You're a starry-eyed, shy intern at the Daily Planet, one who'd idolised Clark Kent all through studying journalism at university. When he's assigned as your supervisor, and you get to know him, your professional admiration starts to blur into something that is decidedly off the record.*
part one of Midsummer Milk
word count: 9.4k
warnings: none
There is a road that forgets how to be found. It doesn’t appear on maps or signposts, it doesn’t wind from towns or cross neatly through counties, and it never looks quite the same twice.
It hums beneath hedgerows and drifts through folds in fog, changing its dress with the seasons and its name with the sky. It carries no signposts, draws no straight lines. Some would say it drifts, following scent instead of sense—the powdery hush of old lace, the browned curl of a page turned too many times, the salt-glint of longing left out too long in the rain.
But when it does arrive for you, when it finds you, when it yawns open at the edge of a crooked field or curls behind a weathered postbox with no letters in it, you’ll know. There’s a hush to it. A breathless sort of pull, like being remembered by something older than you are. The way your chest feels when you wake from a dream that you can’t quite name, but aches behind your ribs like it used to belong to you. It may appear as little more than a rutted path pressed into a drowsy meadow, or the faint suggestion of a trail beneath the trembling hem of willow branches—but still, you’ll know.
And at the end of that road, tucked in a meadow that leans toward the sun, is an inn. Stay there.
It wasn’t much to look at from a distance. It sat like a folded memory at the edge of a hedged road, tucked between two swells of wild green fields and stitched together with morning glories. Its paint had long since faded from white to a soft, weathered cream, whitewashed stone had faded to the colour of milk teeth, and the roof dipped a little in the middle as if it had grown tired of standing up so straight.
The stones were warm and dappled, sun-blushed and moss-kissed, and the chimney exhaled in sleepy little puffs. Wild roses had grown up the front, tumbling in heavy, drunken folds of pale pinks, bruised plums, and thistle-soft reds.
The garden was anything but orderly. It sang its own name—lavender bursting beside wild strawberries, thyme between violets, mint in entirely the wrong places. Bees hummed through the stems as if they were telling stories, and a teacup sat abandoned on the steps, the rim kissed in rose gold and red lipstick.
At the gate, there was a hand-painted sign, the wood swollen with age: Midsummer Milk. Rooms, tea, and rest for the soft-hearted or the overgrown. And beneath, in handwriting that almost trembled with kindness: Come in, if you’ve forgotten how to be held.
There was something about it that gleamed in a certain kind of light. Maybe it was the windows, all mismatched and a little foggy, but all slightly open with tendrils of fabric sweeping through with the breeze. Or the porch, draped in honeysuckle vines and blooming with creaks of old wood and a lazy brown cat that slept, half-melted, across the wicker loveseat.
There was a stillness to it—not silence, exactly, but a hush. The kind that settles in your lungs when you stumble into a place where something inside you has been before. A softness at the base of your spine, that unmistakable sigh behind your ribs when you come across a memory you don’t recall making, but that smells like lavender warmed by sun and summer and sugar.
Or maybe because y/n knew it. Not from pictures or postcards, not from any logical thing. But from her grandmother’s voice, all those years ago, speaking of it in summer-light whispers and curling soft around the name like it was too tender to say too loudly.
The milk house, she’d called it, always in a hush, with a faraway gleam behind her glasses, fingers curled lightly around a teacup as if she could almost feel its warmth. Not because it was a place of milk or cream, but because it was a place that softened. That mended in silence. That took tired people in, gifted them sweet strawberries, and made them whole again in a way they wouldn’t notice until they were already healed.
She’d never explain where it was. Only that it wasn’t a place you could look for, it was something that came when you needed it most, when your hands were too tired to keep holding the things that had hurt you, and your feet had forgotten what it felt like to stop running. And only when your heart was quiet enough to hear it knocking.
Y/n had been a child when she first heard it, chin tucked into her grandmother’s shoulder, tracing the pattern of her cardigan with sleepy fingers. Back then, it had sounded like a lullaby, the sort of tale you forget upon waking, and y/n thought it was just one of her stories. A sweet one. A pretty thing to fall asleep to. Like the kind that lives at the bottom of a teacup or curls in the steam rising from fresh scones. But something in her had kept it anyway, like a song you hum without knowing why.
