Summary: In the world of fame and fortune, image is everything. Music sensation Harry Styles never expected to cross paths with her again—the childhood friend he was taught to despise. But she becomes the perfect candidate when his team convinces him that a marriage to an “ordinary” woman could boost his public image. Struggling under the weight of debt, she reluctantly agrees to his cold, transactional offer: one year of marriage in exchange for financial freedom.
Four months in, the arrangement is nothing short of a battlefield. Trapped in a loveless, tension-filled marriage, Y/N fights to survive the ruthless world of wealth and scrutiny, while Harry wrestles with the resentment and defiance ingrained in him by his mother. Forced together by circumstance but divided by years of bitterness, they toe the line between hatred and something far more dangerous. Because the real question isn’t whether they can survive the year. No, it’s whether they’ll make it out unscathed.
His Angel: (ongoing)
Pairing: College!Yn x CrimeBossl!Harry
Summary: Your life is pretty normal with classes, exams, coffee runs, and late-night cramming sessions. Everything is exactly what you’d expect for a college student. Well…except for your boyfriend. The one who settles business disputes with bullets. While most girls are dating frat guys or baristas, you somehow end up with Harry, the cold, ruthless boss of a powerful criminal empire. He’s dangerous, intimidating, and not the kind of man you bring home to meet your parents… but with you? He’s frustratingly soft.
Between dodging rivals, dealing with his overprotectiveness, and trying to convince him that no, intimidation is not a valid negotiation tactic for group projects, your life is anything but ordinary. Love might be blind, but it’s also definitely armed and dangerous.
Windows facing: (ongoing)
Fratboy!harry
Summary: By sophomore year, Y/N’s gotten used to the chaos. Specifically, the chaos coming from the frat house directly next to her apartment. Ever since move-in day freshman year, her bedroom window has faced his: Harry Styles. Loud, shirtless, smug, and apparently hell-bent on ruining her peace.
Their window wars have become tradition: insults yelled across the alley, lights flicked on at 3 a.m., and a rivalry that keeps the entire floor entertained. But somewhere between the late-night fights and sarcastic truce offerings, something unexpected begins to grow
She was supposed to hate him. He was supposed to be a joke. But their windows aren’t the only things opening.
Operation Pizza Renaissance: (ongoing)
Sunshine!Yn x Mafia!Harry
Summary: A bubbly college girl volunteers at a struggling NYC pizzeria thinking she’s found the perfect place to volunteer her social media skills and gain culinary experience. What she doesn’t know? The pizzeria is a front for the mafia. While she’s busy staging pizza photos and planning giveaways, the crew is laundering money and dodging feds. She's just trying to go viral—meanwhile, the mob is trying to keep her from accidentally blowing their cover.
And the more time Harry spends with the chaotic sunshine in his kitchen, the more he realizes: she might be the most dangerous thing to ever walk through that door.
Scrub in: (Complete)
Pairing: Surgeon!Harry x Stuborn!internY/N
Summary: Harry Styles is a brilliant but infuriating surgeon who’s constantly butting heads with his stubborn intern. Their bickering is practically a daily surgery in itself. But when she falls sick and tries to brush it off, Harry sees right through her act. The moment her condition worsens, his protective side takes over revealing that beneath all the tension and ego, he cares far more than he lets on.
One shots:
Yours: (ongoing)
Pairing: normal!Yn x famous!Harry
Summary : From red carpet mishaps to lazy Sunday mornings, this one-shot collection captures all the chaos, charm, and chemistry of dating someone everyone wants but who’s only ever yours.
Blurbs:
National Girlfriend Day
5 minutes (Fluff)
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Taglist is open :)
- please let me know if you want to be on the general tag list or for a specific story
ooo are we getting some type of extra for scrub in tonight? 👀
Not tonight babe 🫣 I think I want to pause updating stories and focus on either a new series or a few one shots. I think it’ll be fun to focus on something new (and I’m lowkey burnt out lol) new stuff coming up!!!
I think I’ll set up a poll and see which you want to see from the ideas that are currently swirling in my head :))
I also want to go through my requests and see if anything gets sparked from there. So be on the lookout if you’ve ever requested anything 🤭🤭
You're sitting cross-legged on Harry's massive bed, surrounded by printouts of campgrounds and equipment lists. The juxtaposition is almost comical. You with your bright enthusiasm against the stark luxury of his penthouse bedroom with its minimalist design and security features. Harry is standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, arms crossed over his chest. The city lights spread out beneath him, a kingdom he controls from the shadows.
"No," he says flatly, the single syllable carrying the weight of a man unused to repeating himself.
You clutch a brochure for Pine Ridge Campground, undeterred by his refusal. "Harry, pleaaaaseee. It'll be fun! Just two nights. Fresh air, stars, campfire..."
"Y/N," he cuts you off, your name a warning on his lips. His jaw tightens, a muscle twitching beneath the stubble.
"Harry," you counter, matching his tone with mock seriousness. You hold up a photo of a picturesque lake surrounded by pine trees. "Look at this! It's beautiful and only three hours away."
He moves from the window, approaching the bed in a way that makes your heart skip despite your determination to stand your ground. His eyes flick over the campground materials with thinly veiled disdain.
"You want me to sleep on the ground," he states, voice dangerously low, "in the middle of nowhere, with no security, no connectivity, and no control over who might wander by."
You open your mouth to argue, but he continues.
"You want me to go 'camping.'" He says the word like it's a particularly distasteful form of torture.
"Yes!" You beam up at him, deliberately ignoring the dangerous edge in his voice. "That's exactly what I want. Just you and me, away from..." you gesture vaguely around the room "...all this."
Though Harry’s face remains a mask of indifference, a brief glint of vulnerability touches his eyes before being swiftly replaced by a look of sheer annoyance. "All this," he repeats slowly, "is what keeps you safe. Keeps us both safe."
He sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that you can smell his expensive cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body. "Angel, do you have any idea how many people would pay good money to know my location for even an hour? How many would see you alone with me and isolated as the perfect leverage?"
His hand reaches out, fingers grazing your cheek in a touch that's tender but possessive at the same time. "The answer is no," he says, his voice softening just slightly. "But I'll make you a deal."
At that, you perk up, sensing a potential compromise.
"Me. You. Private island in Caribbean. All the nature you could want, but with security I trust and a proper bed." His thumb traces your lower lip. "Take it or leave it, angel.”
You sigh, “that’s not the same and you know it” you pout. “How about somewhere you own? I’m sure you own a piece of wood somewhere. You own like…everything”
Harry watches your pout with that intense focus, like he's cataloging every detail of your disappointment. His expression remains impassive, but there's a slight softening around his eyes that only you would recognize. "A piece of wood," he repeats, amusement barely detectable in his voice. "Yes, angel, I own several 'pieces of wood.' Buildings, docks, warehouses—" he stops himself, clearly deciding those details aren't meant for your ears.
He leans forward, brushing a strand of hair from your face with gentleness, his rings cold against your skin. "What is it about sleeping on the ground surrounded by insects that appeals to you so much?" His question isn't mocking, but genuinely curious, as if trying to understand an alien concept.
You maintain your pout, knowing it's one of the few weapons in your arsenal that occasionally works on him. Harry lets out a sigh. It was a subtle admission that he is actually weighing your request. He picks up one of your brochures and examines it with thinly veiled disdain.
"I could buy this entire campground," he says matter-of-factly. "Close it to the public for a weekend. Bring in my security team and sweep for threats." His eyes meet yours. "Would that satisfy your sudden urge to commune with nature?"
It's not exactly the authentic camping experience you wanted. It seems to be morphing into another display of Harry's wealth and control but it's more of a compromise than you expected. "You'd still have to sleep in a tent," you press, testing how far this concession extends.
The corner of Harry's mouth twitches with not quite a smile, but it was close. "Don't push your luck, Angel." He drops the brochure and reaches for you instead, strong hands effortlessly pulling you into his lap. His voice drops to that dangerous velvety register that makes your stomach flip.
"I'll sleep wherever you are," he says against your ear. "But I draw the line at mosquitoes and public toilets."
· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·
The SUV pulls up to Pine Ridge Campground, or what was Pine Ridge Campground before Harry bought exclusive access for the weekend. The autumn afternoon sun filters through the trees, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. You're practically bouncing in your seat as the vehicle comes to a stop, pressing your face against the window to take in the scenery. Harry, by contrast, looks like he's being driven to his own execution.
He sits beside you in his designer outdoor wear that's never seen actual wilderness. His jaw is set, his expression thunderous as he surveys the forest through narrowed eyes like it might attack at any moment.
"This is it!" you exclaim, turning to him with unrestrained excitement. "Look how beautiful it is!"
Harry's scowl deepens. "It is just trees," he states flatly. "And dirt."
Steve opens the door from outside, his expression carefully neutral though you catch the slight twitch of his lips, clearly amused by his boss's predicament. Behind your vehicle, two more SUVs have pulled up, discreetly positioned but obviously filled with Harry's security team.
You climb out, inhaling the smell of pine and earth. It was such a contrast from the city. Harry follows with considerably less enthusiasm, his boots hitting the ground in a way that suggests he's already regretting every decision that led to this moment.
"Mr. Styles," Steve says, gesturing toward a clearing about fifty yards away. "We've secured the perimeter. The nearest occupied site is two miles out. Cell signal is weak but we have satellite phones. The—"
"Where's the tent?" Harry interrupts, his tone suggesting he hopes the answer is 'we forgot it.'
Steve points to a large bag near the picnic table. "Right there, sir. Along with the other supplies Miss Y/N requested."
As you head toward the site, you take it all in: the rustic fire pit, the wooden picnic table, and the stunning lake shimmering through the tree line. Harry follows several paces behind, moving like a man walking to the gallows.
"This is perfect," you say, spinning around to face him with a grin. "Absolutely perfect."
Harry stops beside the picnic table, arms crossed over his chest. You can see him surveying the area with the same intensity he'd use to scope out a business acquisition…or even a crime scene.
"There's no bathroom," he observes.
"There's an outhouse," you counter cheerfully, pointing toward a small wooden structure barely visible through the trees.
The look Harry gives you could freeze hell itself. "An outhouse," he repeats slowly. "You want me to use an outhouse."
"It's part of the experience!"
"The experience," Harry says, his voice dangerously quiet, "is going to end with me buying this entire forest and burning it down."
Despite his words, he hasn't moved to leave. He's still standing there, scowling at the wilderness like it's personally offended him, but he's staying. His jaw clenches as he watches his security team efficiently assembling what looks less like a camping tent and more like a luxury suite that happens to be made of canvas. Steve is already hammering stakes into the ground while another team member unrolls sleeping bags.
You step forward, hands on your hips. "Wait, stop," you say, causing the entire team to freeze mid-task. They look uncertainly between you and Harry, clearly unsure whose authority supersedes whose in this unprecedented situation.
"Shouldn't we be building our own tent?" you ask, turning to Harry with an expression of innocent determination. "It's part of the experience."
The look Harry gives you could wilt flowers. "Build our own tent," he repeats, each word carefully enunciated as if speaking to someone who's lost their mind. "You want me to manually construct shelter."
"Yes, Harry," you insist, your tone brooking no argument. "That's what camping actually is. You do things yourself. Build the tent, gather firewood, cook over an open fire—"
"I agreed to sleep outside," Harry interrupts, his voice dropping to that low, controlled tone that is usually followed by someone having a very bad day. "I did not agree to become a fucking Boy Scout."
Steve, still holding the tent stakes, makes a sound that might be a suppressed laugh. Harry's eyes cut to him with lethal precision.
"Something funny, Steve?"
"No sir," Steve responds immediately, though his shoulders are shaking slightly.
You step closer to Harry, refusing to back down despite the warning signs in his expression. "Come on. When's the last time you actually built something with your own hands?"
You see a flash of what might be offense at the implication he can't do this. "Fine," he says abruptly, turning to his team. "Everyone out. Maintain a five-hundred-meter perimeter. Radio check every thirty minutes."
The security team exchanges glances, clearly uncertain about leaving their boss alone to face the apparently insurmountable challenge of tent assembly.
"Now," Harry adds, the single word carrying enough authority that they immediately begin packing up and retreating toward the vehicles.
Once they're gone, Harry turns to the pile of camping equipment with an expression usually reserved for rival mob bosses who've crossed him. He picks up the instruction manual, flipping it open. "This was written by someone who failed basic English," he mutters, squinting at the diagrams.
You bite back a smile. "It's pretty straightforward. You just connect the poles and—"
"I can read," Harry snaps, though he's holding the manual upside down.
· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·
Twenty minutes later and the situation has deteriorated spectacularly. Harry stands in the middle of what can only be described as a textile nightmare. The tent poles are assembled but somehow form a shape that defies both geometry and common sense. The canvas is half-draped over this structure, one corner staked firmly into the ground while the rest billows in the breeze like a dejected flag. And Harry himself has somehow gotten tangled in the guy lines, one cord wrapped around his wrist while another has caught on his belt.
His hair, usually styled with careful precision, falls across his forehead in disarray. There's actual dirt on his designer outdoor wear, and a leaf has somehow lodged itself in his collar.
"This is fucking ridiculous," he announces, trying to free his wrist without making the entire structure collapse further. "This is designed to fail. It's a conspiracy against people with working brain cells."
You're sitting on the picnic table, tears streaming down your face from laughter, your phone out and recording every moment of Harry Styles' descent into camping chaos.
"Are you—" you can barely speak through your giggles, "are you losing a fight to a tent?"
Harry's eyes cut to you, dark and dangerous despite his compromised position.
"Delete that video."
"Absolutely not," you manage between laughs. "This is going in my personal collection of 'Harry Doing Normal People Things.'"
"Y/N," he warns, finally extracting himself from the guy line only to have another section of tent collapse entirely. "I swear to god—"
But his threat is interrupted by the tent pole he's holding suddenly disconnecting, the elastic cord snapping it back and nearly taking out his eye. He drops it with a string of profanity so creative it would make his criminal associates blush.
"The person who designed this should be shot," he declares, glaring at the tent components like they've personally betrayed him. "Slowly. After being forced to assemble one hundred of these fucking things."
You hop down from the table, still grinning, and approach the disaster zone. "Okay, okay," you say, trying to compose yourself. "Let me help before you declare war on the entire camping industry."
Harry runs a hand through his disheveled hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. "I've orchestrated complex operations across three continents," he says, his voice tight with frustration. "I've negotiated deals worth millions. I've outmaneuvered federal investigations. And I'm being defeated by canvas and aluminum poles."
"It's kind of humbling, isn't it?" you tease, picking up the instruction manual he'd thrown aside in frustration.
Harry's expression suggests he finds nothing humble about this experience.
· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·
Forty-five minutes and considerable joint effort later, something resembling a functional tent stands before you. It's not pretty. One side sags slightly, and you're both fairly certain the rain fly is on backwards but it's standing, and it looks like it might actually provide shelter.
Harry stands back, hands on his hips, surveying the structure. "That's not going to collapse on us in the middle of the night, is it?" he asks, genuine concern in his voice.
"Not if you secured the stakes properly."
His eyes narrow at you. "Are you doubting my ability to secure things?"
There's an edge of wounded pride from a man who's built his entire life on being competent, controlled, and unshakeable. The idea that he might fail at something, even something as trivial as tent assembly, clearly bothers him more than he'd like to admit.
You step closer, reaching up to pluck the leaf from his collar. "I think you did great," you say, only partially mocking. "For someone who's never done this before."
Harry catches your wrist, his grip gentle but firm, his eyes searching yours. "You're enjoying this far too much."
"I really am," you agree cheerfully. "Next, we gather firewood."
The look of pure horror that crosses Harry's face makes you burst into laughter all over again. "You're joking," he says flatly, though he knows you well enough to recognize you're entirely serious.
When you continue walking toward the tree line, he curses under his breath before following, long strides quickly catching up to you. "Let me get this straight," he says, falling into step beside you, voice dangerously low. "We finally get the fucking tent up, and instead of breaking it in properly, you want to collect sticks."
The way he says it makes "collecting sticks" sound like the most absurd activity imaginable. You reach out, taking his hand and tugging him deeper into the woods. "It's part of the experience, Harry. We need a fire to cook dinner, to stay warm, to roast marshmallows..."
"I could have my men bring in a chef," he mutters, but he doesn't pull away, allowing himself to be led further into the forest. "Or better yet, a portable heater. Hell, a generator and microwave would be more efficient than playing caveman."
Despite his complaints, you notice how his eyes constantly scan the surroundings and not just for threats, as is his habit, but also assessing potential firewood. Even in his reluctance, he can't help but approach the task with tactical precision.
"Look for dry wood," you instruct, bending to pick up a fallen branch. "Nothing green or rotting."
Harry watches you for a moment, then sighs heavily before reaching down to grab a thick branch nearby. He examines it with the same critical eye he might use to evaluate a weapon. "I've burned buildings to the ground," he remarks casually, testing the dryness of the wood. "Never thought I'd be collecting kindling by hand."
You bite back a laugh at his comment, choosing not to ask for clarification on the building-burning statement. With Harry, plausible deniability is sometimes the wisest choice.
"Well, there's a first time for everything," you say cheerfully, gathering several more branches and tucking them under your arm. "Even for the infamous Harry Styles."
Harry moves through the forest with efficiency now that he's committed to the task, his natural competitiveness kicking in. He's not content to just collect wood. No, he needs to collect the best wood, the most wood, and prove that even at this he can excel.
"This is absurd," he mutters, but his arms are already full of carefully selected branches. "I have people who could do this."
