MASTERLIST | TAGLIST
Word count: ~4.2k
Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader
POV: Harry, third person / Reader, second person
Setting: 2026, Together, Together Tour
Warnings: none
Summary: After Wembley N2, Harry wakes up at 3 am to find you missing from bed and causing chaos in the kitchen with a very questionable midnight craving.
London, N2 — 13 June 2026
Harry wakes up because something clatters. At first, he doesn't think much of it. It sounds distant enough to belong elsewhere, maybe outside on the street, maybe from a neighbour’s house, maybe from the strange world that exists at night while sensible people are asleep. London is never properly quiet, not even in Hampstead, not even with the house tucked into a softer corner of the city. There's always some car passing too late, some fox screaming like it has personal issues, some bin lid moving in the wind.
So Harry simply frowns into the pillow, half-asleep, and reaches for you without opening his eyes. It's a completely instinctive movement, one arm sliding over the mattress to find the familiar warmth of your body, because if he wakes during the night and you're near him, the answer to most problems is to pull you closer. He is tactile even on normal days, but after a show it becomes nearly absurd. His body comes down from two hours of noise and movement and adrenaline, and once he's home, once he has showered and dragged himself into bed, he wants contact. Your hand in his, his face near your neck, one leg tangled with yours until neither of you can move properly. Except now his hand lands on empty sheets. He pats the mattress once, then twice, slower the second time as his mind catches up: nothing.
At that, his eyes open reluctantly. The bedroom is dark, softened only by the faint wash of London night coming through the curtains and the open window. The duvet is warm where his body has been under it, but your side of the bed is empty, the sheets pushed back messily as if you left in a hurry or without much thought. He pouts, a genuine, sleepy little frown that no one is there to see. “Love?” he mumbles, but there's no answer coming from you.
He turns heavily onto his back and squints towards the nightstand. The clock glows at him with merciless clarity — 3:12 am. He stares at it for a moment, almost offended, then he looks towards the ensuite bathroom door. There's no light beneath it, no sound of running water, no little movements that would explain your absence. Still, he tries again, voice rough with sleep. “Y/n?”
But again, nothing.
Another clatter comes from somewhere downstairs then, and this time, it's followed by a faint metallic scrape, then what sounds suspiciously like a spoon hitting a countertop. Harry blinks, that is not outside, that is very much inside his house. He groans, because the only thing worse than waking up at 3:12 am after playing Wembley is discovering that his girlfriend has somehow escaped the bed and started a mysterious midnight project without him. He throws the duvet back and immediately regrets it. Cool air from the open window slips over his bare skin, and he shivers, looking down at himself with a sleepy sort of betrayal. Boxers, nothing else, excellent preparation for a household investigation.
He sits on the edge of the bed for a second, head bowed, trying to convince his body that standing up is a reasonable request, but his body disagrees. He stands anyway, the floor cool beneath his feet as he shuffles out of the bedroom, one hand running through his messy hair. He’s not fully awake, and every step downstairs feels as if it belongs to someone else. The house is dark in the hallway, quiet apart from the now unmistakable sounds coming from the kitchen; another clatter, a cupboard closing, something being stirred with great determination.
Halfway down the stairs, he smells food. Not a snack, or toast, no, actual food. Warm potato, melted cheese, something savoury, something sharp, and, strangely, something minty enough to make his nose question the entire situation. Harry pauses at the bottom of the stairs, brows drawing together. “What the hell,” he mutters, mostly to himself.
He crosses the open-plan ground floor, following the smell and the noise towards the kitchen. A soft light is on over the counters, warm and domestic, turning the dark glass of the garden doors into a mirror. When he reaches the corner and looks into the kitchen, he has to stop, then rub his eyes, then look again. The kitchen is a disaster. A very specific, highly organised disaster, but a disaster nonetheless. There are bowls on the island, two pans on the hob, a cutting board covered in chopped jalapeños, an open tin of sweetcorn, another of tuna, a small mountain of grated cheddar, potato skins, spoons, knives, spices, a bottle of mayo, salt, pepper, and a jar of mint sauce sitting proudly in the middle of the chaos like it has been invited to a party it shouldn't be attending.