And now, standing there, where the air tasted like honeycomb and earth after rain, and the breeze brushed her temple like it knew her name, she realized it was never just a story. Standing there, after the city had greyed her at the edges and every bright thing in her life had curdled to quiet, she realized it was a memory. Standing there, when her mind had grown too loud, when her bones ached with the shape of someone else’s dreams, she realized it was not her own memory, but one that waited patiently in the shadows of her life, humming softly under every choice that brought her here.
Y/n hadn’t meant to leave. Or perhaps she had—but not like that. Not with no note, no plan. Not with hands shaking on the suitcase handle and no words left to say. Not with her old life still burning faintly behind her, a light she could no longer look at without blinking back salt. She hadn’t said goodbye. There hadn’t been time, or maybe just no one worth telling it to.
Only the long exhale of exhaustion and the kind of quiet that slips beneath doors and settles in bedsheets. Just her poorly packed suitcase, bursting at the seams with her summer attire and too-large knit sweaters, a strawberry-printed head scarf that still smelled faintly like the lavender drawer her grandmother used to keep, and the kind of sadness that made everything seem far away. She just slipped between the days, like fog through a keyhole, suitcase in hand, and her grandmother’s scarf looped like a charm around her purse.
When she left her life in the rearview, y/n didn’t know she was looking for anything. She only meant to get away from the hum of too much light, from the job that drained more than it gave, from the person she no longer recognized beside her. It had all crumbled slowly, like frost melting at the corners of a window, and she hadn’t noticed the loneliness that eternally plagued her until it was already living in her shoes.
And still, she didn’t expect it. Not the turn in the road that hadn’t been there before, not the gate slouched open on broken hinges, not the path pressed faintly through poppy-sweet grass, kissed with dew and the scent of something achingly familiar. She didn’t know she was looking for anything, but the road knew what she needed. It pulled her in with gentle hands, whispered through leaves, tugged at the hem of her sweater like a child who already knew her name. Like her grandmother calling her down for supper.
When she stepped through the gate—rusted, ivy-draped, creaking like an old laugh—the meadow tilted toward her as if in greeting. The wind curled against her cheek like a knowing hand. Soft grasses brushed her ankles. The air was heavy with sunlight and something sweet—milk warmed on the stove, crushed mint, peach skins left out on linen. The molasses-tinted cat blinked up at her from the porch, then stretched as though waking from a dream it had no intention of leaving. And beneath her ribs—that hush. The hush her grandmother had promised.
She stepped forward without meaning to. It felt like falling into a memory that hadn’t been hers—or perhaps a memory that had been waiting patiently to return. Her hands trembled around the handle of her suitcase, but her breath had steadied. Somewhere deep inside her chest, something unclenched.
Her linen-soft, sun-paled suitcase rolled unevenly behind her, wheels catching on roots, moss, loose cobbles softened by rain, and curls of thyme that had crept onto the stone path like they, too, wanted to greet her. The laces of her shoes had come undone, her socks rumpled just above her ankles like petals too tired to stay in bloom, and her hands were damp, though whether from nervousness or the humid pull of the midsummer air, she couldn’t say.
There was something here. She felt it in her bones as she stood at the edge of the meadow, the inn, all honeyed stone and crooked beams, and the sky stretched out wide above her, the air smelled of abnormally sweet milk and lavender and the ghost of lullabies.
She finally understood what her grandmother had meant. Not a home. Not her home. But the kind of place that knows you. The kind of place that gathers the softest parts of you in its arms and embraces you. And something inside her—the part that had been so tightly coiled for so long, living a life that didn’t truly feel hers, finally let go.
She hadn’t come looking, but she had arrived.
In that moment, even with her past still curled tight and bruised somewhere behind her, she stepped across the threshold, heart beating like soft wings, and in that breathless, lavender-soaked hush, she remembered what her grandmother had said. You won’t need to wonder or ask questions. You’ll know this is the right place by the way your soul sighs.
It did. For the first time in so long, she felt found.
Y/n felt at home, with the way the house breathed—not in the way a building should, but in the way trees breathe, in the way oceans do when no one’s watching. The porch boards creaked lightly, wind slipping beneath them like a familiar song. A swing swayed once in the distance, without sound, and stilled. The door—painted the green of pressed leaves, its brass knob rubbed dull by use—seemed to tilt gently toward her, just enough to say go on, then.
She didn’t knock. Her palm rested against the wood, feeling its warmth. Not just from the sun, but from something deeper, like a held breath—the kind that sits behind the ribs when something you’ve missed for so long finally rounds the bend.