"But then you'd miss out on the satisfaction of doing it yourself."
He gives you a look that clearly says he'd happily trade that satisfaction for his penthouse and a proper meal.
You venture a bit deeper into the woods, the late afternoon sun filtering through the canopy in golden shafts. It's peaceful in a way the city never is. No sirens, no traffic, no constant undercurrent of danger that seems to follow Harry everywhere.
He's quieter now, and when you glance back, you find him watching you with an unreadable expression. Not the scowl from earlier, but something softer, though he'd probably deny it if asked.
"What?" you ask, pausing in your wood gathering.
Harry shifts his armload of branches, jaw working like he's considering his words carefully. He’s always calculating, even in moments like this. "You're happy," he states simply. "Out here. With sticks and dirt and no running water."
It's not quite a question, but there's genuine curiosity mixed with perhaps a hint of incomprehension underneath it. Harry's world is one of luxury and excess, where problems are solved with money or force. The idea that happiness could be found in simplicity seems foreign to him.
"I am," you confirm, walking back to him. "Aren't you having even a little bit of fun?"
"I'm standing in a forest collecting firewood," he deadpans. "My definition of fun typically involves significantly less manual labor and considerably more—" his eyes travel down your body with clear intent "—indoor activities."
You roll your eyes, but can't suppress your smile. As you follow him through the trees, arms full of firewood, you can't help but notice that despite all his complaining, Harry hasn't once suggested actually leaving. He's here, doing this ridiculous thing that's so far outside his comfort zone it might as well be on another planet. For you.
Back at the campsite, Harry dumps his collection of wood near the fire pit with more force than strictly necessary, brushing dirt off his hands with distaste.
"Now what?" he asks, eyeing the fire pit like it might attack him.
“Now,” You turn to him, “go find two rocks so you can start the fire”
Harry stares at you, the pile of wood now neatly stacked between you, his expression shifting from disbelief to something approaching outrage.
"Two rocks," he repeats, voice dangerously quiet. "You want me to start a fire by hitting rocks together." He stands perfectly still, the muscles in his jaw working as he processes this latest request. The afternoon sunlight filters through the trees, highlighting the tension in his shoulders and the absolute incredulity in his green eyes.
"Y/N," he says with forced patience, "I have a lighter in my pocket. I have matches in the supply kit. Hell, I'm fairly certain Zayn packed a fucking flamethrower somewhere in that security gear."
He takes a step toward you, closing the distance with that predatory grace that always makes your heart beat faster. "But you want me—" he gestures to himself, the dangerous mob boss currently stranded in the wilderness at your whim, "—to rub stones together like we're in the Stone Age."
His hand reaches out, fingers gently but firmly gripping your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. There's frustration there, but also that spark of challenge he can never resist.
"You're testing my limits," he murmurs, thumb tracing your lower lip in that possessive gesture you've come to associate with him. "Pushing to see how far I'll go to please you." He releases your chin, reaching into his pocket to pull out an expensive silver lighter, engraved with his initials.
"Compromise," he says, holding it up between you. "I'll build your fire. I'll cook whatever wilderness meal you've planned. I'll even toast those marshmallows you mentioned."
He leans closer, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers, "But I draw the line at rubbing rocks together when I have perfectly good fire at my fingertips. And in return for my cooperation, you'll make tonight in that tent worth all this...nature.”
You smile innocently, suddenly turning your head and kissing him. That effectively distracts him for a moment. Distracts, him enough for you to take the lighter from his hand, turn around, and throw it as far as you can into the trees. “I already compromised when I let you clear the area” you whisper against his lips, “now chop chop” you say, patting his shoulder and pulling back. “It’s getting dark”
For a long, dangerous moment, Harry doesn't move. He stands perfectly still, his eyes tracking the arc of his lighter as it disappears into the underbrush somewhere in the distance. The only sign of his reaction is the slight tick in his jaw and the way his hands curl into fists at his sides.
When his gaze returns to you, there's something dark and promising in his expression—not anger exactly, but the look of a man who's just been issued a challenge he fully intends to collect on later.
"You just threw my lighter," he says slowly, each word measured and deliberate, "into the woods."
You maintain your innocent smile, though your heart is racing. You've just crossed a line with Harry and you both know it.
"I did," you confirm cheerfully, taking a step back. "And like I said, it's getting dark. Better get started on those rocks."
Harry's tongue runs along the inside of his cheek. A gesture you've learned means he's calculating exactly how he's going to make you pay for this later. But then, unexpectedly, he laughs. It's a low, rough sound that sends shivers down your spine.
"You're going to regret that, angel," he promises, voice like velvet over steel. "Tonight, when we're in that tent, you're going to remember this moment."
He turns away, scanning the ground with the same intensity he brings to everything, now focused entirely on proving he can do this ridiculous task. Because Harry can't stand to lose, even at something as mundane as primitive fire-starting.
He crouches down, selecting two rocks with surprising care, testing their weight and texture. His expensive clothes are now rumpled and dirty, his hair a mess, and there's a smudge of dirt across his sharp cheekbone.
"I want it on record," he says, striking the rocks together experimentally, "that I've killed men for less than what you just did."
The rocks produce exactly nothing. No spark and no friction, just the dull sound of stone hitting stone.
"These are the wrong kind," he mutters, tossing them aside and searching for others. "Need something with iron content. Flint, ideally."
You watch in amazement as he actually seems to know what he's doing, his criminal mind apparently having absorbed random survival information at some point.
"How do you even know that?"
Harry doesn't look up from his search, selecting two new stones with dark striations running through them. "I know a lot of things, Angel. Like how to dispose of bodies in remote locations. Wilderness survival occasionally overlaps with that particular skill set."
He says it so casually, as if discussing the weather rather than murder, and you decide, again, not to ask for details. For the next twenty minutes, Harry works with single-minded determination, striking stones together over a small pile of dry grass and kindling you've prepared. His movements become more controlled and precise, as he figures out the angle and force required.
"Fucking hell," he growls when the first few sparks appear but fail to catch. "This is medieval."
"You're almost there," you encourage, crouching beside him.
Harry shoots you a look that promises retribution, but continues striking the rocks. More sparks fly, landing in the tinder. He leans closer, blowing gently on the smoking grass with surprising patience.
"If this doesn't work," he says quietly, his breath coaxing the ember to life, "I'm calling Zayn, having him retrieve my lighter, and then I'm going to tie you to that picnic table and—"
A small flame suddenly flares to life, cutting off his threat. Harry stares at it for a moment, something like triumph crossing his features. He carefully feeds it with smaller twigs, building it up with the focused attention he usually reserves for business deals.
"There," he announces, sitting back on his heels as the fire grows. "Fire made with rocks like a fucking caveman."
Despite his complaints, there's satisfaction in his voice. He's conquered this task and added it to his list of things he can do. He stands, brushing off his hands, and turns to you with that dangerous smile you know all too well.
"Now," he says, advancing on you with clear intent, "about that lighter..."
You back up instinctively, but he's faster, catching you around the waist and pulling you against him. His lips find your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin.
"You're lucky I love you," he murmurs against your pulse point, the words so quiet you almost miss them "Otherwise, angel, you'd be in serious trouble." His hands slide lower, gripping possessively. "Actually," he amends, his voice dropping to that dark register that makes your knees weak, "you're still in serious trouble. I'm just going to enjoy delivering the consequences."
· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·
The lake is calm in the early evening light, the surface reflecting the orange and pink sky like glass. You're sitting on the wooden dock with your legs dangling over the edge and a borrowed fishing rod in your hands. Harry sits beside you with his own rod though his expression suggests he's still processing the fact that he's actually doing this.
"This is boring," he announces after five minutes of silence.
"It's peaceful," you correct, bumping your shoulder against his.
"Boring and peaceful aren't mutually exclusive," Harry mutters, but he doesn't move to leave. His eyes scan the water's surface, looking for any sign of fish with the same intensity he'd use to read a contract.
Fifteen minutes later, your line tugs sharply. "Harry! I got something!"
He's immediately alert, setting his own rod aside and moving behind you, his hands covering yours on the reel.
"Don't pull too hard," he instructs, his voice low near your ear. "Let it tire itself out first. Feel the tension."
His hands guide yours, and together you reel in a decent-sized bass. When it breaks the surface, you squeal with excitement, and Harry actually smirks a real, genuine expression of satisfaction.
"Not bad, angel," he says, helping you land the fish. "Though I could have shot it. Would've been faster."
"That's not—that defeats the entire purpose—"
"I'm aware," he interrupts, that smirk still playing on his lips. "I'm fucking with you."
· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·
Back at the campsite, Harry handles the fish, cleaning it with a knife he produced from somewhere on his person. You probably don't want to know why he carries that particular blade or what it's been used for before.
"Where did you learn to do that?" you ask, watching him work.
"You pick things up," he says vaguely, which is Harry-speak for 'don't ask questions you don't want answered.'
The fish cooks over the fire on a makeshift grill, seasoned with supplies from the kit. The smell is incredibly smoky and savory. Harry tends it carefully, turning it at precise intervals, his perfectionism extending even to campfire cooking.
"I can't believe this," you say, accepting the plate he hands you. "Harry Styles, cooking fish over an open fire."
"Take a picture," he deadpans. "It's never happening again."
But he's relaxed in a way you rarely see. The rigid tension in his shoulders has eased, and when he sits beside you on the log, his thigh presses against yours in comfortable contact
You eat in comfortable silence, the fire crackling between you and the woods. The sun has fully set now, stars beginning to emerge in the darkening sky.
"Okay," you admit, "this is actually really good."
"Don't sound so surprised," Harry says, though there's satisfaction in his voice. "I'm good at everything I do."
"Except building tents."
His eyes cut to you with mock severity. "We don't speak of the that"
· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·
After dinner, Harry produces the marshmallows, graham crackers, and chocolate from the supplies "Alright," he says, spearing a marshmallow on a stick with more aggression than necessary. "Show me how this works."
You demonstrate, holding your marshmallow at the perfect distance from the flames, rotating it slowly until it's golden brown. Harry watches intently, then attempts his own.
His first marshmallow catches fire immediately. "Shit," he curses, pulling it back and blowing it out. The marshmallow is completely black, smoking sadly on the end of the stick.
"You have to keep it away from the actual flames," you explain, trying not to laugh.
"I can see that now," Harry says dryly, flicking the ruined marshmallow into the fire and starting over.
His second attempt is better with a perfectly golden outside and melted on the inside. He assembles the s'more carefully, then hands it to you before making his own. When you bite into it, chocolate and marshmallow oozing out the sides, you can't help the satisfied sound you make. Harry's eyes darken slightly at the noise, tracking the way you lick chocolate from your thumb.
"Good?" he asks, voice lower than necessary.
"Amazing," you confirm, then watch as he takes a bite of his own. His expression shifts; surprise, then approval.
"Okay," he concedes. "I understand the appeal of this one."
You make three more each, sitting close to the fire as the night grows cooler. Harry's arm eventually finds its way around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. The woods are alive with night sounds of crickets, the rustle of leaves, and the occasional call of an owl.
"Thank you," you say quietly, setting aside your empty plate and turning to look at him. "For doing this. I know it's not your thing."
Harry's jaw works for a moment, that muscle ticking like it does when he's feeling something he doesn't quite know how to express. "You're my thing," he finally says, the words rough but sincere. "So if this makes you happy..."
He trails off, but the implication is clear. He'd do considerably more than camp in the woods if it meant seeing that smile on your face.
Something warm blooms in your chest and not just affection, but deep, overwhelming love for this complicated, dangerous, but surprisingly tender man. You climb into his lap, straddling his thighs on the log, and begin pressing kisses all over his face. His forehead, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, the sharp line of his jaw, the corners of his mouth.
"Thank you," kiss, "for the tent building," kiss, "for the firewood gathering," kiss, "for the rock-fire-starting," kiss, "for fishing and cooking and s'mores and—"
Harry catches your face between his hands, stopping your assault of affection to look at you properly. His eyes are soft in the firelight, that careful guard he maintains with everyone else completely absent.
"Angel," he murmurs, thumbs stroking your cheeks, "you don't have to thank me for every little thing."
"They're not little things," you insist. "Not for you. You did all of this, put up with all of it, just because I asked. Because it made me happy."
His hands slide down to your waist, gripping firmly as he stands, taking you with him. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively as he carries you away from the fire.
"Where are we going?" you ask, though you already know.
"Tent," Harry says simply, his voice taking on that edge of command. "I've been patient all day."
He pushes through the tent flap, the interior lit by a battery-powered lantern someone must have set up earlier. The sleeping bags have been zipped together into one large bed, pillows arranged with more care than Harry would ever admit to.
"Now," he continues, laying you down on the makeshift bed with surprising gentleness, "it's my turn."
He follows you down, his weight settling over you in that way that makes you feel both trapped and completely safe. He’d just settled his weight over you, mouth a breath from yours, when your palm pressed flat to his chest. “Wait,” you whisper, and he freezes, instantly alert, eyes searching your face in the lantern glow.
“I know I've said thank you but I also want to say I’m sorry,” you say, breath hitching. “For dragging you out here basically against your will.”
His brow lifts a fraction. “You didn’t drag me,” he says evenly. “You asked. I said yes.”
“I know but I’ve wanted to go camping since I was ten.” Your voice thins, that stubborn brightness wobbling. “My parents were always too busy with work. There was always some emergency, some meeting, some reason we had to postpone.” You stare at the tent seam over his shoulder, hazel eyes wet in the soft light. “But the second I’m away at college, suddenly they have all the time in the world. Weekend trips to the lake with my siblings, camping in the backyard, all the things I begged for.” You let out a shaky breath and shake your head, golden-brown hair slipping across your cheek. “God, listen to me. Twenty-something and still whining about my parents playing favorites.” The little laugh you attempt goes nowhere. “Guess I just needed to scratch this particular childhood itch, even if I had to drag you along for it.”
Harry’s jaw flexes once. He doesn’t look away. His hands come up, thumbs warm against your damp lashes as he wipes under your eyes like handling something precious. “Angel,” he says quietly, voice a low thread in the hush of the tent, “don’t apologize to me for wanting something you should’ve had.” A beat. “They should’ve shown up, but they didn’t and that’s on them.”
You swallow, blinking. “I know. It just…still stings.”
“I understand stinging,” he answers, the corner of his mouth not quite a smile. “When I was ten, I learned to sleep with one eye open. No tents, no s’mores, just a door I’d wedge shut and a ceiling that leaked.” He exhales through his nose, gaze steady, unblinking. “So don’t call it whining. You wanted a memory so you made one. And I’m here for it.”
Your lips part, soft. “Thank you.”
His hand slides to cradle the back of your neck, grounding. “Listen to me,” he murmurs. “You want lakes, we’ll do lakes. Mountains, desert, I don’t give a damn. We’ll pitch a tent wrong in every national park if that’s what it takes.” A faint, dangerous warmth edges his words. “And if anyone tries to make you feel second choice again, they can answer to me.”
You huff a wet little laugh, thumbing his cheekbone where a smear of dirt still clings. “You’ll threaten my parents over marshmallows?”
He leans in, brushing a kiss to the tip of your nose. “I’ll protect you over anything,” he says simply. “That’s the point.”
You breathe out, shoulders unclenching, the confession finally settling. “I really did have fun today,” you whisper. “With you.”
“I know,” he says, softer than soft. “Me too”
“And I'm sorry about your lighter. I realized afterwards it was the fancy engraved one” You apologize, suddenly feeling really shitty for doing that. You push yourself off the floor, I’ll go get it. I feel terrible for throwing it”
Harry's hand shoots out, wrapping around your wrist and pulling you back down before you can even get to your knees. His grip is firm but gentle, tugging you back against the sleeping bags.
"The fuck you will," he says flatly, his other hand coming up to cup your jaw. "It's pitch black out there, and you're not wandering around the woods alone at night."
"But it was expensive, and it had your initials—"
"It's a lighter, Ange;," he interrupts, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone. "I can buy twenty more. What I can't replace is you breaking your ankle tripping over a log in the dark, or getting lost, or—" his jaw tightens "—worse."
You bite your lip, guilt still gnawing at you. "I shouldn't have thrown it. That was childish."
"It was," he agrees. "And I'm going to make you pay for it." His hand slides down your neck possessively. "But not by sending you into the woods at night like some kind of offering to whatever the hell lives out there."
"Harry—"
"No," he says, the single word carrying absolute authority. "Tomorrow, when there's actual sunlight, we'll look for it. With Steve and the team doing a perimeter sweep because I'm not taking chances with wildlife."
He pulls you fully back down, rolling so you're tucked against his side, his arm a steel band around your waist.
"The lighter doesn't matter," he murmurs against your hair. "You matter. Everything else is just things, Angel. Things can be replaced."
His hand splays across your lower back, holding you close. "Now stop trying to run off into the darkness," he continues, voice dropping lower. “Or else I'm going to forget I was trying to be romantic and just pin you to this sleeping bag."
Despite the threat, or perhaps because of it, you relax against him, your fingers curling into his shirt.
"Good girl," he murmurs when he sees you comply, and the praise sends warmth pooling low in your belly. "See how easy that was? You listen to me, I don't have to tie you up." A pause. "Unless you want me to.”
You grin, “yeah? Hypothetically, what would you tie me up with?”
Harry goes very still, and when you tilt your head up to look at him, his eyes have gone dark, pupils blown wide in the lantern light. His hand on your lower back flexes, fingers pressing in possessively.