And in the centre of it all is you.
Bare legs, feet planted on the kitchen floor, body swallowed in one of Harry’s old shirts that hangs loose over your thighs. Your hair is messy from sleep, your face is bare, your expression is focused to the point of comedy, brows furrowed as you move between the counter and the hob like you're running the pass in a restaurant that might lose a Michelin star if the garnish is wrong. Harry leans against the edge of the wall, crosses his arms over his bare chest, and watches with so much fondness he forgets to be annoyed about being awake.
You're muttering to yourself under your breath. “Needs more pepper. No, not too much. Where’s the fork? Fork, fork, fork. Cheese first? No, tuna first. Obviously tuna first.”
Harry’s mouth starts to curve, while you still don't notice him at all. You lift a bowl, stir something vigorously, taste it from a spoon, pause, then nod as if you have made a crucial professional decision. “Correct,” you whisper.
Harry presses his lips together to keep from laughing. There are many things he expects after a Wembley show. Exhaustion, aching legs, a voice that feels slightly used, the strange echo of a massive crowd still living somewhere in his head. But he doesn't expect to wake up at 3:12 am and find you in his kitchen building a jacket potato with the seriousness of a surgeon.
You reach for the spoon again, but your fingers knock it off the counter and it hits the floor with a loud, sharp clatter. You jump, one hand flying to your heart. “Jesus Christ,” you hiss at the spoon, then bend to pick it up. “Why would you do that?”
Harry loses it immediately. The laugh comes out sudden and loud, entirely unrestrained and you gasp and jump again, nearly dropping the spoon a second time as you whip around towards him. Your eyes go wide, then narrow immediately when you see him standing there, barefoot and sleep-warm and far too amused.
“Harry!”
He's still laughing. “Sorry.”
“You scared the shit out of me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You were just standing there like some half-naked Victorian ghost?”
That makes him laugh harder. “Victorian?”
“Yes. Looming in doorways at ungodly hours.”
“I live here.”
“So do I, and I wasn't prepared for a haunting.”
He pushes away from the wall and walks over to you, still smiling, his eyes moving over the counter. “I heard clattering.”
“I’m cooking.”
“Obviously.”
“You could've announced yourself.”
“I was busy watching Gordon Ramsay in my kitchen.”
You huff, turning back to your creation. “Do not mock the process.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” He steps beside you, scanning the island with growing amusement. “Good thing I bought the house with the big counters.”
You pause. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing.”
“No, what was that?”
He clears his throat, face too innocent. “I said it’s a good thing we’ve got room.”
“For my culinary vision?”
“For whatever this is, yes.”
You point the spoon at him. “This is dinner.”
“It’s quarter past three in the morning.”
“Then it’s breakfast.”
“Looks like it’s expecting guests.”
“Of course it’s not expecting guests. It’s the middle of the night.”
“You’ve used six bowls.”
“They were necessary.”
“One of them has three pieces of cucumber in it.”
“That one is emotional support.”
He looks at the cucumber bowl, then back at you. “Right.”
You turn away with dignity and return to the potato waiting on a plate. It's already split open, steaming faintly, butter melting into the soft middle. You spoon tuna mayo over it, then add sweetcorn, jalapeños, a generous handful of cheddar and a sprinkle of pepper. The whole thing is messy, excessive, and clearly exactly what you want. Harry opens his mouth, likely to make a joke, but then you reach for the mint sauce and he goes still.