Before she could fully exhale and gather the stray flutter of wonder blooming in her chest like chamomile unfurling at dawn, the door swung open with a sigh, and the smell of something sugar-sweet and lemon-zested swept out to greet her. It was mere moments before she realized it smelled like summer cake cooling on a wire rack, like sunshine whisked into sugar—the kind of scent that slips between memories and settles into the soft folds behind your knees.
The woman in the doorway was all warmth and whimsy. She had dark brown hair tied up with a velvet ribbon and a wooden spoon tucked into it, presumably restraining a loose tendril. A soft flax apron bloomed around her middle, and her hands were dusted in flour as if she’d just rolled out something tender and golden and full of butter.
When she smiled, her eyes crinkled with a kind of joy that didn’t need a reason—a smile so warm and comforting it felt like a quilt being pulled up to your chin while rain patters on the roof.
“Ah,” the woman said, as if this had all happened before, as if she’d simply been waiting for the kettle to whistle and the right feet to arrive on the porch, “there you are. I knew you’d come today. The orchard’s humming louder than usual.”
Her voice—soft, swaying—had the rhythm of early afternoon tea y/n used to sip slowly with her grandmother: gentle, steeped in warmth, a little bit amused, with that hint of knowing that only older women and honey have.
She stepped aside without fuss or question, a motion as natural as wind finding a window cracked just enough.
“Come in, darling heart. Don’t fret, you’re not too early or too late,” she murmured with a crooked-lipped affection, and when y/n hesitated—just barely, her fingers grazing the doorframe like she wasn’t sure if it would disappear—the woman added with a wink, “you’re here when the house said you would be.”
✧✧✧
Inside, the air was thick with scent and silence—not the sharp quiet of an empty home, but the golden sort, the kind that pools in corners and stretches across warm floorboards. The walls were papered in a faded floral, tiny blue vines climbing toward the ceiling beams like they were chasing the light. A cat purred somewhere in the distance, and a clock ticked in the corner—not loudly, but like a heartbeat that had learned to whisper.
The floorboards creaked in all the right places, every rug looked like it had once been danced upon, and the light through the windows was filtered through lace and wisteria, honey-thick and drowsy, touching every surface like a blessing. Every teacup on the shelf was slightly mismatched, as though chosen for the exact kind of morning someone would need it for, and a kettle sat half-full on the same surface. A vase of clover and daisies smiled sleepily on the table.
Making her way through the space, y/n passed a little velvet chair with a scarf thrown across its back—rose-pink and threaded with pearls. The fabric shifted slightly as she passed, as if stirred by more than air. For a moment, she simply stood there, sneakers on worn floorboards, letting the milk-warm air soak into her skin. Her fingertips found the softened fabric of the back of the chair, and she held it until the woman softly cleared her throat and pointed toward the staircase with a flour-covered finger.
“Room Three,” she said, like it was a charm. “Top of the house, left of the moonlight. She’s been waiting, she always does.”
And so, with a small nod that felt more like a curtsy to the moment than any real reply, y/n obeyed the house. Her fingers brushed the walls as she passed beneath the archway, as if to steady herself on something made of memory. She walked softly, as though not to wake something sleeping.
The staircase curved as though it were built for softness, for slipping up in socks, for the hush of winter mornings. Each step cradled her foot like it remembered her from a storybook. Portraits lined the wall in uneven frames—women with half-smiles and lace collars, a chestnut-furred dog asleep in a library, a man mid-laugh with a hand pressed to his chest and his tie slightly askew. There was a window with ivy framing it like a lace curtain, and outside, a cloud passed slowly, like it too had stopped to listen.
When the final step whispered beneath her heel, Room Three was tucked beneath the eaves, the door slightly ajar. A sprig of lavender was tucked into the frame, bound with a bit of pale blue thread, and a molasses-faced clock ticked slowly and honeyed somewhere within. Y/n momentarily paused before entering the room, not out of hesitation but out of a strange kind of reverence, like the feeling before you dip your spoon into the very first bite of something still steaming, something made with love and waited on all day.
Room Three smelled like old stories and dried lilac. A round window looked out over the orchard, crooked trees heavy with midsummer fruit, their leaves trembling like they’d just been kissed. A desk stood beneath it, small and square, with an envelope set precisely in the center. The writing on the front was in a looping hand: For when you need to remember your own softness.