"Hypothetically?" he repeats, voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes your pulse quicken. "Angel, there's nothing hypothetical about what I'd do to you."
His other hand comes up, fingers wrapping loosely around your throat. "I've got rope in the security kit," he continues, thumb stroking along your pulse point. "Good quality, won't leave marks unless you struggle too hard. Could tie those pretty wrists to the tent poles, spread you out so I could take my time."
His lips brush your ear as he speaks, each word deliberate. "Or I could use my belt," he murmurs. "Leather looks good on you. Would look even better wrapped around your wrists while you're begging me to let you come."
You feel his mouth curve against your skin. "Then there's the option of just using my hands," he says, shifting so he's partially over you again, his weight pinning you down. "Hold you exactly where I want you, feel you try to move and fail because I'm stronger."His knee slides between your thighs, pressing up.
"So which appeals to you more? The rope? The belt?" His hand tightens fractionally on your throat. "Or just me?"
“How about I tie you up?” You tease, trailing a finger down his chest.
Harry catches your finger before it reaches his stomach, wrapping his hand around yours completely. He looks down at you with an expression that sits somewhere between amusement and absolute refusal.
"No," he says simply.
"No?" you echo, raising an eyebrow.
"No," he repeats
"Why not?" you press, tilting your head with feigned innocence, hair splaying across the pillow.
His eyes track the movement, jaw working slowly. "Because I don't hand over control," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "To anyone. Ever."
"I'm not anyone," you point out.
A beat of silence as his thumb traces circles on the back of your hand. "No," he agrees quietly, and the word carries considerably more weight than the previous two times he said it. "You're not."
"So then—"
"Still no," he cuts you off, dipping his head to press his mouth to your throat. His teeth graze lightly and your train of thought dissolves. "Nice try though, angel. Points for audacity."
You laugh despite yourself, your free hand threading into his dark hair. "Coward," you whisper.
Harry pulls back just enough to look at you, one brow arched. "Say that again."
“You heard me” you grin, getting the kick out of riling him up, “Co-ward” you enunciate clearly.
Harry stares at you for exactly three seconds then he moves. You're suddenly on your stomach before you can draw another breath, both wrists pinned above your head in one of his hands, his body a solid wall of weight over yours, going nowhere.
"Coward," he repeats slowly, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice dangerously quiet. "That's what you said."
You can't move. His hand has both your wrists locked above your head with no real effort, and the casual ease of it is somehow more unnerving than if he'd struggled.
"I—" you start.
"Careful," he murmurs. "Choose your next words very thoughtfully."
You can feel him grinning against the back of your neck, even as his free hand slides to your hip, gripping firmly.
"You think this is funny," he says, not a question. His lips drag down the side of your neck, teeth catching lightly. "You deliberately push me just to see what happens."
"Maybe," you manage, breathless despite yourself.
"No maybe about it," he says. "You've been doing it all day. Throwing my lighter, the rocks, calling me a coward—" his hand squeezes your hip "—you're testing me."
You laugh into the pillow, muffled but unmistakable. Harry goes completely still above you.
"Are you laughing right now?"
"Absolutely not," you lie.
He flips you back over, pinning your wrists again, his face inches from yours, green eyes dark. "You," he says slowly, dragging the word out, "are a serious problem."
“Well, what are you going to do about it?”
Harry looks at you for a long moment, his weight settled over you, both wrists still locked above your head. The lantern casts warm gold across his face, highlighting the deliberate patience in his expression.
"What am I going to do about it," he repeats, like he's tasting the question.
He leans down, mouth finding the soft spot beneath your ear, and stays there just long enough to feel your pulse jump under his lips.
"I'm going to fuck you," he says simply, against your skin. "Until you can't remember how to be a smartass."
His free hand slides up your side, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world. "And when you're completely wrecked," he continues, pulling back to look at you, green eyes holding yours, "and you're looking up at me with that dazed look you get—" his thumb hooks under the hem of your shirt "—I'm going to ask you to repeat what you called me."
You swallow. His mouth curves, slow and certain.
"And you won't be able to," he finishes quietly. "That's what I'm going to do about it."
His grip on your wrists tightens fractionally.
"Any more questions?"
“No” you whisper, voice shaking with anticipation.
"No?" he echoes softly, satisfaction curling through his voice. "Thats what I thought."
He releases your wrists just long enough to sit back on his heels, eyes never leaving yours as his hands move to his belt. The slow drag of leather through the loops is deliberate, unhurried, each second stretched out with calculated patience. You watch his hands work and say absolutely nothing. He folds the belt once, running his thumb along the leather, then looks down at you with an expression that makes your breath catch.
"Hands up," he says quietly. You recognize that ots not a request as you raise them above your head. A ghost of approval crosses his face as he leans forward, looping the belt around your wrists with practiced efficiency. Not painfully tight, but enough that when you test it instinctively, there's no give whatsoever.
"Harry—"
"Shh," he says simply, checking the slack with two fingers slipped beneath the leather. Satisfied, he looks down at you, pinned and wide eyed beneath him. He tilts his head slightly, studying you the way he studies everything he considers his.
"There," he murmurs, one hand smoothing your golden brown hair away from your face with devastating gentleness. "Now we're having a proper conversation."
His mouth drops to your collarbone. "Still want to call me a coward?"
You lift your chin with what little dignity you had left in this position, “I stand uncorrected”
Harry stills against your collarbone. Then he laughs, his forehead dropping to your shoulder like you've genuinely undone him.
"Un-corrected," he repeats, the word muffled against your skin. "Your wrists are tied in a tent in the middle of the woods and you're—" he laughs again, shorter this time, shaking his head.
He pulls back to look at you properly, and the expression on his face is one you've catalogued carefully over months. The one he doesn't know he makes. "You are the most stubborn woman I have ever met in my entire life," he says, with genuine reverence.
"Thank you," you say pleasantly.
His jaw tightens, but his eyes are bright. "That wasn't a compliment."
You shrug "I took it as one.”
Harry stares down at you for one long moment, belt-bound wrists above your head, chin lifted in complete defiance, eyes sparkling up at him in the warm lantern light.
He shakes his head once, slowly. "Of course you did," he murmurs. He reaches up and clicks off the lantern.
· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·
a/n: Sorry y’all had this in my drafts for sooo long just because I couldnt get the smut down 😭 I just felt like it was meh so I just took it out. I’m getting smut rusty ya’ll
Windows Facing Masterlist | Main Masterlist | WC: 6K
Summary: Harry would do anything for his psychology girl, that also inculdes getting his knuckles bloody.
a/n: I want to start getting more plot heavy for this series so expect things to actually change between them now ;)
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The Saturday morning weather was perfect for the fraternity's annual "Sexy Suds" car wash fundraiser. Excessive by Y/N’s standard considering she’s already been terrorized by Harry and a hose a few weeks ago (He has yet to return her blender).
By ten AM, the street between the fraternity house and Y/N's apartment building is transformed into an impromptu festival. The music was fully blasting from massive speakers as cars lined up around the block, and dozens of college girls clustered on the sidewalk, ostensibly waiting for their vehicles but primarily there to watch the spectacle.
The spectacle being twenty shirtless fraternity brothers, soaked and soapy, dancing between cars with washcloths and hoses, putting on a show that has little to do with automotive cleanliness and everything to do with flexing.
In her second-floor apartment, Y/N groans and pulls her pillow over her head as the bass from "Pour Some Sugar On Me" vibrates through her walls. After a late night finishing a research paper, she'd been hoping to sleep until at least noon. The combination of Def Leppard, squealing girls, and car horns makes that impossible.
After fifteen minutes of futile attempts to fall back asleep, she throws off her covers with a frustrated sigh. Her hair is a tangled mess, she's wearing an oversized t-shirt that reads "Psychologists Do It With Perception" (a gag gift from Maya), and her face still bears the creased imprint of her pillow.
Stumbling to her window that directly faces the Sigma house, she yanks it open, fully intending to yell at whoever is controlling the music. The blast of sound and sunshine makes her wince as she leans out.
"Can you PLEASE turn it down? Some of us are trying to sleep!" she calls out, her voice still raspy from sleep.
Across the narrow gap between buildings, Harry Styles looks up from the sports car he's soaping down, water streaming down his bare chest. His hair is pushed back with a bandana, and his low-slung jeans are soaked through, clinging to his legs. At the sound of Y/N's voice, his face lights up with delighted surprise.
"Well, good morning, sunshine!" he calls back, abandoning his sponge and moving closer to her window. "Thought you might sleep through all the fun!"
Y/N narrows her eyes, suddenly very aware of her disheveled appearance. "That was the plan until your little wet t-shirt contest woke up the entire neighborhood."
Harry grins, looking her over with obvious appreciation despite, or perhaps because of, her rumpled state. "No shirts involved in my case, as you can see." He gestures to his bare torso with a theatrical flourish. "Care to join us? We could use more volunteers."
"I'd rather eat glass," Y/N replies, fighting the urge to close the window and hide under her covers. "Just turn the music down a bit, okay? Some of us were up all night working."
Harry's eyebrows shoot up. "All night, eh? Should've invited me over. I'm excellent company during all-nighters."
"I was writing a paper on cognitive dissonance," she clarifies dryly. "Somehow I doubt you'd have been helpful."
"I'm wounded," Harry places a hand over his heart, water dripping down his arm. "I'll have you know I'm very familiar with cognitive whatever-it-is. It's when your brain can't decide between two things, right? Like how you can't decide whether you want to yell at me or invite me up."
Y/N rolls her eyes, ignoring the flutter in her stomach. "That's not what—never mind. Just please, the music?"
Harry glances over his shoulder at the festivities, then back at Y/N, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Tell you what, I'll ask Louis to turn it down a notch if..."
"If what?" Y/N asks suspiciously.
"If you admit you're enjoying the view," he challenges, spreading his arms wide to display his wet torso.
Y/N scoffs, though her eyes do involuntarily dip to his chest before darting back up. "In your dreams, Styles."
"Regularly," he confirms with a wink.
Before Y/N can retort, Harry reaches down and grabs the hose lying at his feet. With a devilish grin, he aims it directly at her window.
"Don't you dare—" she starts, but it's too late.
A stream of cold water hits her window with surprising force, some of it spraying through the open gap and splashing her face and shirt.
"HARRY!" she shrieks, jumping back but not quite fast enough to avoid getting wet.
Harry doubles over laughing, the hose still spraying her window. "Oops! Looks like you might need to join us after all. You're halfway to the dress code already!"
Y/N wipes water from her face, her t-shirt now clinging to her in a way that makes her acutely self-conscious. "You are such a—"
"Charming, handsome philanthropist?" Harry suggests, finally lowering the hose. "We've raised over three hundred dollars already this morning. All for the children's hospital."
Despite her irritation, Y/N feels her anger softening slightly at the mention of charity. "That doesn't give you permission to spray people's windows."
"Not people's windows," Harry corrects, his voice dropping to something more genuine. "Your window. Special treatment, psychology girl."
"Lucky me," she says sarcastically, though without real bite.
Harry takes a step closer, now standing directly beneath her window, looking up with water dripping from his hair. "Come down," he suggests suddenly. "I'll buy you breakfast from the food truck that's coming at noon. Make up for interrupting your beauty sleep."
Y/N hesitates, torn between the temptation of his offer and her pride. "I look like a disaster," she admits.
"You look gorgeous," Harry counters immediately, no trace of teasing in his voice. "Always do."
The compliment catches her off guard, warming her cheeks despite the cool water still dripping down her neck.
"I need to shower and change," she hedges.
"I'll wait," Harry promises, then gestures to the line of cars. "Got about twenty more vehicles to wash anyway. Take your time."
Before Y/N can answer, a voice calls out from behind Harry. "Styles! Stop flirting and get back to work!" Louis shouts, tossing a sponge that hits Harry squarely in the back.
Harry picks up the sponge without looking at it, his eyes still fixed on Y/N. "So? Breakfast? Or are you going to leave me heartbroken and hungry?"
Y/N knows she should say no. She has reading to do, laundry to finish, a dozen reasons to decline. But there's something about the hopeful look on his face, water glistening on his skin in the morning sun, that makes her hesitate. "One condition," she calls down.
"Name it," Harry replies instantly.
"Turn the music down. At least until I get down there."
Harry grins, saluting her with the sponge. "Consider it done, psychology girl. Anything for you."
As Harry jogs back to the car wash, Y/N notices several girls watching him with undisguised interest. He pays them no attention, instead turning back to give Y/N one more smile before lowering the music and returning to work.
She closes her window slowly, surprised to find herself smiling too. Maybe getting woken up wasn't the worst thing after all. As she heads to the shower, Y/N tries to ignore the flutter of anticipation in her stomach. It's just breakfast, she tells herself. Nothing more.
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The car wash is in full swing by the time Y/N makes her way downstairs. She's changed into denim shorts and a simple white tank top, her damp hair pulled back in a messy bun. Despite having showered and dressed, she maintains her trademark scowl as she approaches the chaos of the fundraiser.
Shirtless boys dart between vehicles and the music pumps at a slightly reduced volume (true to Harry's promise). Several cars gleam in the "finished" section, though their owners seem in no hurry to drive away from the show.
Harry spots her immediately, abandoning the minivan he was rinsing to jog over, water droplets flying from his hair as he moves. He's still shirtless, his jeans riding low on his hips, and he's somehow managed to get soap suds in his hair.
"You came!" he exclaims, his face lighting up with genuine surprise and pleasure.
Y/N crosses her arms, trying to maintain her annoyed facade despite the warmth that spreads through her at his obvious delight. "You promised food. I'm starving."
"Food truck's not here for another hour," Harry says, glancing at his watch before returning his gaze to her face. "But worth the wait, I promise. Best breakfast burritos on campus."
"An hour?" Y/N's frown deepens. "You said noon."
"Did I?" Harry asks innocently. "Must have lost track of time. Easy to do when you're raising money for sick children."
He emphasizes the last part with an exaggerated halo gesture above his head.
"You're manipulative," Y/N accuses, though without heat.
Harry just grins, "Now, are you going to stand there looking like someone stole your favorite psychology textbook, or are you going to smile and enjoy this beautiful day?"
Y/N intensifies her scowl deliberately. "I'll stand here however I want, thanks."
Harry sighs dramatically, then glances meaningfully at the hose in his hand. "Remember what happened last time you gave me attitude?"
Y/N's eyes widen as she follows his gaze to the hose. "You wouldn't."
"Wouldn't I?" Harry challenges, his finger hovering over the nozzle trigger. "One smile. That's all I'm asking for. One tiny smile to brighten this already sunny day."
"I'm not performing on command like some trained seal," Y/N protests, taking a cautious step backward.
Harry takes a corresponding step forward, the hose now pointed directly at her. "Three seconds. Three...two..."
"This is extortion," Y/N says, trying to maintain her stern expression even as the corners of her mouth twitch.
"One..." Harry continues, his own smile widening.
Just as he squeezes the trigger, Y/N breaks into a reluctant smile but it's too late. A stream of cold water hits her squarely in the chest, making her gasp in shock.
"HARRY!" she shrieks, the smile instantly replaced by genuine outrage as water soaks through her tank top.
Harry drops the hose, laughing but looking slightly panicked at her reaction. "You smiled too late! The rules were clear!"
"There were no rules!" Y/N sputters, looking down at her now transparent top with horror. "You just made that up!"
Before Harry can respond, Y/N spots a bucket of soapy water on the ground beside her. In one fluid motion, she scoops it up and flings the entire contents at him.
Harry stands frozen in shock as sudsy water cascades over him, drenching him from head to toe. For a moment, there's complete silence as everyone nearby stops to stare.
Then Harry shakes his head like a dog, sending water flying everywhere. "Oh, it's on now, psychology girl."
What follows can only be described as chaos. Harry lunges for the hose while Y/N darts between cars, grabbing sponges and buckets to use as ammunition. The other fraternity brothers quickly join in, turning their car wash into an all-out water fight.
Y/N finds herself laughing despite her initial anger, ducking behind a sedan as Harry stalks her with the hose, his movements exaggeratedly menacing.
"You can't hide forever!" he calls out, scanning the cars.
She peeks over the hood, armed with a sopping wet sponge. "Watch me!"
Y/N makes a break for it, sprinting between vehicles while Harry gives chase. She's faster than he expected, easily outmaneuvering him until she slips on a patch of soap and stumbles. Harry catches her before she falls, his arm wrapping around her waist. They're both breathing hard, dripping wet, and suddenly very close. "Gotcha," he murmurs, his voice softer than she's used to hearing it.
Y/N becomes acutely aware of his bare chest pressed against her soaked tank top, the heat of his skin contrasting with the cold water clinging to them both.
"Temporary tactical advantage," she manages to say, her voice not quite steady. "I'm still winning."
Harry's eyes drop briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes. "Are you?"
The moment stretches between them, charged with something neither is quite ready to name.
"Yo, Harry!" Zayn’s voice breaks the spell. "Stop hogging the pretty girl and help us finish these cars!"
Harry reluctantly releases her, though his eyes linger on her face. "Duty calls."
"Go raise money" Y/N says, stepping back and pushing wet hair from her face.
As Harry returns to work, Y/N becomes uncomfortably aware of her appearance. Her white tank top clings to her like a second skin, and her hair is plastered to her neck. Several of the fraternity brothers are stealing glances her way, but one in particular, a tall senior she recognizes from her statistics class, isn't even trying to be subtle about his appreciation.
"Need a towel?" Zayn offers, approaching with a relatively clean one.
