Harry goes completely still, confusion written all over his face. “The what?”
You smile slowly. “The hitties.”
“The hitties?”
“Yes.”
He blinks at you. “What are hitties?”
“You don’t know?”
“Obviously not.”
“You really are offline.”
“Explain.”
You tuck your legs beneath you and face him properly, delighted by the opportunity. “It’s a fan word.”
“I gathered.”
“The H stands for Harry.”
“Right.”
“And it replaces the T in titties.”
Harry stares at you, processes slowly, then he bursts out laughing. A proper, bright, delighted laugh that breaks through the quiet garden and sends his head tipping back against the cushion. “Hitties?” he says again, still laughing.
“Yes.”
“They call my chest hitties?”
“Yes.”
“That’s incredible.”
You laugh, watching him laugh. “You’re taking this very well.”
“I’m honoured.”
“You’re honoured that your fans named your tits?”
Harry points at you. “Hitties.”
“Sorry. Your hitties.”
“Thank you.”
You stretch your arms above your head, yawning deeply now that the food has done its job. “Anyway, they want the hitties out again.”
Harry’s grin remains shameless. “Is that all I am to them? A handsome face and a sexy body?”
You lower your arms and blink at him sleepily. “That sounded incredibly self-absorbed.”
“I’m allowed. I work hard for the face and the body.”
You give him a look.
“I do Pilates,” he says. “I run. I’ve started washing and moisturising my face properly.”
“With my face wash.”
“With our face wash.”
“My moisturiser.”
“Our moisturiser.”
“You use the expensive one.”
“I have delicate skin.”
“You also force me to run and do Pilates at hours no decent person should be awake.”
“I don't force you.”
“You wake me up by kissing my face until I open my eyes, then you say, ‘Come on, love, it’ll be good for us,’ which is manipulation.”
“It’s gentle encouragement.”
“It’s emotional blackmail with dimples.”
Harry smiles slowly. “Effective, though.”
“Shut up.”
You settle back into the pillows again, sleep creeping back over you now that the craving has disappeared and your body has realised it is still the middle of the night. Harry watches you with soft amusement, still awake mostly because of how much he likes looking at you like this, unguarded and sleepy and ridiculous.
“So,” you mumble, eyes half-closed, “no hitties out on this tour?”
Harry suddenly sits up, but you sense the movement too late. “What are you doing?”
He gets to his feet and stretches once, then bends down before you can even react, one arm sliding behind your back and the other beneath your knees. “Harry—” He scoops you up, and you yelp, arms flying around his neck. “What the hell!”
“You’re done eating.”
“I can walk.”
“You’re half-asleep.”
“Am not.”
“You asked me about the hitties with your eyes closed.”
“That’s called multitasking.”
He carries you towards the open garden doors, steady and annoyingly pleased with himself. You hold onto him, your bare legs hanging over one of his arms, his skin warm against yours. “As for the tour,” he says, stepping inside, “maybe I’ll bring the hitties out and play Kiwi on the same night.”
You lift your head at once. “Whoa.”
“What?”
“Calm down.”
“I thought that’s what the people wanted.”
“The people want to survive, Harry.”
He laughs, walking through the kitchen and carefully avoiding the evidence of your midnight cooking. “You don’t think they could handle it?”
“The hitties out and Kiwi in one show? Absolutely not. Mass hysteria, medical tents overwhelmed, social media breakdown.”
Harry laughs harder as he carries you through the dark ground floor towards the stairs. “Good to know.”
“You have to use your power responsibly, y'know.”
“My hitties have power now?”
“Apparently.”
“Dangerous.”
“Very.”
He carries you upstairs with more ease than someone who performed at Wembley hours ago should reasonably have. You tuck your face closer to his neck, finally letting the sleepiness win properly now that you're warm and held and no longer responsible for operating a fork.
By the time he reaches the bedroom, your voice has gone softer. “Kitchen’s a mess.”
“We’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
“You hate mess.”
“I love sleep more.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He lowers you gently onto the bed, then climbs in after you, pulling the duvet over both of you before the cool air can steal too much warmth. You immediately curl into him, and he looks deeply satisfied about having you back where he wanted you in the first place. His arm wraps around you, you rest your cheek against his bare chest and for a few seconds, neither of you speaks.
“You smell like tuna,” he then murmurs.
You make an offended sleepy sound into his neck. “And you smell like sweat and expensive moisturiser.”
He just laughs and kisses the side of your head, lingering there as your body relaxes fully against his. The day has been long, the show huge, the hour ridiculous, and somewhere downstairs his kitchen looks like a small potato-based crime scene. But you’re finally in his arms again, warm and full and half-asleep, and he can't find a single part of himself that cares about anything else. His hand moves slowly along your back again, the same soothing pattern as outside, gentler now beneath the duvet. Your breathing deepens, your fingers loosening against his side as he watches you for a moment in the dark, still smiling to himself.
His life is huge in ways that sometimes feel impossible. Stadiums, lights, noise, people screaming his name until it stops sounding like a name at all. But then there is this, too. His kitchen destroyed at night because you woke up craving a jacket potato with tuna mayo, sweetcorn, jalapeños, cheddar and mint sauce. Your sleepy arguments about social media names and fan slang, your body tucked into his like that is the only stage that ever really matters once the lights go down.
He kisses your hair. “My gorgeous little weirdo,” he whispers.
You're almost asleep, but not quite. “I heard that.”
“Good.”
He closes his eyes, presses one last kiss to your head, and finally lets himself drift back to sleep.
summary: in which, harry styles, one of your closest friends wants to take you out. but unfortunately for him, you’re not into the whole “relationship” thing. so, he’ll do whatever he has to do to win you over. but little does he know, it won’t be long until you give in, much to your dissatisfaction
ELLE Magazine
summary: you go on ELLE Magazine’s ‘phoning it in’ segment to prank call some of your friends, but how does harry, your fiancée, react to you prank calling him?
Headcanons
american girls, all over the world
summary: in which harry takes you everywhere you've dreamed of going
it gets hard when we argue
summary: when you and harry fight, which is rare but it happens, you do what you do best. stress bake!
i forget if this was ever fun
summary: when the mean comments left under your posts finally start getting to you, harry notices. so, despite how much you love social media, he comes up with a solution.