You shake the bottle once, open it, and pour it over the top with complete confidence. Harry’s entire face changes. He tries to control it, because he loves you, but he can't. He inhales through his nose, slow and careful, as if preparing himself for bad news. He's not generally a picky eater. He likes trying food, he respects strange combinations, regional habits, tour catering experiments, whatever someone’s aunt makes at Christmas and insists is traditional. But tuna mayo, sweetcorn, jalapeños, cheddar and mint sauce on a potato at 3:17 am sends a visible shudder over him.
You look at him from the corner of your eye. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face said enough.”
“My face is processing.”
“My food is none of your business.”
“It’s happening in my kitchen.”
“Our kitchen.”
“Our kitchen has rights, too.”
You place the mint sauce down and look proudly at the plate. “Perfect.”
Harry steps closer, unable to help himself, sleepiness makes him softer, clumsier with affection, and he wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin near your shoulder. His skin is warm against the back of your shirt, his bare chest pressing lightly into you, and despite his obvious horror at the meal, he kisses your neck once. “Are you seriously eating that?” he asks, voice low and rough from sleep.
“Yes.”
“Voluntarily?”
“Yes.”
“After making it yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Just checking.”
You lean back into him for half a second, amused. “I’ve been craving it all night.”
“You were asleep all night.”
“No, I was thinking about it in my sleep.”
“That’s worrying.”
“It’s impressive.”
“It’s called dreaming, love.”
You laugh and reach for a fork. “Do you want one?”
Harry answers too quickly. “No.”
You turn your head. “You didn’t even think about it.”
“I thought very quickly.”
“I could make you one.”
“I love you, but absolutely not.”
“You’re missing out.”
“I’ll live with that.”
“You sure?”
“I’m thrilled for you and your potato, but I don’t want to come between you.”
You roll your eyes, but you're smiling, and Harry kisses your cheek before reluctantly letting go. “Come on then, little jacket potato gremlin.”
Your mouth falls open. “What did you just call me?”
“Affectionately.”
“You called me a gremlin.”
“A beloved gremlin.”
“You’re on thin ice, popstar, very thin ice.”
“At least I’m not eating mint tuna.”
You glare at him, but he only takes the plate from your hand before you can protest, then nods towards the garden doors. “It’s warm out. Eat outside before you destroy another part of the house.”
You grab a fork and follow him out, the night air soft when Harry slides the door open, the garden dimly lit by the outdoor lamps along the patio and the faint wash of the city beyond the trees. It's warm enough to sit outside comfortably, though the stone beneath your feet still carries a night-time coolness. The large sunbed near the edge of the patio is piled with cushions from earlier in the week, and Harry places your plate on the small table beside it before lowering himself down with the heavy grace of someone who has just realised he's still exhausted. You settle next to him, pulling one leg beneath you and keeping the plate balanced in your lap.
Harry yawns so widely his eyes water, and guilt flickers through you. “You can go back to bed.”
He shakes his head once and sinks further into the pillows with a sigh. “Don’t want to.”
“You’re exhausted.”
“So are you.”
“I’m eating.”
“I can see that.”
“You don’t have to stay awake for my potato.”
“I don’t want to be alone in bed,” he says simply, and the sentence is so soft, so completely Harry in the middle of the night, that teasing him would feel unfair, so you only smile.
He shifts closer, slipping one hand beneath the back of your shirt, his palm warm against your skin. His fingers begin tracing slow, aimless patterns over your back, gentle enough to be half-asleep already and a shiver runs through you before you can stop it.
Harry’s mouth curves. “Cold?”
“No.”
“Ticklish?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
You take your first bite, and Harry watches very carefully. He's absolutely convinced your face will change, it has to. There is no possible way that combination tastes good. He waits for the regret, the pause, the brave little swallow, the admission that perhaps the mint sauce was too far. But instead, your eyes close and a deeply satisfied hum leaves you. Harry stares in disbelief as you chew with complete contentment, shoulders relaxing, the entire strange mission of the night apparently fulfilled in one bite. You look more peaceful with a forkful of chaotic jacket potato than you did in bed, and Harry, against all sense and reason, is suddenly overwhelmed by how adorable you are. His little weirdo, sitting in his garden after an exhausting day of work, cheeks full of food, bare knees tucked beside you, looking like the happiest person on earth because your stomach apparently requested the strangest meal in Britain and you obeyed without question. He cannot believe he gets to love you.