"Thanks," Y/N says gratefully, wrapping it around her shoulders.
"Don't mind Jake," Zayn says quietly, nodding toward the staring brother. "He's harmless, just lacks social graces."
"I've noticed," Y/N replies dryly.
Zayn hesitates, then adds, "Harry's a good guy, you know. Beneath all the...Harry-ness."
Y/N raises an eyebrow. "Is this the part where you tell me he doesn't usually act this way with girls, and I'm somehow special?"
Zayn laughs. "Nah, he's always been a flirt. But he doesn't usually spray them with hoses and then chase them around a car wash. That's new."
Before Y/N can respond, Harry reappears, carrying two bottles of water. "Hydration," he explains, handing one to Y/N. "Important after vigorous physical activity."
"Is that what we're calling it?" she asks, accepting the bottle.
"I have other names for it, but they might scandalize poor Zayn here," Harry replies with a wink.
Zayn rolls his eyes. "And that's my cue to leave. Cars to wash, money to raise." He nods at Y/N. "Keep the towel."
As Zayn walks away, Harry studies Y/N's face. "You're having fun," he accuses. "Admit it."
Y/N takes a sip of water, considering her response. "It's not the worst Saturday morning I've ever had."
"High praise indeed," Harry says, placing a hand over his heart. "I'm touched."
Y/N laughs despite herself. "You're soaked is what you are."
"Worth it," Harry says simply, his eyes warm as they meet hers.
A comfortable silence falls between them, broken only by the sounds of the car wash continuing around them. Y/N finds herself relaxing, the annoyance of being woken up early fading in the face of unexpected enjoyment.
"So," Harry says eventually, "still want that breakfast burrito? I can probably convince the food truck to come early if I promise them a free car wash."
Y/N pretends to consider it. "I suppose I could stay. For the children, of course."
"Of course," Harry agrees solemnly, though his eyes dance with amusement. "Nothing to do with my charming company."
"Nothing whatsoever," Y/N confirms, fighting a smile.
Harry grins, clearly not believing her for a second. "One condition."
"What's that?" Y/N asks warily.
"Help me wash cars until the food arrives," he challenges. "Show these amateurs how it's done."
Y/N glances at her wet clothes and shrugs. "Can't get any more soaked than I already am."
"That sounds like a yes," Harry says, already reaching for her hand.
As he leads her toward a waiting car, his fingers intertwined with hers, Y/N finds herself wondering how a morning that began with such irritation has somehow turned into...this. Whatever this is.
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The afternoon car wash transitions into cleanup as the fraternity brothers count their earnings. Over two thousand dollars for the children's hospital which was a record for their annual event. As cars drive away and hoses are coiled, talk quickly turns to the inevitable afterparty.
Y/N helps Harry wipe down the last vehicle, a professor's Prius that looks cleaner than when it was purchased.
"So," Harry says casually, wringing out his cloth, "we're celebrating tonight. Proper party, starting around ten."
Y/N hangs her borrowed towel on a nearby fence. "That's nice. I hope you have fun."
Harry gives her a look of exaggerated disbelief. "You're coming, obviously."
"Am I?" Y/N raises an eyebrow. "I don't recall being invited."
"Consider this your formal invitation," Harry says, making a show of straightening his posture and adopting a posh accent. "Miss Y/N, your presence is requested at the Sigma residence this evening for festivities commemorating our charitable achievements."
Y/N laughs despite herself. "Very fancy. But I have plans tonight."
"What plans?" Harry challenges.
"Important plans," she replies vaguely. "With books. And Netflix."
Harry shakes his head solemnly. "Books and Netflix will understand. They're very forgiving that way."
"Unlike certain fraternity boys who wake people up with Def Leppard at ungodly hours," Y/N counters.
Harry grins, unrepentant. "You had fun today. Admit it."
Y/N hesitates, then offers a small smile. "Maybe a little."
"Then imagine how much fun you'll have tonight," Harry says, stepping closer. "With actual clothes on. Well, until the drinking games start, anyway."
Y/N rolls her eyes. "And there it is."
"I'm kidding," Harry says quickly. “Look, your roommate's coming. Maya’s already told Louis she'd be there."
This gives Y/N pause. "Maya’s going?"
"Absolutely. Around ten. So you won't even have to walk over alone."
Y/N considers this new information. "I'll think about it."
"That means no," Harry sighs dramatically. "Fine. Stay home. I'll just have to dedicate all my karaoke songs to the beautiful girl who broke my heart by choosing Netflix over me."
"You do karaoke at frat parties?" Y/N asks skeptically.
"We do whatever I want at frat parties," Harry replies with a wink. "Perks of being in the house band."
Before Y/N can respond, Niall calls out that the food truck has arrived. Harry gives her one more hopeful look before they head over for their well-earned breakfast burritos.
---
Hours later, Y/N sits at her desk trying to focus on her cognitive psychology textbook. The words blur together as bass-heavy music begins thumping from the fraternity house across the narrow gap between buildings. Multicolored lights flash in windows, and the sounds of laughter and conversation drift up to her second-floor apartment. She glances at her phone. No messages from Harry, which is strange considering his persistence earlier. Perhaps he'd given up on convincing her to attend. That thought is oddly disappointing.
Maya bursts into their shared apartment in a whirlwind of energy, already dressed for the party in ripped jeans and a crop top that shows off her tattoos.
"You're not ready?" she asks, surveying Y/N's sweatpants and reading glasses.
"I'm not going," Y/N replies, turning back to her textbook.
"Come on, Y! Louis says it's going to be epic. The whole team is there, plus half the campus after their car wash success."
"I'm familiar with their car wash," Y/N mutters.
"Harry asked about you," Maya mentions casually, applying lipstick in their hallway mirror.
Y/N tries to appear uninterested. "Did he?"
"Mmhmm. Three times in the last hour, according to Louis's texts."
Before Y/N can respond, something hits her window with a soft thud. Then another. And another. "What the hell?" she mutters, getting up to investigate.
Opening her curtains, she sees Harry leaning out his window across the gap, a Nerf gun in hand, taking aim at her window once more. When he spots her, his face breaks into a triumphant grin.
Y/N slides her window open. "Are you serious right now?"
"She appears!" Harry calls out, lowering his weapon. "I was beginning to think you'd fallen asleep on your books again."
"I was studying, which normal people do on Saturday nights," she replies, trying to sound annoyed despite the smile tugging at her lips.
"Normal is boring," Harry declares. "The party's missing you."
"The party doesn't know me," Y/N points out.
"I know you," Harry counters. "And I'm missing you."
The simple statement catches Y/N off guard. "Stop shooting things at my window," she says, reaching for a stress ball on her desk and throwing it at him in retaliation.
Harry ducks, laughing as the ball sails past him into his room. "Nice arm! You should join our intramural softball team."
"I'm not joining anything. I'm trying to study."
Harry aims his Nerf gun again. "Study tomorrow. Live tonight." He fires another dart that sticks to her window with a satisfying plop.
"Stop that!" Y/N exclaims, fighting laughter.
"Make me," Harry challenges, firing again.
From inside Y/N's apartment, Maya calls out, "Just go to the party so he'll stop harassing our windows! I don't want to lose another security deposit!"
Harry perks up at this. "Listen to your wise roommate, Y/N!"
Y/N hesitates, looking back at her open textbook, then at Harry's hopeful expression. "One hour," she says finally. "I'll come for one hour."
Harry's face lights up. "I'll take it! I'll meet you at the door."
"I'm not dressed for a party," Y/N protests.
"You look perfect," Harry insists, his eyes warm even across the distance between their windows. "But if you want to change, I'll wait. Just don't climb back into those sweatpants and pretend you're not home."
Y/N narrows her eyes. "How did you know I was considering that?"
"Because I know you, psychology girl," Harry says with a grin. "Better than you think."
With that cryptic statement, he disappears back into his room, leaving Y/N staring at his empty window. Behind her, Maya claps her hands. "Yes! Party time! Wear that green top that makes your eyes pop."
Thirty minutes later, Y/N finds herself walking across the street with Maya, wearing the suggested green top paired with black jeans. She's put minimal effort into her appearance, telling herself repeatedly that she's only going to make Harry stop shooting Nerf darts at her window and not because she actually wants to see him.
The fraternity house thrums with energy, music pouring from every open window. Students spill onto the front lawn, red cups in hand, laughing and dancing under strings of lights that have been hastily hung from trees. True to his word, Harry is waiting by the front door. He's changed into black jeans and a partially unbuttoned floral shirt that shouldn't work but somehow does. His hair is artfully tousled, and his eyes light up when he spots Y/N approaching.
"You came," he says, as if he hadn't essentially harassed her into attending.
"You left me little choice," Y/N replies, trying to sound put-upon.
Harry grins, unrepentant. "I'm persistent when something matters." The implication that she matters hangs in the air between them. Maya glances between them, a knowing smile on her face. "I'm going to find Louis. Don't do anything I wouldn't do, Y."
"That leaves a disturbing amount of options open," Y/N calls after her retreating roommate.
Harry laughs, then offers his hand to Y/N. "Can I get you a drink? We have a proper bar set up in the kitchen. Not just keg beer though we have that too."
Y/N hesitates, then takes his offered hand. "One drink. Then I'm going back to my cognitive psychology date with my textbook."
"Challenge accepted," Harry says, leading her into the house. "One drink, and if you're still determined to leave, I'll personally escort you back to your apartment. But I bet I can change your mind."
"You seem very confident," Y/N observes as they navigate through the crowded living room.
Harry looks back at her, his expression suddenly serious despite the chaos around them. "Only about things I'm sure of."
Something in his tone makes Y/N's heart skip a beat. She follows him into the kitchen, wondering exactly what she's gotten herself into
«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«
One hour stretches into two as Y/N finds herself enjoying the party despite her initial reluctance. The fraternity house pulses with energy, music thumping through speakers while clusters of students talk, dance, and play various drinking games throughout the sprawling first floor. Y/N, Harry, Louis, and Niall have commandeered the dart board in the game room, turning a simple game into an increasingly competitive tournament with elaborate rules that seem to evolve with each round. Maya watches from a nearby couch, cheering loudly whenever Louis or Y/N scores.
"Last dart," Niall announces dramatically, handing it to Y/N. "Hit the bullseye and you win. Miss it and Harry gets bragging rights for a week."
Y/N narrows her eyes, focusing on the board despite the pleasant buzz of alcohol in her system. "No pressure or anything."
"Absolutely none," Harry agrees, his breath warm against her ear as he leans close. "Just the crushing weight of potential failure and my inevitable gloating."
She elbows him playfully. "Not helping."
"Who said I was trying to help?" Harry grins, stepping back to give her space. "I'm very invested in your defeat."
Y/N takes a deep breath, lines up her shot, and throws. The dart flies true, landing with a satisfying thunk directly in the center of the bullseye.
"Yes!" she shouts, jumping up with both arms raised in victory. "In your face, Styles!"
Louis and Niall erupt in cheers while Harry clutches his chest in mock devastation. "Betrayed by the dart gods," he laments, before breaking into a proud smile. "That was actually incredible."
Y/N turns to him, face flushed with triumph and alcohol, her eyes bright with excitement. "I told you I was good at darts. You never listen."
Without warning, Harry steps forward, wraps his arms around her waist, and lifts her off her feet in a celebratory spin. Y/N lets out a surprised laugh, her hands automatically moving to his shoulders for balance as the room whirls around them.
"I'm listening now," he says, his voice warm with admiration as he sets her down but doesn't release her.
Before Y/N can respond, Harry leans in and presses a quick, soft kiss to her cheek. It's brief with barely a moment of contact but it sends a jolt through her entire body. He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching hers with a question in them. Y/N finds herself speechless, caught in the intensity of his gaze.
"Alright, lovebirds," Louis interrupts, clapping Harry on the shoulder. "Some of us need another drink after witnessing that display of dart mastery."
The moment breaks, and Harry steps back, clearing his throat. "Drinks. Right. What's everyone having?"
"Whatever the lady champion wants," Niall declares, giving Y/N a little bow.
Y/N laughs, trying to regain her composure. "Surprise me. Something not too strong, though. I still need to function tomorrow."
"One 'surprise but responsible' drink coming up," Harry says with a grin. "Don't let these two challenge you to anything else while I'm gone. They're terrible losers."
As Harry disappears toward the kitchen, Louis immediately turns to Y/N. "So, you and Harry, huh?"
"There's no 'me and Harry,'" Y/N protests automatically.
"Right," Maya chimes in from the couch. "That's why he's been shooting Nerf darts at your window like a twelve-year-old with his first crush."
"And why you're blushing right now," Niall adds helpfully.
"I'm not—" Y/N starts, then stops as she feels the warmth in her cheeks. "It's just warm in here." Louis and Maya exchange knowing looks but mercifully change the subject to their plans for the upcoming campus festival.
«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«–«
In the kitchen, Harry navigates through clusters of partygoers to reach the makeshift bar. Jake, the fraternity brother who had been eyeing Y/N at the car wash, leans against the counter mixing a drink. His eyes narrow slightly when he spots Harry.
"Nice moves out there, Styles," Jake comments, his tone just shy of sneering. "The British charm working overtime tonight?"
Harry ignores him, reaching for a clean cup and the bottle of vodka.
"Seriously though," Jake continues, stepping closer, "let me know when you're done with her. I want a turn."
Harry freezes, the cup halfway to the ice bucket, as Jake's implication sinks in. Something in Harry simply snaps. Without conscious thought, he drops the cup and whirls around, his fist connecting with Jake's nose with a sickening crunch. Pain shoots through his knuckles but Harry barely notices as Jake stumbles backward, blood streaming down his face.
"You fucking piece of shit!" Harry snarls, advancing on Jake as he stumbles against the counter.
Before Jake can recover, Harry grabs him by the collar, slamming him back against the refrigerator with enough force to rattle bottles inside.
"Don't you ever talk about her like that again," Harry hisses, face inches from Jake's bloodied one. "Don't even fucking look at her. You understand me?"
Jake tries to shove him off, which only fuels Harry's rage. He draws back his fist again, landing another solid punch to Jake's jaw.
"I'll do more than break your fucking nose next time," Harry promises, voice low and dangerous.
Jake spits blood onto the floor. "Fuck you, Styles. She's just some—"
Harry doesn't let him finish, driving another punch into his ribs that makes Jake wheeze and crumple.
By now, the commotion has drawn attention. Several partygoers rush into the kitchen, including Zayn and Liam who immediately launch themselves at Harry, grabbing him from behind and physically restraining him as he struggles against their grip.
"Harry, stop! STOP!" Liam shouts, wrapping his arms around Harry's chest and pulling him backward.
"Let me go!" Harry snarls, still trying to break free as Zayn positions himself between Harry and the bleeding Jake. "You didn't hear what he said about her!"
"We heard enough," Zayn says firmly, hands on Harry's shoulders. "He's not worth getting expelled over, man."
Jake wipes blood from his mouth, glaring at Harry. "You're fucking insane."
"Say another word about her," Harry challenges, still straining against his friends' restraint. "I dare you. One more fucking word."
The kitchen has fallen silent, partygoers frozen in shock at the sudden violence. Through the crowd, Y/N pushes forward, stopping short at the scene before her: Jake bleeding against the counter, Harry being physically restrained by both Liam and Zayn, tension crackling in the air.
Her mouth falls open in shock. In all her interactions with Harry, she's never seen him genuinely angry, let alone violent. "Harry?" she says, her voice small against the sudden silence.
Harry's eyes snap to hers, and for a moment, he continues struggling against Liam and Zayn. Then, seeing her expression, he stills, though the tension doesn't leave his body.
"What happened?" she asks, looking between the bleeding Jake and Harry's bloodied knuckles.
Before anyone can answer, Jake spits more blood onto the floor. "Your boyfriend's completely lost it, that's what happened."
"I told you to shut your mouth," Harry warns, jerking forward again only to be hauled back by Liam and Zayn.
Harry's jaw clenches as he stares at Jake with undisguised hatred. "Nothing. Nothing worth repeating."
Louis appears behind Y/N, quickly assessing the situation. "Alright, show's over, everyone. Jake, go clean yourself up. Upstairs bathroom. Now."
Jake hesitates, then stalks out of the kitchen, shooting one last venomous look at Harry.
"If you ever come near her again—" Harry starts, but Zayn cuts him off with a firm hand on his chest.
"Enough, man. He's gone."
The crowd begins to disperse, conversation resuming in hushed tones. Liam and Zayn cautiously release Harry, who immediately flexes his hand, wincing slightly as the adrenaline begins to fade and pain sets in.
"You good?" Liam asks quietly.
"Fine," Harry says tersely, still not meeting Y/N's concerned gaze.
Zayn glances between Harry and Y/N. "We'll, uh, give you two a minute."
As Liam, Zayn, and Louis tactfully retreat, Y/N steps forward, gently taking Harry's injured hand in hers. His knuckles are already swelling, skin split across two of them. "This needs ice," she says softly, reaching for a clean cloth from the counter and wrapping it around a handful of ice cubes.
Harry allows her to press the makeshift ice pack to his hand, his breathing still uneven, anger radiating from him in almost palpable waves.
"Are you going to tell me what that was about?" Y/N asks after a moment of silence.
Harry's jaw tightens. "He said something. About you. Something I wouldn't repeat to anyone, especially not you."
"So you attacked him?"
"Yes," Harry says simply, no hint of regret in his voice. "And I'd do it again."
Y/N sighs, adjusting the ice on his knuckles. "Violence isn't the answer, Harry."