The bed was quilted in creams and washed-out roses, the corners tucked with deliberate care, and clouded pillows spilling like overripe meringue onto the floorboards. Beside it, a low dresser held a vase of marigolds and a jar of seaglass buttons, glinting like soft-caught memories. The air moved gently, like the whole room was breathing slow, honeyed inhales that stirred the lace curtain with each sigh.
And on the windowsill, sprawled like a creature who’d long since claimed this place as its kingdom, was the cat she’d seen lounging on the porch. Chestnut-coloured, with one ear folded like it was made of silk, and large, lantern-glow eyes blinking at her, slow, deliberate. With a stretch as unhurried as molasses, it let out a purr so deep it might’ve been purring for the room itself, not for her, not even for the sunlight, but for the memory of quiet that lived in the walls.
Y/N didn’t unpack, not yet. The inn seemed too alive to rush into—too stitched with stories, too perfumed with sweetness and sleep and the hush of something beginning, and that chesnut-brown cat slinking softly out of her room.
Instead, she closed the bedroom door with fingertip softness, kicked her shoes off with a sigh, and stepped barefoot onto the braided rug. The bed waited, like it had been expecting her, and when she lowered herself onto it, the mattress sighed beneath her, calling her to run her fingers across the quilt’s embroidery—milk pails, crescent moons, a child with a crown of chamomile, all stitched in sleepy threads of dusk-blue and butter-yellow.
Outside, bees murmured in the trees. From below, the creak of a cupboard. A kettle’s sigh. The thump of someone placing down a book. The house had a rhythm, a language all its own, and it was speaking now—not in words, but in warmth. Each sound stitched itself into the next, forming a lullaby of domestic stillness, the kind that lives in old wallpaper and lemonwood cupboards, the kind that rocks you without hands.
Then came a voice.
Male, low, slightly amused.
Drifting up through the floorboards like it had taken the long way.
“Claude,” the voice said, gentle and scolding in equal measure. “If you flirt your way into another second breakfast, you’ll start to roll.”
A cat purred from somewhere below, like a chord played on velvet strings, but the voice didn’t come again. Not for a while.
Instead, the house seemed to stretch—to breathe. A drowsy summer sort of quiet rolled over the rafters, spilling gently into corners, heavy as cream and just as sweet. There was birdsong at the edge of it, not loud but deliberate, like a melody hummed through a ribbon. Something old and bright and slow.
Y/n lay back against the bed—not quite meaning to—and let her eyes roam the ceiling. Someone had painted stars there. Not perfectly aligned ones, but scattered in loose, impulsive constellations, as if mapped by a child or a dreamer. Some were faint, like wishes whispered long ago; others were bold, gold-bright and deliberate. A moth fluttered through the open window, wings dusty and soft, circling once before it settled against the lamp. The scent of the quilt rose—chamomile, sun-warmed linen, a touch of almond.
And y/n let go, just a little. The kind of letting go that only happens when your heart finally trusts the silence it’s resting in. A loosening, invisible but absolute. A loosening, invisible but absolute. Like a pearl slipping loose from its shell, like a petal floating into the grass.
Time, in Midsummer Milk, had no teeth. It did not bite. It did not chase. It cradled.
✧✧✧
Y/n didn’t sleep, but she must have drifted.
When her eyes blinked open again, the light had turned syrupy—thick and gold, pouring low through the orchard window. Outside, the trees swayed like they were dancing for someone they loved. She sat up slowly, rubbing her fingers against her palms as if to press herself back into the moment. And that’s when she heard it—footsteps, measured and unhurried, just beneath the floor.
Not the woman’s. These were heavier, uneven in the way of someone barefoot on wooden slats, each step with its own little story. Then the sound of a kettle being lifted, the faint clink of two teacups on a tray. There was a sound like sugar being spooned from a jar, followed by a low hum—a tune with no words, all warmth.
Y/n rose, pushed the window open—the air was full of orchard and mint and that peculiar sweetness that clings to morning fruit—and let her fingers trail along the sill. She leaned slightly and peeked her head down the staircase, catching sight of the cat, presumably Claude, who flicked his tail in the sunlight and blinked up at her like he’d been expecting her to move all along. As if she were, in his mind, already halfway downstairs.