You notice him staring and turn your head, still chewing. “What?” you mumble around the food.
He lets out a breathy laugh. “Nothing.”
You squint. “You’re looking at me weird.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m admiring.”
“Admiring what?”
“My girlfriend and her questionable life choices.”
You huff, chew, swallow, then immediately take another bite. “It’s good.”
“I’m happy for you.”
“You sound traumatised.”
“I’m adjusting.”
He keeps his hand moving on your back while you eat, slow strokes up and down, occasionally circling his thumb near your spine. The night around you is quiet in the way only late hours can be, when even London seems to pause for breath. Somewhere beyond the garden, a car passes, leaves rustle lightly. Inside, the kitchen remains a disaster, but neither of you is thinking about that yet.
You're halfway through another bite when a little trail of sauce escapes down your chin, a pale mixture of tuna mayo and mint sauce that makes Harry’s stomach question his loyalty. He reaches up with his thumb and catches it. “You’re adorable,” he says.
You pause, eyes lifting to his. “Hmm?”
“I said you’re adorable.”
Then, because he's not thinking clearly and because his thumb is already there, he licks the sauce off. His regret is immediate, his face folds into a grimace so dramatic that you almost choke on your food. He swallows like a brave little boy forced to take the worst medicine of his life, eyes squeezed shut for half a second and you burst out laughing with your mouth still half-full, clapping one hand over it to avoid disaster.
Harry points at you weakly. “Don’t.”
You keep laughing.
“That,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “is vile.”
“It’s not.”
“It assaulted me.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“It tasted like a salad got lost in a fish market.”
You laugh harder, nearly dropping your fork while Harry recovers slowly, looking betrayed by both you and the condiment. “How are you enjoying that?”
You shrug, still grinning. “I don’t know. My body told me exactly what it wanted, and apparently it was right.”
“Your body needs supervision.”
“My body is satisfied.”
“My taste buds are filing a complaint.”
“You chose to lick your thumb.”
“I was being romantic.”
“You were being nosy.”
“I was caring for you.”
“You were judging my potato.”
“I’m still judging your potato.”
You point your fork at him. “And yet you’re still here.”
“Because I love you more than I fear mint sauce.”
You soften for half a second, then ruin it on purpose. “That’s beautiful, put it in a song.”
“I will not.”
“Too vulnerable?”
“Too disturbing.”
You smile and keep eating.
The silence that follows is warm. Harry stays beside you, one hand under your shirt, fingers still tracing over your back. His eyes grow heavier as the minutes pass, but he doesn't stop touching you. You finish the potato slowly, savouring the last few bites with a seriousness that makes him shake his head more than once.
Eventually, he blinks himself a little more awake and asks, “Have you checked Twitter?”
You pause with the fork halfway to your mouth, then turn to him. “Twitter?”
“Yeah.”
You stare.
“What?”
“You mean X.”
He groans immediately. “No.”
“It’s called X.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It has been called X for almost three years.”
“Not in this house.”
You laugh. “That’s not how apps work.”
“It’s Twitter.”
“Twitter is dead.”
“Twitter’s not dead. It’s just wearing a stupid hat.”
You set the empty plate down on the small table and look at him with deep amusement. “That might be the most old-man thing you’ve ever said.”
“I’m not old.”
“You just refused to acknowledge a social media rebrand like a pensioner refusing contactless payment.”
“The rebrand didn’t make the app better, so why should I reward it?”
“That’s actually a fair point.”
“Thank you.”
“Still old.”
Harry nudges your thigh with his knee. “Did you check it or not?”