"Sometimes it's the only language certain people understand," he mutters, then winces as she presses the ice against a tender spot.
"You could get in serious trouble," she points out. "With the university, with your fraternity..."
"I don't care," Harry says, finally meeting her eyes. "Some things are worth getting in trouble for."
Y/N shakes her head, but can't quite suppress her small smile. "I don't know what to do with you sometimes."
"Most people don't," Harry replies, his posture finally relaxing slightly. "You're doing better than most."
They stand in silence for a moment, Y/N still holding the ice to his hand, standing closer than strictly necessary in the now-emptied kitchen.
"I should probably go," She says eventually. "It's late, and this party seems to have reached its dramatic climax."
Harry looks down at their hands, then back to her face. "I'll walk you home."
"Your hand—"
"Is fine," he interrupts gently. "Besides, your apartment is literally next door. I think I can manage."
Y/N hesitates, then nods. "Okay. Let me just tell Maya I'm leaving."
As they make their way through the party, Y/N is acutely aware of the looks they receive. Word of the altercation has clearly spread. She finds Maya curled up with Louis on the couch, deep in conversation.
"I'm heading back," Y/N tells her roommate. "Harry's walking me."
Maya gives her a meaningful look. "I'll probably stay here tonight. Text me when you get in?"
"It's right there," Y/N points out.
"Text me anyway," Maya insists.
Outside, the night air is cool against Y/N's flushed skin. The street is quiet compared to the pulsing noise of the party, just a few students making their way between buildings. Harry walks beside her, his injured hand occasionally brushing against hers.
"I'm sorry," he says suddenly.
Y/N looks at him in surprise. "For what?"
"For ruining the night. For losing my temper and not even getting you that drink I promised."
Y/N considers this, then shrugs. "The night wasn't ruined. Just...eventful."
They reach the entrance to her apartment building, and Y/N turns to face him. "Thank you for walking me home," she says, suddenly feeling awkward. "And for...defending my honor, I guess? Though I still think punching people is not the solution."
Harry looks down, then back up at her through his lashes. "Would it help if I said I won't make a habit of it?"
"Slightly," Y/N concedes with a small smile.
They stand there for a moment, neither quite ready to say goodnight. "So," Harry finally breaks the silence, "about that study date with your cognitive psychology textbook..."
Y/N laughs. "Are you jealous of my textbook now?"
"Desperately," Harry admits with a grin. "It gets to spend hours with you while I have to resort to Nerf warfare just to get your attention."
The reminder of his ridiculous window-shooting antics makes Y/N shake her head fondly. "You could text like a normal person."
"Where's the fun in that?" Harry challenges.
Another silence falls between them, this one charged with unspoken possibilities.
"I should go up," Y/N says finally, gesturing vaguely toward her apartment.
Harry nods, but makes no move to leave. "Y/N?"
"Yes?"
"I'm glad you came tonight. Even if it ended with me assaulting one of my fraternity brothers."
Y/N can't help but laugh at his blunt summary. "I'm glad I came too. Even with the assault portion."
Harry takes a step closer, his expression growing serious again. "Can I see you tomorrow? Properly, I mean. Not through windows or at parties with a hundred other people."
Y/N feels her heart skip a beat at the sincerity in his voice. "Are you asking me on a date, Harry Styles?"
"I am," he confirms, a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. "Though I should warn you, my right hook might be compromised for a few days."
Y/N pretends to consider this drawback. "I suppose I can overlook that. Yes, I'll go on a date with you."
Harry's face lights up with genuine delight. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Y/N confirms, smiling at his reaction.
Harry leans forward slowly, giving her plenty of time to step back if she wants to. When she doesn't move, he presses a gentle kiss to her cheek, lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
"Goodnight, psychology girl," he murmurs against her skin before pulling away.
Y/N feels warmth spreading from where his lips touched her cheek. "Goodnight, Harry."
With a small wave, she disappears into the building, already thinking about tomorrow.
can we pls pls pls get a one shot on fwfw on the partnership w the designer valentina cortez & the montgomery nursery decor now that they’re actually having a baby!!
Berries | FWFW Extra
WC: 6.5K
Summary: Gender reveal, nursery, all the sweet pregnancy stuff. Oh, and Harry being the hot husband he is and sticking up for his wife :)
FWFW Masterlist <-if you’ve never read For Worse or For Worse :)
Main Masterlist
· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·
Harry guided their Range Rover down the familiar winding roads of the coastal town, one hand on the wheel while the other rested possessively on Y/N's thigh. The five-hour drive from London had been punctuated by frequent stops. Pregnancy bladder waits for no one, as Y/N had laughingly informed him.
Y/N shifted in her seat, her hand moving unconsciously to cradle the swell of her belly that had finally emerged over the past month. At twenty weeks, the bump was beautifully round beneath her flowing sundress.
"Comfortable?" Harry asked, glancing over at her with the concern that had become his default expression since she'd started showing.
Y/N smiled, catching his hand and bringing it to rest on her stomach. "Your daughter keeps kicking my bladder," she informed him, "but otherwise, yes."
"You don't know it's a girl," Harry pointed out, though his voice was warm with amusement. They'd been playfully arguing about the baby's gender for weeks now.
"Mother's intuition," Y/N replied serenely. "Besides, you keep calling the bump 'she.'"
Harry's grin was sheepish. "Do I?"
"Yes!" Y/N confirmed. "Just yesterday you told Gemma that 'she' was craving pickles and ice cream."
"Well, whoever they are, they have excellent taste," Harry defended, pulling onto the familiar street where Y/N's childhood home sat nestled between larger, more modern constructions.
The small house looked better than it had in years. Mostly due to the fresh paint on the shutters and the roof recently repaired. Harry had quietly arranged for the necessary maintenance after their real wedding, though he'd been careful to make it seem like natural improvements rather than charity. Y/N's pride was fierce when it came to her family, and he'd learned to navigate those waters with care.
As they pulled into the driveway, the front door flew open and Y/N's mother emerged, moving with an energy that would have been impossible a year and a half ago. Her health had improved dramatically since the wedding. The financial security allowed her access to better medical care and the relief of knowing her daughter was provided for had lifted a weight that had been crushing her for years.
"There's my girl!" she called out, her face lighting up as Y/N carefully extracted herself from the car.
Harry came around quickly to offer his hand, supporting her as she stood. The protective gesture was noted by Y/N's mother, whose expression softened with approval.
"And look at you!" she exclaimed as Y/N straightened, the bump now clearly visible in profile. "Oh, sweetheart, you're glowing!"
Y/N laughed, accepting her mother's careful embrace. "I'm sweaty, Mum," she corrected. "It's already warm and this one runs hot."
Her hand rubbed her belly affectionately, and her mother's eyes filled with tears.
"May I?" she asked, gesturing toward the bump.
"Of course," Y/N said, guiding her mother's hand to where the baby had been particularly active that morning.
They stood like that for a moment, three generations connected, before Y/N's mother turned to Harry with open arms.
"Come here, you," she ordered, pulling him into a hug that Harry returned with genuine warmth. "Thank you for taking such good care of my daughter."
"It's my privilege," Harry replied sincerely, meaning every word.
As they gathered their bags from the car, Y/N's younger siblings appeared in the doorway. Her brother Marcus, now sixteen and shooting up like a weed, and her sister Lily, thirteen and perpetually curious.
"Whoa," Marcus said, his eyes widening at the sight of Y/N's bump. "You got huge!"
"Marcus!" their mother scolded, but Y/N just laughed.
"It's true," she agreed. "This baby is taking up all available real estate."
Lily approached more cautiously, her expression awed. "Can I feel it kick?" she asked shyly.
Y/N took her sister's hand and placed it on the left side of her belly. "Just wait," she instructed. "The little one's been doing gymnastics all morning."
They stood there together, Lily's face transforming with wonder as she felt the baby move beneath her palm.
"That's so weird," she breathed. "But also really cool."
Harry finished unloading their bags, Marcus helping with the heavier items despite Harry's protests that he could manage. The teenager had grown protective of both Y/N and Harry since the wedding, seeming to view Harry as an older brother figure.
"You staying the whole weekend?" Marcus asked hopefully as they carried bags inside.
"Through Monday," Harry confirmed. "I've got a session Tuesday afternoon, but otherwise we're all yours."
The house smelled like home with its usual fresh bread baking, the salt air drifting through open windows, and the particular scent of the lavender Y/N's mother grew in pots on the windowsills. It was so different from the sterile perfection of Anne's estate, and Harry found himself relaxing in ways he never could around his own mother.
"I've made up your old room," Y/N's mother announced, leading them upstairs. "Though the bed is a bit smaller than what you're probably used to."
Y/N caught Harry's eye, both of them remembering the narrow twin bed where they'd shared whispered conversations during those long-ago summers when their romance had been new and secret.
"We'll manage," Harry assured her, though he was already calculating how they'd both fit with Y/N's expanding belly.
The room was exactly as Y/N remembered. She looked around at the pale yellow walls, the white curtains dancing in the breeze from the open window, her old bookshelf still lined with beloved childhood favorites and the new vase of fresh wildflowers on the dresser someone must have put there. The thoughtfulness of the gesture made her throat tight.
"It's perfect, Mum," she said, turning to hug her mother again. "Thank you."
"You rest a bit," her mother instructed. "Lunch will be ready in an hour, and I want to hear everything about the baby."
After she left, closing the door gently behind her, Harry wrapped his arms around Y/N from behind, his hands settling on her bump.
"Your mum looks good," he observed quietly. "Really good."
Y/N nodded, leaning back against his chest. "The new medication is working," she said. "And she's not working herself to exhaustion anymore."
She didn't say what they both knew. That Harry's quiet financial support had made that possible. The arrangement they'd worked out allowed Y/N's mother to reduce her hours at the shop, to afford the specialists and treatments that were actually addressing her condition rather than just managing symptoms.
"I'm glad," Harry said simply, pressing a kiss to her temple.
They stood like that for a moment, Harry's hands gentle on her belly, feeling their baby move beneath his palms. Through the window, they could see the ocean in the distance, the same view that had witnessed their childhood friendship and teenage romance.
"Do you ever think about what would have happened if we'd stayed together back then?" Y/N asked softly. "If your mum hadn't convinced you I wasn't good enough?"
Harry's arms tightened around her. "Every day," he admitted. "And I hate myself for the years I wasted listening to her poison."
Y/N turned in his arms, reaching up to cup his face. "We found our way back," she reminded him. "Maybe not the way either of us expected, but we're here now. That's what matters."
Harry kissed her forehead, his expression troubled. A sharp kick against Y/N's belly made them both pause, and Harry's expression shifted to wonder as he felt it.
"Strong one," he murmured, his hands moving to where the baby was actively protesting something.
"Your child has opinions about their grandmother apparently," Y/N said wryly.
Harry laughed, the tension breaking. "Smart baby," he agreed. "Already knows which family members are worth their time."
A knock on the door interrupted them, and Lily's voice called out, "Y/N? Mum says lunch is ready early if you're hungry."
"We'll be right down," Y/N called back, smoothing her dress over her bump.
Harry caught her hand before she could move toward the door. "I love you," he said seriously. "And I love this family. Yours, ours, the one we're creating. Whatever my mother thinks, this is where I belong."
Y/N's smile was radiant. "I love you too," she replied. "Now come on, before your child stages a full revolt over being made to wait for food."
Downstairs, the table was laden with all of Y/N's childhood favorites. Marcus and Lily were already seated, eyeing the food with barely restrained hunger. "Sit, sit," Y/N's mother urged, pulling out a chair for Y/N with exaggerated care. "You need to keep your strength up."
As they settled around the table, the conversation flowing easily between bites of delicious food, Harry felt something in his chest loosen. This was what family should feel like. Should feel warm and accepting. Full of genuine love rather than calculated social positioning.
"So," Y/N's mother said, her eyes twinkling, "when do we get to know if I'm having a granddaughter or grandson?"
Y/N and Harry exchanged glances, and he nodded permission for her to share their plans.
"Next weekend," Y/N announced. "We're doing a reveal party. Nothing fancy—just close friends and family."
"We wanted to wait until we were here to tell you," Harry added. "You're all invited, of course. We'll arrange transport if needed."
Lily's eyes went wide. "A real gender reveal? With the colored smoke and everything?"
"Probably not smoke," Y/N laughed. "But yes, something fun. We haven't decided exactly what yet."
"I think it's a boy," Marcus declared confidently. "The way you're carrying, all out front."
"Girl," Lily countered. "You've been glowing, and Mum says that means girl."
Y/N's mother smiled at her children's enthusiasm. "Boy or girl, healthy is all that matters," she said wisely. The meal continued with easy warmth, plans being made for the weekend and stories being shared. Harry found himself relaxing completely, his hand finding Y/N's under the table and squeezing gently.
This, he thought, watching Y/N laugh at something Lily said, her hand unconsciously cradling their child. This was everything that mattered. Not his mother's approval, not social standing or carefully curated public image…just this.
The afternoon sun slanted through the windows, painting everything gold, and Harry silently thanked whatever force had brought him back to this place, to this woman, to this life that felt more real than anything his previous existence had offered.
· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·
The path to their childhood spot was overgrown with wildflowers and tall grass, nature slowly reclaiming what had once been a well-worn trail. Harry walked ahead, holding branches back for Y/N as she navigated the uneven ground with careful steps, one hand protectively cradling her bump while the other clutched the wicker basket containing their picnic supplies.
"I still can't believe this log is here," Harry said as they emerged into the small clearing overlooking the ocean. The massive fallen tree that had been their secret meeting place all those years ago remained exactly where it had always been,
Y/N smiled, settling herself carefully onto the log's familiar curve. "Some things don't change," she said softly, her gaze drifting across the water.
Harry spread out the blanket he'd brought, arranging it over the flattest section of the log before sitting beside her. His arm came around her shoulders naturally, and she leaned into his warmth with a contented sigh.
"Remember when we used to sneak down here?" he asked, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "Your mum thought you were at the library, and mine thought I was playing tennis at the club."
"We were terrible liars," Y/N laughed. "I'm pretty sure my mum knew exactly where I was. She just never said anything."
Harry pressed a kiss to her temple. "Wise woman, your mum."
They sat in comfortable silence watching the waves roll in steady rhythm against the shore below. Y/N's hand moved to her belly as the baby kicked, and Harry's hand immediately joined hers, seeking out their child's movements.
"Ready?" she asked, her voice carrying a note of excitement and nervousness.
Harry's eyes lit up. "You brought it?"
Y/N reached into the basket, carefully extracting a round cake carrier. Inside was a simple white-frosted cake that she'd made that afternoon while Harry had been napping.
"I checked the email from Dr. Heather," she explained, setting the carrier between them. "Made this while you were sleeping. The inside is supposed to be colored. Pink for girl, blue for boy."
Harry's grin was brilliant. "You've been keeping secrets," he teased, though his hands were already reaching for the plastic forks she'd packed.
"Only for a few hours," Y/N defended, her own excitement building as she removed the lid from the carrier. "I wanted it to be special, just us, before the big party next weekend."
The cake looked perfect. Fluffy white frosting, neat and unassuming from the outside. Harry's hand found hers, squeezing gently.
"On three?" he suggested.
Y/N nodded, her heart racing. "On three."
They counted together, their voices blending in the salt-tinged air, "One...two... three!"
In perfect synchronization, they each sunk a wine glass into opposite sides of the cake, pressing down to extract a proper sample. Y/N's hands trembled slightly as they lifted their cups, turning them to see the inside of the cake that would reveal their baby's gender.
Both of them stared. The cake was...white. Completely white. No pink and No blue. Just plain uncolored vanilla cake.
Y/N's face crumpled, her excitement draining away like water through sand. "No," she whispered, staring at the disappointing white cake in her cup. "No, no, no..."
She set the cup down with shaking hands, pressing her palms against her eyes. "I forgot," she said, her voice breaking. "I checked the email, I saw the gender, I made the cake, and then I just...forgot to actually color it."
Tears spilled over, pregnancy hormones amplifying her disappointment into genuine distress. "I ruined it," she sobbed. "Our special moment, just the two of us, and I ruined it because my brain doesn't work anymore."
"Hey, hey," Harry said gently, setting his own cup aside and pulling her against his chest. "You didn't ruin anything, love."
"I did!" Y/N insisted, her words muffled against his shirt. "I had one job. Color the inside of the cake and I couldn't even manage that. What kind of mother can't remember something so simple?"
Harry's heart ached at the genuine anguish in her voice. "The kind who's growing an entire human being while her body redirects all available resources to that miracle," he said firmly. "Pregnancy brain is real, and it doesn't make you a bad mother."
Y/N pulled back enough to look at him, her face blotchy with tears. "But I wanted this to be perfect," she said miserably. "I wanted to see your face when you found out, and now..."
She gestured helplessly at the traitorous white cake. Harry was quiet for a moment, his mind working. Then his expression brightened. "I have an idea," he announced.
Y/N sniffled. "What kind of idea?"
"You still know the gender, right?" Harry asked. "From the email?"
Y/N nodded reluctantly. "Yes, but—"
"And you want to see my reaction when I find out?"
"Well, yes, but the whole point was—"
Harry pressed a finger gently to her lips, his eyes dancing with affection and mischief. "Trust me," he said. "I'm going to close my eyes. If it's a girl, you feed me a strawberry from the basket. If it's a boy, you feed me a blueberry."
Y/N blinked at him, processing his solution. "That's..."
"Brilliant?" Harry supplied hopefully.