Downstairs, a door opened. The front one. It creaked just slightly, a friendly sort of groan, and then came the rustle of grass, of feet moving through the garden with no intention of being anywhere else. A rhythm too slow to be rushed. As if whoever it was didn’t worry about time, didn’t believe in it quite the way the rest of the world did.
Y/n stood still in the middle of the room. Her body, still tired in places it had never found names for, tilted slightly toward the sound. Not in any obvious way. Just in the soft lean of her shoulder, the tilt of her neck, the beat of a curious pulse. She felt her breath catch slightly at the thought of someone new, someone unaccounted for. But the fear never quite arrived. Only a kind of hush, like the quiet that comes after your name is called by someone who means it.
The house was silent again, but not empty.
Returning to Room Three, she dressed slowly, a linen dress the colour of faded oatmilk, with a scalloped hem and a row of mismatched buttons down the back, the kind you have to feel for with your fingertips. The fabric skimmed her calves, her sleeves brushing her wrists like moth wings.
She tucked her hair behind her ear absently, and when she stepped onto the landing, the wood underfoot was warm, as though someone had just passed through it carrying something gentle—something like an apricot tart or a secret. And a whisper, faint as dandelion fluff, drifted through the room, sounding like an older woman’s laugh tucked into wallpaper. The kind of laugh you’d find between pages in a pressed flower book. It sounded so real, so sweet, that she paused in her tracks, shaking her head after moments of floating, strawberry-blushed silence. Y/n must have imagined it.
Downstairs, the scent of tea had grown bolder, joined now by marmalade and something just a little burnt—toast, perhaps, forgotten beneath the broiler for a breath too long. It made her smile. Imperfect things always did.
The sitting room opened up like a sigh. There were armchairs in soft velvet, one emerald green, one butter yellow, one that looked as if it had been reupholstered by someone who loved stars—constellations stitched into the seams in pale gold thread, like a secret only seen by lamplight. On the side table sat two teacups. One had lipstick on the rim, ghost-pink and delicate, the shade of a pressed petal. The other was empty but still steaming.
And there, curled up in a patch of sleepy afternoon light against the bay window, was him.
Or, at first glance, just a man.
Long legs folded beneath him, one ankle hooked over the opposite knee in that casually beautiful way some people never learn and others seem to be born knowing. His fingertips tapped lightly on the side of his teacup, like he was playing a memory. Y/n imagined him at ease in old libraries and train stations, in meadows where the bees spoke slowly. With how his long limbs extended—soft, languid, full of impossible ease—he looked like he’d been drawn there by the sunlight itself.
The breeze lifted the corner of the curtain beside him and brushed a stray curl against his cheek. He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did, and welcomed it.
He wore a knit jumper the colour of powdered sugar, loose and spilling towards his clavicle at the collar, low enough that the two swallows inked into his golden skin peeked through like they were mid-flight, just resting between collarbones for a moment before darting off again. The sleeves of his sweater were pushed up past his elbows, bunched like soft clouds gathering at the edges of a sky, with a single thread loose at the hem to reveal wrists dusted with fine golden hair and more inked stories—a mermaid in faded navy, a half-curled anchor, a lock and key that looked like it had been kissed closed.
Y/n blinked once. Twice. Still there. Still impossibly real and quiet and lovely.
A book rested in one hand, open lazily across his thigh, and his fingers absently stroked the arm of the chair as though in tune with some melody only he could hear.
His hair was brown and a bit unruly, curling slightly at the temples, tousled like he’d let the wind decide where it should rest. The sun filtering through the gauzy lace curtain caught on it in threads of honey and softened amber and wheat. It looked as though it had been painted by dusk itself, with fingertips dipped in gold and a fondness for softness. His eyelashes—long, dark, absurdly and almost unfairly pretty—lowered as he read, mouth parted just slightly, lips pink and full and glistening as though he’d just licked jam from his thumb and hadn’t bothered to wipe it away.
The air around him did not change; it deepened. It was as if the room itself took notice. Like the rug beneath his feet blushed slightly. Like the wallpaper leaned in. Even the windowpanes, drowsy with dust motes and lavender breeze, seemed to hold their breath. Y/n stood in the doorway for a moment, unsure if she should interrupt—or if, perhaps, she already had.
As if sensing her thoughts, he looked up. And the moment bloomed.
Not in any dramatic or cinematic way, not with violins or slow-motion glances that tried too hard to mean something. Just with softness, with sudden stillness, with a sparkling hush curling at the edges of time. With the way his gaze held hers, not sharp, not demanding, just… open. Curious, warm, like candlelight catching on honey.