“I checked Instagram, X, and TikTok.”
“Twitter.”
“X.”
“Twitter.”
“Fine, Twitter.” You lean back against the cushions. “Yes, I checked.”
“And?”
“They loved the show.”
Harry’s face changes in the dim patio light, not into ego, not exactly. More relief than pride, though both are there in gentle amounts. He's chronically offline, but immediate feedback after a show still matters if it's taken carefully. It tells him what reached people, what made them lose their minds, what moments travelled beyond the stadium. He doesn't live there, but he knows enough to look sometimes, or ask you to look for him. “They did?” he asks.
“They really did.”
“What were they saying?”
You bite back a smile.
Harry notices. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“What were they saying?”
“They were very complimentary.”
“About the show?”
“Partly.”
“About the songs?”
“Somewhat.”
“About what, then?”
You turn your head towards him with wicked calm. “Your top.”
“My top?”
“Mhm.”
“The cropped one?”
“The cropped one.”
Harry laughs softly. “They liked it?”
“They were feral.”
“Feral?”
“Truly, deeply, historically feral.”
He looks pleased now. “Because it was cropped?”
“Because it was cropped and because it accentuated the hitties.”
Harry goes completely still, confusion written all over his face. “The what?”
You smile slowly. “The hitties.”
“The hitties?”
“Yes.”
He blinks at you. “What are hitties?”
“You don’t know?”
“Obviously not.”
“You really are offline.”
“Explain.”
You tuck your legs beneath you and face him properly, delighted by the opportunity. “It’s a fan word.”
“I gathered.”
“The H stands for Harry.”
“Right.”
“And it replaces the T in titties.”
Harry stares at you, processes slowly, then he bursts out laughing. A proper, bright, delighted laugh that breaks through the quiet garden and sends his head tipping back against the cushion. “Hitties?” he says again, still laughing.
“Yes.”
“They call my chest hitties?”
“Yes.”
“That’s incredible.”
You laugh, watching him laugh. “You’re taking this very well.”
“I’m honoured.”
“You’re honoured that your fans named your tits?”
Harry points at you. “Hitties.”
“Sorry. Your hitties.”
“Thank you.”
You stretch your arms above your head, yawning deeply now that the food has done its job. “Anyway, they want the hitties out again.”
Harry’s grin remains shameless. “Is that all I am to them? A handsome face and a sexy body?”
You lower your arms and blink at him sleepily. “That sounded incredibly self-absorbed.”
“I’m allowed. I work hard for the face and the body.”
You give him a look.
“I do Pilates,” he says. “I run. I’ve started washing and moisturising my face properly.”
“With my face wash.”
“With our face wash.”
“My moisturiser.”
“Our moisturiser.”
“You use the expensive one.”
“I have delicate skin.”
“You also force me to run and do Pilates at hours no decent person should be awake.”
“I don't force you.”
“You wake me up by kissing my face until I open my eyes, then you say, ‘Come on, love, it’ll be good for us,’ which is manipulation.”
“It’s gentle encouragement.”
“It’s emotional blackmail with dimples.”
Harry smiles slowly. “Effective, though.”
“Shut up.”
You settle back into the pillows again, sleep creeping back over you now that the craving has disappeared and your body has realised it is still the middle of the night. Harry watches you with soft amusement, still awake mostly because of how much he likes looking at you like this, unguarded and sleepy and ridiculous.
“So,” you mumble, eyes half-closed, “no hitties out on this tour?”
Harry suddenly sits up, but you sense the movement too late. “What are you doing?”
He gets to his feet and stretches once, then bends down before you can even react, one arm sliding behind your back and the other beneath your knees. “Harry—” He scoops you up, and you yelp, arms flying around his neck. “What the hell!”
“You’re done eating.”
“I can walk.”
“You’re half-asleep.”
“Am not.”
“You asked me about the hitties with your eyes closed.”