Despite her tears, Y/N felt a laugh bubble up. "Actually kind of sweet," she admitted.
"I have my moments," Harry said, already reaching into the basket for the container of fresh berries Y/N had packed. "Here we are. Strawberries and blueberries, perfectly color-coded for our purposes."
He handed her the container, then settled himself more comfortably on the log, his expression eager. "Ready when you are, love."
Y/N wiped her eyes, looking down at the berries in her hands. The absurdity of the situation, crying over a white cake while holding fruit that would serve the same purpose, made her laugh again, this time with genuine amusement.
"You're sure about this?" she asked.
"Absolutely," Harry confirmed, squeezing his eyes shut dramatically. "I'm ready for the most important berry of my life."
Y/N shook her head, but she was smiling now as she selected the appropriate fruit. Her hand trembled slightly as she held it up, studying Harry's expectant face. His eyes scrunched closed, his mouth open slightly in anticipation and his entire being focused on this moment.
"Okay," she said softly. "Open your mouth."
Harry complied immediately, and Y/N carefully placed the berry on his tongue. She watched his face intently as he bit down, tasting it, processing what it meant.
His eyes flew open, wide with shock and joy and overwhelming emotion. "A girl?" he breathed, his voice cracking. "We're having a daughter?"
Y/N nodded, fresh tears streaming down her face but these were happy tears. "A girl," she confirmed. "We're having a little girl."
Harry's hands came up to cup her face, his thumbs brushing away her tears even as his own eyes grew wet. "A daughter," he repeated, as if testing the word. "Our daughter."
Then he was kissing her, pouring every ounce of joy and love and gratitude into the press of his lips against hers. When they finally broke apart, both breathless and crying and laughing, Harry dropped to his knees in front of the log, his hands finding Y/N's bump.
"Hello, little one," he whispered against the swell of her belly. "Hello, my beautiful daughter. I'm your daddy, and I love you so much already."
Y/N's hands tangled in his hair as he pressed kisses all over her bump, murmuring words of love and promise to their unborn child. The failed cake sat forgotten beside them, no longer important in the face of this perfect moment.
"I'm sorry I forgot to color it," Y/N said softly.
Harry looked up at her, his expression radiant. "Are you kidding? This was perfect. Better than perfect. I'll never forget the taste of that strawberry as long as I live."
He stood, pulling her carefully to her feet and into his arms. "A daughter," he said again, wonder saturating every syllable. "We're having a daughter, Y/N."
She laughed against his chest, her earlier distress completely forgotten. "We are," she agreed.”
I'm going to be the most embarrassing, overprotective, hopelessly devoted father in history."
Below them, the waves continued their eternal rhythm, bearing witness to this moment just as they had witnessed every stage of Harry and Y/N's journey together.
The nursery had been empty for weeks, waiting. The room at the end of the hall in their London mansion had sat untouched since they'd moved in, just another space in a house full of them. But now, with pink blankets and tiny clothes starting to accumulate, it was time to transform it into a room for their daughter.
Y/N stood in the doorway, her hand resting on her bump as she surveyed the blank canvas before them. At six months pregnant, she was definitely feeling the weight of their little girl, but her energy was still good, and her excitement about finally creating this space was palpable.
"I can't believe we're actually doing this," she said, her voice soft with wonder. "Using the auction prize. Remember that night?"
Harry came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her middle, his hands settling over hers on her bump. "I remember you pretending you didn't care about the bidding," he said, amusement coloring his tone. "While gripping that champagne glass like it personally offended you."
Y/N laughed. "I thought you were insane, spending eighty thousand pounds on something we'd supposedly never use."
"Best eighty thousand I ever spent," Harry murmured against her hair. "Even if I didn't know it at the time."
The doorbell chimed, announcing the arrival of Eliza Montgomery and her design team. Y/N's excitement ratcheted up another notch. this was the woman whose books had filled her childhood with magic and wonder, whose illustrations had sparked her own love of art.
Eliza Montgomery swept in like a force of nature. A woman in her early sixties with silver hair styled in an elaborate updo, wearing flowing purple robes that seemed more costume than clothing. Her assistant followed, laden with fabric samples and design books.
"Mr. and Mrs. Styles!" Eliza exclaimed, her voice theatrical and commanding. "What an absolute pleasure! I've been simply dying to work on this project since the auction."
She sailed past them into the nursery without waiting for a response, her critical eye already assessing the space. "Yes, yes, I can see it now. The bones are good. The light is acceptable. We'll make something truly extraordinary here."
Y/N stepped forward eagerly, pulling out her phone where she'd saved countless inspiration photos. "I'm so excited to work with you, Ms. Montgomery. I loved your books growing up, especially The Garden of Wonder. I was thinking we could incorporate some of those softer, dreamy elements. Maybe the wildflower meadow scene for one wall? With lots of creams and soft pinks, keeping it gentle and—"
"Oh, darling, no," Eliza interrupted, waving her hand dismissively. "That's far too pedestrian. Too safe. A child's room should be bold, stimulating! I'm envisioning jewel tones. deep emeralds here,” she gestures to a wall, “oh and rich purples, perhaps some gold accents there"
Y/N's smile faltered slightly. "Oh, well, I was really hoping for something calmer. Studies show that softer colors help babies sleep better, and—"
"Studies," Eliza scoffed. "I've been designing children's spaces for thirty years, dear. I think I know what works."
She began pacing the room, her hands gesturing grandly. "We'll do the ceiling in midnight blue with hand-painted constellations. The walls, I'm thinking a deep forest green with my signature woodland creatures, but larger than life. Bold and Dramatic."
"Actually," Y/N tried again, her voice more tentative now, "I was hoping we could stick closer to the aesthetic of your earlier books. The softer palettes you used in The Garden of Wonder or The Sleepy Meadow. Those always felt so peaceful to me."
Eliza turned to look at her, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised. "Those books were published decades ago, Mrs. Styles. My artistic vision has evolved considerably since then. Surely you want something contemporary, not dated?"
Harry felt Y/N stiffen beside him, and saw the way her enthusiasm dimmed like a light being turned down.
"It's not about dated," Y/N said, trying to keep her voice even. "It's about what feels right for our daughter. I want her room to feel like a sanctuary, somewhere calm and—"
"Trust me, darling," Eliza interrupted again, already directing her assistant to start taking measurements. "Once you see my vision come to life, you'll understand. Parents always think they want these bland, boring spaces, but children need stimulation, color, excitement!"
The consultation continued for another hour, with Eliza steamrolling over every suggestion Y/N made. The soft pink Y/N wanted? Too cliché. The cream curtains? Too boring. The gentle woodland scene? Too simple.
By the time Eliza and her team left, promising to return in three days to begin the actual work, Y/N's earlier excitement had completely evaporated.
· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·
Three days later, Harry returned home from a studio session to find the nursery transformed into a construction zone. Drop cloths covered the floor, and Eliza's team was already priming the walls in a shade of green so dark it was almost black.
He found Y/N standing in the doorway, her arms wrapped protectively around her bump, her expression carefully blank.
"How's it going?" he asked, coming up beside her.
"Great," Y/N said, her voice utterly flat. "It's going great."
Harry looked at the walls, then back at her face. "You hate it."
"No, I—" Y/N started, then sighed. "It's fine. It's her artistic vision. She's the expert."
"Y/N—"
"Mr. Styles!" Eliza emerged from the nursery, paint-splattered and imperious. "Perfect timing. I wanted to show you the mural design I've finalized."
She produced a large illustration of a forest scene populated with creatures that were more unsettling than whimsical, all rendered in those same dark, heavy colors. The trees loomed rather than sheltered, and the overall effect was more Tim Burton than children's book.
"What do you think?" Eliza asked, though her tone suggested she wasn't actually interested in his opinion.
Harry looked at the design, then at Y/N's face. The way she was trying so hard to be polite, to be grateful, to not make a fuss even though everything about her body language screamed distress.
"I think it's not what we discussed," Harry said carefully. "My wife had specific ideas about—"
"Oh, I've incorporated Mrs. Styles' input," Eliza assured him breezily. "I've just elevated it. Made it more sophisticated. This is going to be featured in Architectural Digest, mark my words."
"But it's not what Y/N wants," Harry pressed.
Eliza's expression turned condescending. "With respect, Mr. Styles, first-time mothers often don't know what they want. That's why they hire professionals. Once the room is complete, she'll see that I was right."
· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·
Over the next week, Harry watched Y/N grow increasingly withdrawn as the nursery took shape. The midnight blue ceiling went up, studded with golden stars that were too large and too bright. The dark green walls followed, making the room feel smaller and more oppressive. The mural began to emerge with those unsettling creatures with their too-knowing eyes.
Every time Y/N tried to offer a suggestion (softer lighting, perhaps? Or could we add some cream accents to brighten things?) Eliza dismissed her with the same patronizing refrain: "Trust the process, dear."
Harry came home one afternoon to find Y/N sitting on the floor of the nursery, surrounded by paint samples in soft pinks and creams that she'd clearly purchased herself. She was crying quietly, her hand on her bump.
"Love?" he said softly, kneeling beside her. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Y/N said quickly, wiping her eyes. "I'm being ridiculous. Pregnancy hormones."
"You're not ridiculous," Harry said firmly. "Talk to me."
Y/N gestured helplessly at the dark walls around them. "I hate it," she admitted in a whisper. "I hate everything about this room. It doesn't feel like our daughter. It feels like...like a museum exhibit. Cold and showy and wrong."
Her voice broke. "I wanted it to feel like love. Like safety. Like all those feelings I had when my mum would read me those books. But instead it's just...this."
"Then we'll change it," Harry said immediately.
"We can't," Y/N protested. "You already spent eighty thousand pounds. The work is almost done. I just need to...to get used to it. To appreciate her vision."
Harry's jaw tightened. "Fuck her vision," he said bluntly. "And fuck the eighty thousand pounds."
"Harry—"
He cupped her face in his hands, making her look at him. "This room is for our daughter," he said intensely. "And for you. You're going to spend hours here feeding her, rocking her, watching her sleep. It needs to feel right to you, not to some designer's ego."
"But the money—"
"Is just money," Harry interrupted. "Do you know what I can't buy? Your happiness. Your comfort. The feeling you get when you walk into this room. That's worth infinitely more than eighty thousand pounds."
"In a heartbeat," Harry confirmed. "Actually, I'd have done it a week ago if I'd known how miserable this was making you. Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I felt stupid," Y/N admitted. "Like I was being ungrateful and difficult and—"
"Stop," Harry said gently. "You're allowed to have opinions about our daughter's nursery. You're allowed to want what you want. And anyone who makes you feel otherwise can fuck right off."
He stood, offering her his hand and helping her carefully to her feet. "Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"To fire a designer," Harry said grimly.
· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·
They found Eliza in the living room, getting ready and directing her assistant in the placement of a massive mobile featuring those same unsettling creatures from the mural.
"Ms. Montgomery," Harry said, his voice cold and professional. "We need to talk."
Eliza turned, her expression already annoyed at being interrupted. "Mr. Styles, if this is about the curtains, I've already explained that the heavy velvet is essential to the overall aesthetic—"
"This isn't about curtains," Harry interrupted. "Your services are no longer required."
Eliza blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"You're fired," Harry said flatly. "Pack up your things. You'll be compensated for your time, but we're done here."
Eliza's face flushed with indignation. "You can't be serious. That room is nearly complete! And I have a contract—"
"Which I'm sure includes a termination clause," Harry said. "My lawyers will be in touch. But I want you and your team out of my house today."
"Harry, wait—" Y/N started, but he squeezed her hand gently.
"This is absolutely outrageous," Eliza sputtered. "I've won awards! I've been featured in every major design publication! You bid eighty thousand pounds for this opportunity!"
"And I'd pay eighty thousand more to undo it," Harry said coldly. "You've spent two weeks dismissing my wife's ideas, patronizing her, and creating something she explicitly didn't want. So yes, you're fired. Effective immediately."
Eliza drew herself up to her full height. "You'll regret this. My reputation in this industry—"
"Is your problem, not mine," Harry finished. "Now please leave before I have security escort you out."
Eliza gathered her things with furious, jerky movements, her assistant scrambling to help. At the door, she turned back one last time.
"You're making a terrible mistake," she hissed. "That room is a work of art."
"That room," Harry said quietly, "is supposed to be for our daughter. Not your portfolio."
After they left, Harry turned to Y/N, who was staring at him with wide eyes.
"I can't believe you just did that," she breathed.
Harry pulled her close, his hand coming up to cradle her face. "I should have done it a week ago," he said. "I'm sorry I let her make you feel this way."
"But the money—"
"Stop talking about the money," Harry said firmly. "I care about your feelings infinitely more than eighty thousand pounds. Hell, more than eight hundred thousand pounds. The money doesn't matter, Y/N. You matter. Our daughter matters. This room feeling right matters."
Y/N threw her arms around his neck, holding him tight. "Thank you," she whispered against his shoulder. "Thank you for listening. For caring."
Harry held her close, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair. "Always," he promised. "Now, how about we start over? Just us this time. We'll paint it ourselves if we have to."
Y/N pulled back, her eyes bright with renewed excitement. "Really?"
"Really," Harry confirmed. "Show me those paint samples you were looking at. Let's create the room you actually want."
Y/N grabbed the samples she'd been crying over earlier, spreading them out eagerly. "Okay, so I was thinking this soft blush pink for the main walls, with cream trim. And maybe we could do a mural ourselves, nothing fancy, just something simple and sweet. Wildflowers, maybe, like from The Garden of Wonder."
Harry looked at the soft, gentle colors that made Y/N's face light up, then at the dark, oppressive walls around them.
"First things first," he said. "We need to paint over this nightmare. Think we can handle that ourselves?"
Y/N's laugh was bright and genuine, all traces of her earlier distress gone. "I think we can manage."
Harry pulled out his phone. "Let me call Jeff. He owes me a favor, and he's surprisingly good with a paint roller."
As he made the call, Y/N stood in the center of the room, her hand on her bump, imagining it transformed. Not into Eliza's dark, dramatic showcase, but into something soft and loving and peaceful. Exactly what she'd wanted from the beginning.
"Our daughter's going to love it," Harry said, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her middle.
Y/N leaned back against him, finally allowing herself to feel excited again. "She really is," she agreed. "Thank you for fighting for what I wanted. Even when I couldn't fight for it myself."
"Always," Harry repeated, pressing a kiss to her temple. "That's what we do. We fight for each other.
Windows Facing Masterlist | Main Masterlist | WC: 2K
Y/N is fundraising for her club and tries to rope Harry into donating. He has other plans of course
a/n: For all my windows facing lovers. Ive seen your asks requesting them and I shall provide 🙂↕️
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Spring fundraising week. Various student organizations have set up colorful tables, competing for attention and donations from passing students and faculty. The Psychology Honor Society's booth stands out with its professionally designed banner and interactive brain games to attract donors. Y/N adjusts her chair under the warm afternoon sun, fanning herself with a pamphlet. It's the fourth day of tabling, and while they've raised a decent amount for their mental health awareness initiative, they're still short of their goal.
"Three more hours of this," she sighs to Sophie, her fellow psychology major and vice president "My face hurts from smiling at strangers."
Sophie laughs, reorganizing their donation box. "At least we've had some decent contributions. Professor Jenkins gave us fifty dollars yesterday."
"We need more than decent if we want to fund the symposium," Y/N replies, scanning the quad. Her eyes land on a familiar figure in the distance, Harry Styles, surrounded by his usual entourage of frat brothers and admirers, lounging on the grass with careless grace.
"Speaking of potential donors," Y/N says, nodding in Harry's direction, "Styles is going to be a piece of cake."
Sophie follows her gaze and raises an eyebrow. "The guy who's been driving you crazy all semester? That's your sure thing?"
"He's loaded," Y/N explains confidently. “He wears designer everything. Not to mention that ridiculous vintage car he drives and plus I heard his family owns like half of London or something."
"And you think he'll donate because...?"
Y/N smirks. "Because he can't resist an opportunity to interact with me. Watch and learn."
As if on cue, Harry glances over, catching Y/N's eye. A slow smile spreads across his face as he says something to his friends before sauntering toward their table.
"Incoming," Sophie murmurs.
Harry approaches, hands in his pockets, looking unfairly good in simple black jeans and a vintage Rolling Stones t-shirt. "Well, well," he drawls, leaning against their table. "If it isn't my favorite psychology students saving the world one bake sale at a time."
"It's a mental health awareness fundraiser," Y/N corrects him, "not a bake sale."
Harry glances at the table. "No cookies? Bit of a missed opportunity, that."
"We're raising money for a student-led mental health symposium," Y/N explains, slipping into her pitch voice. "The Psychology Honor Society is bringing in speakers to discuss campus mental health resources and—"
"Sounds brilliant," Harry interrupts, picking up one of their pamphlets and examining it with exaggerated interest. "Very...psychological."
Sophie snorts, earning a glare from Y/N. "We're accepting donations," Y/N says pointedly, gesturing to their collection box. "Every little bit helps."
Harry's eyes sparkle with mischief. "Are you implying I'd only give a little bit? Wounding, psychology girl."
"I'm implying that you should put your money where your mouth is," she challenges.
Harry leans closer, his voice dropping. "I'd rather put my mouth somewhere else entirely."
Y/N feels heat rise to her cheeks. "Are you donating or not?"
"Not today," he decides, straightening up. "Still considering the return on investment." Before Y/N can respond, he winks and strolls away, leaving her fuming.
"That went well," Sophie comments dryly.
"He'll be back," Y/N insists. "He's just being difficult."
True to her prediction, Harry returns the next day, this time with coffee. One for himself and one that he places in front of Y/N. "Fuel for your charitable endeavors," he explains, settling on the edge of their table despite Y/N's protests about weight limits and university property.
"Thanks," she says, accepting the coffee with suspicion. "Now about that donation..."
"Patience," Harry chides. "I'm still weighing my options. Tell me more about this symposium thing."
For the next twenty minutes, Harry asks increasingly detailed questions about their initiative, seeming genuinely interested. Just as Y/N thinks she's finally convinced him, he spots his bandmate Niall across the quad.
"Gotta run," he announces, hopping off the table. "Band practice. Very important for my personal mental health."
"But—" Y/N sputters.
"Tomorrow!" he calls over his shoulder, jogging backward. "I promise to make a decision tomorrow!"
The third day, Harry brings donuts for the entire table staff and spends half an hour helping them attract passersby, his charm and minor campus celebrity status drawing more traffic than they've had all week.
"You're surprisingly good at this," Y/N admits grudgingly as another group of giggling freshmen drop bills in their donation box after taking selfies with Harry.
"I'm good at lots of things," he replies with a suggestive eyebrow waggle.
"Are you going to donate yourself, or just use your powers of persuasion on others?" she asks.
Harry taps his chin thoughtfully. "Still deciding what my contribution should be. It's an important decision, can't be rushed."
Before Y/N can press further, he's distracted by a text message.
"Duty calls," he says apologetically, already backing away. "Frat emergency. Something about a flooded bathroom. Tomorrow's the last day, yeah? I'll sort it then, promise."
Y/N watches him leave, equal parts frustrated and intrigued by his continued evasion.
"He's playing you," Sophie observes that evening as they count the day's donations in Y/N's apartment.
"I know," Y/N sighs. "But we've raised more in the last few days with him hanging around than we did all last week. I just wish he'd stop being so..."
"Charming? Irritating? Distractingly attractive?" Sophie suggests helpfully.
"All of the above," Y/N admits.
On the final day of fundraising, Y/N arrives early, determined to corner Harry and secure his donation before he can slip away again. The morning passes with no sign of him, and by afternoon, she's beginning to think he won't show.
"Maybe he forgot," Sophie suggests, though her tone suggests she doesn't believe it.
"Or he was never planning to donate in the first place," Y/N replies, disappointment coloring her voice despite her efforts to sound indifferent.
Just as they're beginning to pack up, a familiar figure appears, strolling casually toward their table as if he hasn't kept them waiting all day.
"Cutting it a bit close, aren't you?" Y/N remarks as Harry approaches.
"Saved the best for last," he replies with an easy smile. "Final tally looking good?"
"We're still short of our goal," Y/N admits. "But we did better than expected."
Harry nods, looking thoughtful. "I've been giving your cause some serious consideration."
"And?" Y/N prompts, trying not to sound too eager.
"And I've decided I will make a donation," he announces grandly.
Y/N exhales in relief. "Finally. You’ve been hovering around our table all week without donating a single dollar. I was beginning to think you're just cheap."
"Ouch," Harry places a hand over his heart in mock offense. "Maybe I'm just waiting for the right incentive."
She rolls her eye, " How much were you thinking?"
Harry leans forward, resting his elbows on their table. "That depends."
"On what?" Y/N asks warily.
"On whether you're willing to give something in return," he says, his expression surprisingly serious despite the playful undertone in his voice.
Sophie suddenly becomes very interested in reorganizing their pamphlets, though Y/N knows she's listening to every word.
"What exactly did you have in mind?" Y/N asks, narrowing her eyes.
"A kiss," Harry states simply.
Y/N blinks, caught off guard. "Excuse me?"
"Just on the cheek," he clarifies, tapping his dimpled cheek with one finger. "One tiny kiss, and I'll make a donation that'll put you well over your goal."
Y/N stares at him, trying to determine if he's serious. "You want me to kiss you...for charity."
"Think of it as incentivizing philanthropy," Harry suggests with a grin.
"That's ridiculous," Y/N protests, though her heartbeat has picked up pace.
"Is it?" Harry challenges. "One small gesture from you, and all those students get their mental health symposium. Seems like a bargain, really."
Y/N glances at Sophie, who shrugs as if to say 'your call, but we do need the money.'
"Fine," Y/N decides, standing up. "One kiss on the cheek. And it better be a substantial donation."
Harry's eyes widen slightly, as if he hadn't expected her to agree. "You have my word."
Y/N moves around the table, acutely aware of Sophie watching and several passersby slowing to observe the scene. Standing before Harry, she's struck by their height difference. Even in her low heels, she has to tilt her head up to reach his cheek.
"Well?" she prompts when he just stands there grinning down at her.
"Just making sure I remember every detail," he murmurs.
Rolling her eyes, Y/N places one hand lightly on his shoulder for balance and rises on her tiptoes. She catches a whiff of his cologne as she presses her lips briefly to his cheek, feeling the slight scratch of stubble against her mouth.
She pulls back quickly, ignoring the warmth spreading through her chest. "There. Donation time."
Harry touches his cheek where her lips had been, looking oddly affected for someone who's been so cavalier about the whole thing.
"Right," he says, clearing his throat. "About that donation."
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone, tapping the screen a few times before turning it to show Y/N.
"What's this?" she asks, squinting at the screen.
"Confirmation email," Harry explains. "From your department's online donation portal."
Y/N takes the phone, her eyes widening as she reads the details of a $2,500 donation made on Monday in the name of Harry Styles. Sophie peaks over Y/N’s shoulder, eyes widen comically.* "Holy—! Are you serious? And all you had to do was kiss his cheek? Girl, for this amount, I would have kissed his—"
“Sophie!” Y/N cuts her off, cheeks turning a shade of pinks. She turns back to Harry. "You...you already donated?" she stammers, looking up at him in confusion. "On day one?"
Harry shrugs, looking almost sheepish. "Anything to support my psychology girl's passion project."
The possessive pronoun doesn't escape Y/N’s notice, and to her surprise, she doesn't immediately object to it. "But then why—" Y/N gestures between them, realization dawning. "You made me kiss you when you'd already donated?"
"Technically, you didn't have to," Harry points out. "I just suggested an exchange. Never said I hadn't already contributed."
Sophie bursts out laughing from behind the table. "Oh my god, he played you so hard."
Y/N should be angry, wants to be angry, but finds herself fighting a smile instead. "You are absolutely—"
"Generous? Deserving of another kiss for my philanthropy?" Harry suggests hopefully.
"Infuriating," Y/N corrects him, though there's no heat in her voice. "You could have just told me you donated."
Harry's expression softens. "And miss seeing you all week? Not a chance."
"So all the questions, the coffee, the donuts..."
"Were because I wanted to spend time with you," he admits simply. "The donation was just because I think what you're doing is important."
Y/N felt a change in the air between them. The playful sparring and jokes dissolving into a moment that felt far more sincere.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "Seriously, Harry. This means a lot."
"You're welcome," he replies, his usual cockiness momentarily absent. "You know, the symposium planning committee probably needs volunteers..."
Y/N laughs. "Are you offering your services now?"
"I'm offering my company," Harry corrects, his smile returning. "Unless you'd rather plan it all without my valuable input."
"I suppose we could use an outside perspective," Y/N concedes, trying to sound reluctant despite the warmth spreading through her chest.
"Brilliant. It's a date then," Harry declares before she can correct his terminology.
"It's a committee meeting," Y/N clarifies firmly.
"A committee meeting date," Harry compromises, his dimples deepening.
As they finish packing up the table, Harry helping without being asked, Y/N finds herself watching the way he jokes easily with Sophie and the genuine interest he shows in their project plans.
Maybe, she thinks, there's more to Harry Styles than she's been willing to admit.
Scrub in Masterlist | Masterlist | WC: 5.2K | Angsty
a/n: The epilogue mentions Y/N being there for harry when his mom had surgery. Thought I’d show that :)
Y/N stands in front of her closet, clothes strewn across her bed in a state of disarray that perfectly matches her internal panic. She's been dating Harry for a year and while it's been a wonderful, challenging, sometimes frustrating, but always passionate year, today is the day she's finally meeting his mother. Under normal circumstances, this would already be a nerve-wracking experience. But Anne isn't coming for a casual visit. She's flying in because she's been experiencing concerning cardiac symptoms, and Harry after weeks of long-distance worry and medical consultations over the phone has finally convinced her to come get properly evaluated. Which means Y/N isn't just meeting her boyfriend's mother, she's meeting her boyfriend's potentially ill mother. Who also happens to be the mother of her boss. Who also happens to be the Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery. No pressure at all. Her phone buzzes with a text from Harry:
Just picked Mum up from the airport. Heading to my place now. Meet us there in an hour? x
Y/N stares at the message, her heart rate accelerating. "An hour?!" she exclaims to her empty apartment. "I thought I had at least two!" She frantically dials Niall, putting the phone on speaker as she continues ransacking her closet. "What's the emergency this time?" Niall answers, sounding amused.
"Harry's mother is here. Now. An hour early!" Y/N pulls out a navy blue dress, examines it, then tosses it aside. "I'm meeting her in an hour and I have nothing to wear and I haven't practiced what to say and—"
"Whoa, slow down," Niall interrupts. "Take a breath before you hyperventilate.” Y/N inhales deeply, then exhales slowly.
"Better?"
"No." She sinks onto her bed, pushing aside a pile of rejected outfits. "Niall, what if she hates me?"
"Why would she hate you? You're amazing. And Harry adores you."
"Because I'm his subordinate? Because I'm too young for him? Because I challenged her son's diagnosis in front of an entire team my first week as an intern?"
"To be fair, you were right about that diagnosis."
"Not the point!" Y/N jumps up, pacing the room. "This is Anne Styles we're talking about. Harry talks about her like she's a combination of Mother Teresa and Michelle Obama."
"With a touch of Gordon Ramsay, from what I've heard," Niall adds unhelpfully.
"Not helping!"
Niall sighs. "Honey, listen to me. You're overthinking this. Just be yourself. The brilliant, kind, occasionally stubborn woman her son is crazy about," Niall says. "The one who makes her son happier than anyone's seen him in years."
She glances at the disaster zone that is her bedroom. "That's the problem. I've tried everything I own. Nothing feels right."
"What about that emerald sweater? Harry always says it brings out your eyes."
Y/N rummages through the pile, finding the cashmere sweater in question. "Maybe...with those black pants?"
"Perfect. Professional but not too formal. You look like you're meeting your boyfriend's mom, not performing a coronary bypass."
She laughs despite herself. "Okay. Sweater, black pants. What about jewelry?"
"The simple gold necklace your dad gave you. It's elegant without being showy."
Y/N nods, already feeling more centered. "Right. Good call."
"Oh and bring flowers. Not a big bouquet though. Those are too formal. Just something small and thoughtful."
"Flowers. Okay." She checks the time. "I've got forty minutes. I can do this."
"You can absolutely do this. You cut people open for a living. Meeting a boyfriend's mother is nothing."
"She's not just any mother, though," Y/N says, voice softening with concern. "She might be really sick, Niall. Harry's trying to play it cool, but I can tell he's worried."
"All the more reason for her to meet the amazing doctor her son is in love with. Because you're not just Harry's girlfriend. You're a damn good physician. If she is sick, having you there will be a comfort to both of them."
Y/N takes another deep breath, feeling her panic subside into something more manageable. "You're right. You're absolutely right."
"I usually am. It's my curse."
"Thank you, Niall. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Probably show up in scrubs with a stethoscope around your neck. Now go get dressed. And text me later. I want all the details."
After hanging up, Y/N dresses carefully in the emerald sweater and black pants, adds the gold necklace, and applies minimal makeup. Her hair she leaves down, knowing Harry prefers it that way. On the way to Harry's apartment, she stops at a small florist and selects a modest arrangement of peonies. Standing outside Harry's door, flowers in one hand, she takes a final steadying breath before knocking.
The door swings open almost immediately, revealing Harry in jeans and a soft gray sweater. His face lights up at the sight of her.
"You're here," he says, relief evident in his voice. He leans in, pressing a quick kiss to her lips. "Thank you for coming."
"Of course I came," she says, suddenly shy. "How is she?"
Harry's expression clouds slightly. "Tired from the flight, but putting on a brave face. You know how mothers are." He steps back, allowing her to enter.
"Mum's in the living room. She's been asking about you non-stop since she landed."
Y/N's eyes widen. "She has?"
"Don't look so terrified," Harry says with a soft laugh, taking her hand. "It's all good things, I promise."
As they walk toward the living room, he leans in close, whispering: "Just be warned, she brought photo albums. Apparently, you're going to see every embarrassing stage of my childhood."
Despite her nerves, Y/N smiles. "Now that I'm looking forward to."
They enter the living room, where Anne Styles sits on the couch, looking through her phone. She's an elegant woman with striking blue eyes and dark hair. She looks up as they enter, and Y/N is relieved to see genuine warmth in her smile.
"Mum," Harry says, his voice gentle in a way Y/N rarely hears at the hospital, "this is Y/N."
Y/N steps forward, offering the flowers and her hand. "It's so nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Styles. Harry talks about you all the time." Anne takes the flowers with a pleased expression, but ignores Y/N's extended hand. Instead, she stands and pulls her into a warm hug.
"It's Anne, dear. And the pleasure is all mine." She pulls back, keeping her hands on Y/N's shoulders as she studies her face. "Well, my son certainly wasn't exaggerating about how beautiful you are."
Y/N blushes, casting a glance at Harry, who looks both embarrassed and pleased.
"Mum," he protests half-heartedly.
"Oh, hush," Anne says, guiding Y/N to sit beside her on the couch. "If you didn't want me to embarrass you, you shouldn't have waited a year to introduce me to the woman you're always going on about."
She turns back to Y/N. "He calls me every Sunday, you know. And for the past year, it's been 'Y/N this' and 'Y/N that.' I feel like I know you already."
Y/N's nervousness begins to fade, replaced by genuine curiosity.
"Really? What exactly has he been saying?"
Anne's eyes twinkle mischievously. "Well, first it was complaints. 'This new intern questioned my diagnosis, Mum. Can you believe the nerve?' Then it was reluctant admiration. 'She was right, though. Brilliant, actually.' And then..."
She pats Y/N's hand. "Well, then it became obvious he was falling for you, even if he was too stubborn to admit it."
"Mum," Harry interrupts, his cheeks flushed. "Maybe we could save the detailed analysis of my emotional journey for another time?"
Anne laughs, a warm sound that immediately reminds Y/N of Harry.
"Fine, fine. I'll behave." She turns back to Y/N. "But I did bring photos, and he can't stop me from showing you those."
Harry groans, but there's no real displeasure in it. He moves to sit in the armchair across from them, watching the interaction with obvious relief.
"Now," Anne says, her tone shifting slightly, "Harry tells me you're a cardiothoracic resident. In your third year?"
"That's right," Y/N confirms, automatically straightening her posture. "I'm specializing in minimally invasive valve repair."
"Fascinating field." Anne nods approvingly. "My late husband, Harry's father, had mitral valve issues. If the techniques had been more advanced then..." She trails off, a shadow crossing her face. Y/N reaches out, gently touching Anne's hand.
"I'm so sorry about your husband. Harry's told me what an amazing man he was."
Anne smiles sadly. "He was. And I see so much of him in Harry. The dedication and the brilliance." She glances at her son with unmistakable pride. "The stubbornness."
Harry clears his throat, clearly emotional but trying to hide it. "Speaking of stubbornness," he says, his professional tone slipping back into place, "we should talk about your appointment tomorrow, Mum."
Anne waves a dismissive hand. "Plenty of time for that later. Right now, I want to get to know Y/N properly." She turns back to Y/N with a conspiratorial smile. "Without my son hovering like I'm one of his patients."
Y/N can't help but smile in return, feeling a genuine connection forming.
"I'd like that too," she says honestly.
Harry looks between them, a mix of concern and happiness on his face. "Fine," he says, standing. "I'll go put these flowers in water and start dinner. But Mum, no stories about my awkward teenage years."
"I make no promises," Anne calls after him as he disappears into the kitchen.
Once he's gone, Anne's expression grows more serious. "He's worried about me," she says quietly. "More than he's letting on."
Y/N nods, deciding honesty is the best approach. "He is. He cares about you very much."
"And you? What do you think? Off the record, doctor to patient."
Y/N considers her words carefully. "I think getting thoroughly checked out is the right move. Cardiac symptoms should never be ignored, especially with your family history."
Anne studies her face. "You're not sugar-coating it. I appreciate that."
"I've found that sugar-coating rarely helps anyone in medicine," Y/N says. "Especially the people you care about."
A slow smile spreads across Anne's face. "No wonder my son fell for you," she says softly. "You're exactly what he needs. Someone who won't let him hide behind that brilliant mind of his."
Before Y/N can respond, Harry calls from the kitchen: "If you two are done analyzing me, dinner's almost ready!"
Anne laughs, patting Y/N's hand once more. "We should join him before he burns down the kitchen. But Y/N?" Her voice grows serious again. "I'm glad he has you."
Y/N feels a lump form in her throat, touched by the acceptance in Anne's words. "I'm glad I have him too," she says simply.
As they rise to join Harry in the kitchen, Y/N realizes her earlier panic has completely vanished.
The day had started with routine post-op rounds and a stack of charts. It ended with Anne Styles coding in the middle of a cardiology consultation.