“That’s called multitasking.”
He carries you towards the open garden doors, steady and annoyingly pleased with himself. You hold onto him, your bare legs hanging over one of his arms, his skin warm against yours. “As for the tour,” he says, stepping inside, “maybe I’ll bring the hitties out and play Kiwi on the same night.”
You lift your head at once. “Whoa.”
“What?”
“Calm down.”
“I thought that’s what the people wanted.”
“The people want to survive, Harry.”
He laughs, walking through the kitchen and carefully avoiding the evidence of your midnight cooking. “You don’t think they could handle it?”
“The hitties out and Kiwi in one show? Absolutely not. Mass hysteria, medical tents overwhelmed, social media breakdown.”
Harry laughs harder as he carries you through the dark ground floor towards the stairs. “Good to know.”
“You have to use your power responsibly, y'know.”
“My hitties have power now?”
“Apparently.”
“Dangerous.”
“Very.”
He carries you upstairs with more ease than someone who performed at Wembley hours ago should reasonably have. You tuck your face closer to his neck, finally letting the sleepiness win properly now that you're warm and held and no longer responsible for operating a fork.
By the time he reaches the bedroom, your voice has gone softer. “Kitchen’s a mess.”
“We’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
“You hate mess.”
“I love sleep more.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He lowers you gently onto the bed, then climbs in after you, pulling the duvet over both of you before the cool air can steal too much warmth. You immediately curl into him, and he looks deeply satisfied about having you back where he wanted you in the first place. His arm wraps around you, you rest your cheek against his bare chest and for a few seconds, neither of you speaks.
“You smell like tuna,” he then murmurs.
You make an offended sleepy sound into his neck. “And you smell like sweat and expensive moisturiser.”
He just laughs and kisses the side of your head, lingering there as your body relaxes fully against his. The day has been long, the show huge, the hour ridiculous, and somewhere downstairs his kitchen looks like a small potato-based crime scene. But you’re finally in his arms again, warm and full and half-asleep, and he can't find a single part of himself that cares about anything else. His hand moves slowly along your back again, the same soothing pattern as outside, gentler now beneath the duvet. Your breathing deepens, your fingers loosening against his side as he watches you for a moment in the dark, still smiling to himself.
His life is huge in ways that sometimes feel impossible. Stadiums, lights, noise, people screaming his name until it stops sounding like a name at all. But then there is this, too. His kitchen destroyed at night because you woke up craving a jacket potato with tuna mayo, sweetcorn, jalapeños, cheddar and mint sauce. Your sleepy arguments about social media names and fan slang, your body tucked into his like that is the only stage that ever really matters once the lights go down.
He kisses your hair. “My gorgeous little weirdo,” he whispers.
You're almost asleep, but not quite. “I heard that.”
“Good.”
He closes his eyes, presses one last kiss to your head, and finally lets himself drift back to sleep.
Taglist: @lizsogolden @avensgreenvans @maudie-duan @chocostyles @sparklejumpropequeen1113 @pops234 @lomlcamy
@taraijbharper @dove702 @fallingwillow @eleanohoran @alex-voiddome @wtvrevie @angeldavis777 @daphnesutton @cherrycherry444 @mattiessunflower @indierockgirrl @gem1712 @triski73 @emmie2308 @liltpwk @stylesfantasy @fangirl509east @maddwoman @sunflowersndpeaches @moonstoneandmoonlight @prettiegirlavenue @lolacocacolaa @kateluvshaz @hontpwk @makytka @cloverpinkxo @tpwk-keepdriving @prettyboyrry @irishone11 @avaoccasionally @emmyrry @louisbelongstome28 @martha-rwng @isobellejade @rach2699 @fkingstyles @satellitestompers23 @midnightmemories-1-d @fortniiteking69 @trixilove257 @raajali3 @allmyinterestsworld @rideeonstyles
Thank you for sharing! 💕