The call came through the hospital intercom with clinical detachment. "Code Blue, Cardiology Suite 3" and Y/N had felt her blood run cold before she even knew it was Anne. Harry had been in the middle of a department meeting. She'd heard later that he'd knocked his chair back so hard it hit the wall.
The stabilization team had bought them time. Not much, but enough. The echocardiogram showed what they'd feared: a dissecting aortic aneurysm and it was progressing fast. The kind that didn't wait for anyone to be ready. The kind that needed immediate surgery.
Twenty minutes later, Y/N stands outside the scrub room, having confirmed everything is in order. The surgical team is assembling, the OR is prepared and Anne's latest vitals reviewed. Only one thing is missing. The surgeon himself. Frowning, she pushes open the door to the scrub room. Harry stands at the sink, hands submerged in soapy water up to his elbows. But he isn't moving. He's just standing there, staring at the wall, completely still. His eyes are fixed on nothing. The water keeps running, the soap keeps lathering but his hands aren't scrubbing anymore. They're just...suspended.
"Harry."
He doesn't respond, doesn't even blink. Y/N approaches slowly, concern mounting. "Harry, they're almost ready for you in there." She steps closer, lowering her voice. "Hey. Look at me."
He then blinks slowly like someone surfacing from deep water. "I need to scrub in," he says. His voice is mechanical and all too wrong. "She's in pre-op. They're prepping the OR. I need to—"
"Harry." Y/N steps directly in front of him, blocking his eyeline. "Stop."
His jaw tightens. "I'm fine."
"You haven't moved in ten minutes. Dr. Patel’s looking for you. I told him I'd get you." She searches his face noting the pallor beneath his complexion and the slight tremor in his jaw he's trying to control. "You're not fine."
The mask holds for another three seconds until it suddenly doesn't and his breath comes out in a shudder. One sharp, involuntary exhale that breaks something open. He turns away from her, bracing both soapy hands on the edge of the sink, head dropping.
"I can't do it." he says in a quit, defeated tone. "I—" He stops then tries again. "I got in there. I looked at her chart, I reviewed the imaging, I started to scrub in and I—" His voice fractures. "I can't see the anatomy. I look at the scans and all I see is her. I close my eyes and I'm trying to visualize the field and I just see her face."
Y/N doesn't say anything, just steps closer.
"I can't... operate on her." His voice breaks on the last word. "My hands...they won't stop shaking."
Y/N glances down and sure enough, beneath the soap suds, his normally rock-steady surgeon's hands are trembling visibly.
"Harry," she says gently, moving closer. "This is normal. The emotional connection—"
"It's not normal for me!" he snaps, then immediately looks contrite. "I'm sorry. I just...I've never...not once in my entire career..." He stared at his hands as if they've betrayed him.
"Fifteen years," he says, his voice dropping to something raw and ugly. "Ten years of training. Chief of surgery at thirty-one. I have a waiting list of patients from four different countries." He laughs, and it's terrible, hollow and self-lacerating. "I have performed three hundred and forty-seven aortic procedures. Three hundred and forty-seven. And I am standing here—" his voice breaks completely "—I am standing here like a first-year medical student who's never held a scalpel, because it's her." His shoulders are shaking now, barely perceptibly, but Y/N sees it.
"What is the point?" he asks, and the question sounds like it's been festering for years. "What is the point of any of it—the training, the hours, the sacrifices—if I can't operate on my own mother? If I'm completely useless when it actually matters?"
He slams one palm on the sink, hard enough that the soap dispenser rattles. "She needs the best surgeon in this hospital and I—" He can't finish it.
Y/N reaches out and puts her hand on his back. "Harry, " but he doesn't turn around. "Harry, look at me. Please."
Slowly, he straightens and turns. The expression on his face…Y/N has seen Harry Styles frustrated, exhausted, coldly furious, professionally devastated but she has never seen him look like this. Like something has been gutted out of him. She keeps her voice steady and calm. The way he sounds when he talks patients down from panic.
"Loving someone doesn't make you useless," she says. "It makes you human. And it disqualifies you from operating on them. Those are two entirely different things and you know it."
"Don't." His voice is sharp. "Don't give me the textbook answer. I know the textbook answer. I have the textbook memorized."
"I know you do." She doesn't flinch. "So you also know that the most dangerous surgeon in that room would be one who is emotionally compromised. You know that. You know it better than anyone in this hospital."
He stares at her. His jaw works. "She's my mother, Y/N."
"I know." Her voice softens. "I know she is." A single tear escapes, trailing down his cheek. Y/N reaches up to brush it away. A long silence stretches between them. The water is still running. Somewhere down the corridor, a monitor beeps steadily.
"So." Y/N takes a breath. "Tell me who you trust."
Harry frowns slightly.
"In this hospital," she continues carefully. "Right now, for this procedure. Who do you trust to go in there and bring her out?"
He's quiet for a moment. She watches him move through the grief of the situation, the pride of not being able to do it, and the clinical mind that never fully shuts off regardless of what's happening to the rest of him. Then, she sees him look at her.
"You."
The word comes out without hesitation. Without a single beat of uncertainty. Y/N stares at him.
"Harry—"
"You." He says it again, quieter but no less certain. "No hesitation. You."
"I'm a third-year resident." The words come out before she can stop them, her voice pitching slightly higher than she intends. "Harry, I'm a resident. You want me to—your mother is on that table and you want me to—"
"You've scrubbed in on forty-three aortic procedures," he says, and his voice has shifted, the surgeon in him is surfacing despite the fractured voice. "Eleven as primary operator under supervision. Your spatial reasoning is the best I've seen in a trainee in my entire career. Your hands don't shake. Your decision-making under pressure is—"
"Stop." She holds up a hand, her own heart hammering. "Stop evaluating me like I'm a candidate. This is your mother, Harry."
"I know who it is." His eyes don't leave hers. "That's why I'm telling you. Because I know who you are. Please, Y/N. I'm asking you not as your boss, not as your boyfriend, but as a son who needs someone he trusts completely to save his mother."
Y/N takes a deep breath, centering herself. She thinks of Anne. Warm, kind, Anne who welcomed her with open arms. She thinks of Harry, who has taught her everything she knows about cardiothoracic surgery. Who believes in her more than she sometimes believes in herself. She exhales shakily. "You'd be there," she says. It's not quite a question.
"Every second. I'll be in that room. I'll talk you through anything you need. But my hands—" He looks down at them, still lathered, still trembling almost imperceptibly. "My hands can't be the ones today."
Y/N looks at him for a long moment. At this man who has never once, not in the two years of working beside him, admitted to a limitation. Who has built his entire identity around being the person others defer to in a crisis. Who is standing in front of her, asking her to carry the most important thing in his world.
She takes a slow breath. "Okay," she says quietly, her voice steady despite the fear coursing through her. "I'll do it. But you get Morrison to agree, and I want Peters as my first assist."
Relief floods Harry's face. "Thank you," he whispers, pulling her into a tight embrace. "Thank you." Harry's eyes close briefly.
"Okay," she says again, steadier this time. "Then go be with her in pre-op. Talk to her. Let her see your face before she goes under." She steps toward the sink beside him and turns on the water. "I'll scrub in."
He watches her for a moment. Watches woman he loves as she reached for the surgical brush with steady hands.
"Y/N."
She looks up. He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't have to. Everything he can't articulate right now is written plainly across his face.
"Go," she says softly. "Go see your mom."
He holds her gaze for one more second before turning and walking toward pre-op. Left alone, Y/N turns to the sink, plunging her hands into the warm soapy water. She focuses on the familiar ritual. The methodical cleaning of each finger, each nail, up to the elbows. With each motion, she feels her surgical mindset settling into place. By the time Morrison appears at the door, his expression a mix of concern and reluctant acceptance, she is ready.
"Dr. Styles has requested that you lead this procedure," he says without preamble. "With me supervising and Peters assisting."
"Yes, Ma’am," Y/N replies, her voice calm and professional.
Morrison studies her face. "Are you certain you're prepared for this, Dr. Y/L/N? This isn't just any patient."
Y/N meets her gaze steadily. "I'm aware of that, Ma’am. But with all due respect, that's precisely why I need to do this. Because she isn't just any patient to me either."
A hint of approval flickers across Morrison's face.
"Very well. OR 1 is ready. Let's not keep Mrs. Styles waiting any longer."
As Y/N follows her toward the operating room, she catches sight of Harry in the hallway. Their eyes meet across the corridor. In his gaze, she finds not just trust, but absolute faith in her skills, in her judgment, and most definitely in her. It steadies her more than anything else could have. With a small nod to him, she turns and walks through the doors, ready to hold Anne Styles' heart in her hands, and by extension, Harry's as well. At this moment, she is not Harry's girlfriend or his resident. She is simply a surgeon, about to do what she was trained to do. Save a life.
The surgery takes nearly six hours. Every moment is meticulously executed and every decision carefully weighed. Throughout it all, Harry stands in the corner of the OR silent and watchful, his eyes never leaving the table where his mother lies with her chest open to the world. Dr. Morrison supervises closely, but as the procedure progresses, her interventions become fewer and further between.
Y/N works with a focus that surprises even herself. Her hands remain steady, her voice clear as she directs Peters and the surgical team. The bypass grafts take beautifully. The heart, once restarted beats strong and regular.
"Closing now," Y/N announces, her voice betraying none of the emotional weight of the moment. As she places the final sutures, she allows herself a quick glance at Harry. He hasn't moved or spoken, but the tension in his shoulders has eased slightly.
"BP stable at 110/70. Rhythm regular. O2 sats at 98%," the anesthesiologist reports.
Y/N steps back from the table, letting out a long breath. "Surgery complete. Time, 11:47 AM."
Dr. Morrison nods approvingly. "Excellent work, Dr. Y/L/N. Let's get Mrs. Styles to recovery."
The team moves efficiently, transferring Anne from the operating table to a gurney. As they wheel her out, Y/N remains behind, removing her gown and gloves, disposing of them properly. Her body feels weightless with relief, yet somehow heavy with exhaustion. She doesn't notice Harry approaching until he's right beside her.
"She's stable," Y/N says softly, meeting his eyes. "The grafts look good. Her heart accepted them beautifully."
Harry doesn't respond with words, takes her by the elbow instead and guides her out of the OR, through the scrub room, and into the small private consultation room adjacent to the surgical floor. The moment the door closes behind them, he pulls her into his arms. The embrace is fierce, almost desperate. Harry's arms wrap around her completely, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other pressed firmly against her lower back. He holds her as if she might disappear if he loosens his grip even slightly.
"Thank you," he whispers against her hair, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you."
Y/N feels the dampness against her neck before she realizes he's crying. Silent tears of relief and gratitude, his body trembling slightly with the release of hours of pent-up fear. She says nothing, just holds him tighter, one hand moving in slow, soothing circles between his shoulder blades. Her other hand threads through his hair, cradling his head as he buries his face deeper into the curve of her neck.
"She's going to be okay," Y/N murmurs, her voice soft but certain. "She's strong. Just like her son."
Harry pulls back just enough to look at her, his green eyes rimmed with red, cheeks damp with tears. The vulnerability in his expression steals her breath away. "I couldn't have done it," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not like you did. So calm, so sure."
Y/N reaches up to brush a tear from his cheek. "I wasn't calm inside. I was terrified the entire time."
"But your hands never shook," he says, taking her hands in his, studying them with a kind of reverence before bringing them to his lips for a kiss. "Not once."
"Because they were holding something precious to you," she replies simply. "And that made them steady."
Harry's expression crumbles slightly at her words. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against hers, eyes closed. "I love you," he says, the words coming out raw and unfiltered. "I love you so much it hurts"
Y/N feels her own eyes fill with tears, the emotional weight of the morning finally catching up to her. "I love you too," she whispers back. "And your mom is going to be just fine."
Harry nods against her forehead, then pulls back slightly to press a gentle kiss to her lips. It's brief but filled with everything he can't put into words.
"You should go see her," Y/N says softly when they part. "She'll be waking up soon, and your face should be the first thing she sees."
Harry hesitates, clearly torn between staying with Y/N and going to his mother.
"Go," she insists gently. "I'll be right behind you. I just need a minute."
He studies her face, then nods, pressing one more kiss to her forehead before reluctantly releasing her from his embrace. "Don't take too long," he says, his hand lingering on hers. "She'll want to thank you herself."
Y/N smiles tiredly. "I'll be there. Now go."
As Harry leaves the room, Y/N sinks down onto one of the chairs, finally allowing her legs the reprieve they've been silently begging for. The enormity of what just happened washes over her: she operated on her boyfriend's mother. She held Anne Styles' heart in her hands, and succeeded. She takes a deep breath, centering herself. In a few minutes, she'll join Harry in recovery, stand beside him as his mother wakes. But for now, she allows herself this brief moment of solitude, to process not just the surgery, but the profound trust Harry placed in her.
The recovery room is quiet except for the steady beep of the cardiac monitor. Harry sits beside his mother's bed, his hand gently holding hers. Y/N had stepped out to give them privacy, heading to the nurse's station to update Anne's chart and check on her post-op medications. Anne's eyelids flutter then slowly open. She blinks a few times, adjusting to the light before her gaze settles on her son.
"Harry," she whispers, her voice rough from the intubation.
Harry leans forward, relief washing over his features. "Hi, Mum. How are you feeling?"
"Like I've been hit by a truck," Anne manages a weak smile. "But I'm here."
"Yes, you are," Harry says softly, squeezing her hand. "You gave us quite a scare."
Anne's eyes drift to the bandages visible beneath her hospital gown. "Triple bypass, they said?"
Harry nods. "Three vessels. But the surgery went perfectly."
Anne reaches up with her free hand, weakly patting his cheek. "My brilliant boy. Always knew those hands of yours were meant to save lives."
Harry lets out a self-deprecating chuckle, looking down. "Actually, Mum...I didn't do your surgery."
Anne's brow furrows slightly in confusion. "You didn't?"
"I couldn't," he admits, his voice quiet but steady. "When it came down to it, I...my hands wouldn't stop shaking. I couldn't be your surgeon."
Anne's expression softens with understanding. "Oh, love."
"It was Y/N," Harry continues, his voice warming at the mention of her name. "She performed the entire procedure. Flawlessly, might I add"
"Your Y/N?" Anne asks, a small smile forming despite her weakened state.
Harry nods, a hint of color rising to his cheeks. "She was extraordinary, Mum. You should have seen her. Completely in control, never hesitated once."
"And where is she now?" Anne asks, trying to look around the room.
"She stepped out to give us some time together," Harry explains. "She'll be back soon. She wanted to check your post-op medications personally."
Anne studies her son's face, noting the soft expression that comes over him when he speaks of Y/N and the gentle pride in his voice.
"Well," Anne says with a knowing smile, "in that case, Harry Edward Styles, you'd better marry that girl."
Harry's eyes widen, and a deep flush immediately spreads across his cheeks. He ducks his head, running a hand through his hair as he stares at the hospital floor tiles. The confident surgeon is nowhere to be seen at this moment. He's just a flustered son being teased by his mother about a girl.
"Mum," he mumbles, the blush reaching the tips of his ears now. "We haven't even...I mean, we only just..."
Anne reaches out to pat his hand weakly. "The way you talk about her says everything, love."
Harry glances up, a sheepish smile playing on his lips. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to your mother," Anne says with a knowing look.
Harry fiddles with the edge of the blanket, still blushing. "I do...I mean, I think I..." He lets out a soft laugh. "Yeah. I agree with you. Wholeheartedly."
Anne's eyes begin to drift closed again, the medication and exhaustion pulling her back toward sleep. "Don't wait too long," she mumbles. "Life's too short...as I've recently been reminded..."
"Get some rest, Mum," Harry says gently, adjusting her blanket. "We'll be right here when you wake up."
As Anne slips back into sleep, the door to the recovery room opens quietly. Y/N steps in, clipboard in hand, her expression softening when she sees Harry sitting beside his sleeping mother.
"How is she?" Y/N asks in a hushed voice, moving to stand beside Harry, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Harry looks up, the blush still lingering on his cheeks as he takes her hand. For once, he's not Dr. Styles, the brilliant surgeon with an ego to match. He's just a son grateful for the woman who saved his mother
"She's going to be just fine," he says softly, his thumb tracing circles on her palm before pulling it in for another kiss. "Thanks to you.”
what’s that “save a life” extra i see on the masterlist 👀👀
I was waiting for someone to notice that :)
In the epilogue it said that Y/N was there for him when his mom had surgery. It’s basically Y/N comforting Harry as he breaks down and isn’t the usual cocky surgeon we know and love
Summary: Harry Styles is a brilliant but infuriating surgeon who’s constantly butting heads with his stubborn intern. Their bickering is practically a daily surgery in itself. But when she falls sick and tries to brush it off, Harry sees right through her act. The moment her condition worsens, his protective side takes over revealing that beneath all the tension and ego, he cares far more than he lets on.
I genuinely NEED to see Harry taking more control at the hospital like.. he’s just so hot😭 and maybe a scene where she’s the one comforting him after a tough day… idk just give me everything about them lol❤️❤️
oh lord…he’s so hot. Ill see what i can cook up
As for the second part od this ask, I think you’ll like what Im about to post hehe
I just finished reading the Scrub in epilogue, I LOVED the series and a medical girlie myself I was over the moon. Just stumbled upon that tiktok and couldn’t help but picture the story lol.
Omg this stressed me out 🫣🫣
If you were ever like “why did they spend that much time looking for the ring?” While reading just look at the TikTok. It just disappeared 😭