The corners of the man’s plush mouth lifted in what y/n was certain was the warmest smile she’d seen in weeks, months, years, maybe longer. One that made her ribs shift, as if they’d forgotten how to accommodate that much brightness at once.
“I see you’re Claude’s new favourite,” he said, voice softened with the kind of accent that turned vowels into something silk-wrapped, sleep-warmed.
He gestured toward the cat, who had followed y/n with a look of mild disdain and now sat pressed against the edge of her leg, purring like he’d invented the concept. She could feel the featherlike brush of his nut-coloured coat breathing along her calf, a lone paw curled over the arch of her foot as if anchoring her in place.
It was with a shy, lopsided smile that Y/N found her voice, though it felt dipped in velvet. How was this man, this barefoot, wind-tousled man, looking at her like that?
“I’ve heard Claude’s a bit of a flirt,” she said quietly.
The man before her grinned then, slow, easy, a sun-dappled kind of grin that softened everything around it. She swore her insides turned to sugar at the sight, a butterfly unspooling its way throughout her chest until it dissolved into something warm and floating.
“Aren’t we all,” he murmured, eyes lingering on her mouth for a moment too long, until y/n, to Claude’s apparent dismay, stepped away from the doorway and approached the unreasonably handsome man by the window.
She sat across from him, sinking into the butter-yellow armchair not because she’d been asked to but because the glow of the room made it seem like the only proper thing to do. As if the chair had been waiting for her all along, warmed in just the right places by the late golden light, angled like a pause between two lines of poetry.
He didn’t speak at first—nor did she—merely settling into the quiet and letting her eyes flick over the lemon trees peeking through the lace-framed window. But there was no silence between them, not really. There was too much softness for that. The inn made sure to fill the quiet with the clink of china, with Claude’s spiralling purr, with the faint breeze threading its fingers through the curtains like a lullaby you never quite forgot. The kind of quiet that doesn’t press, only folds itself gently into your lap and rests there.
When he looked at her again, he looked slowly, like he didn’t want to rush whatever his eyes might find. Like he’d wandered into something sacred.
And oh, how he looked. Not in the way of a man absently glancing across a room, but in the way a poet might watch rain on the glass—quietly, reverently, as though naming it might break the spell. His eyes were a shade that didn’t belong to any single colour—green and gold and lake-deep, a kind of sweet moss with sunlight trapped inside. Lashes too long for sense. Cheeks dusted with colour, like the petal-rouge on a bowl of fresh cherries left out in the sun.
There was something ageless about him. Not in years, but in tone, like the feeling of a song that’s always lived beneath your skin. If August had a face, y/n thought, it might look a bit like his: freckled, warm-limbed, windswept at the temples, and smiling in a way that made you want to take your time. She wanted to pause there, in the hour shaped around his smile, linger where the moment had folded open.
“Strawberry?” he asked, holding out a tiny saucer. The fruit had been sliced already, sprinkled with the lightest sugar, their juice caught in a little gleaming pool at the bottom.
She nodded, and he passed it to her with the kind of care most people reserved for heirlooms. His rings—gold, weather-warmed, each one kissed with wear—clicked gently against the china. They weren’t loud, they were lived-in, loved-on, worn like stories on his hands.
“You’ve come a long way,” he said finally, as y/n lifted a berry to her lips, biting into the soft, sun-warm flesh despite the honey-slicked juice dribbling down the lower corner of her mouth. “You can tell, you know. Who needs this place. They arrive with that hush in their shoulders.”
Y/n wasn’t sure how to answer that, how to articulate the way her bones had ached for quiet, or how her breath had become something she forgot she was allowed to keep. How she had driven past roads that didn’t want her, places that refused her softness, until the sky finally loosened its grip and the map folded open toward her.
The man didn’t seem to expect a response, though, as he tilted his head slightly and smiled again—a little crooked, as though he’d been born with joy laced unevenly through him. He was the most beautiful interruption she had ever seen.
“’m Harry,” he added, as though offering his name were a gift wrapped in thistle ribbon. “I’ve been here a while. You?”
“Just arrived,” she murmured. The strawberry was sweet, sun-drunk, tasting of lazy afternoons and childhood summers. It made her throat ache, somehow—not with sadness, but with the kind of nostalgia that catches in the back of your mouth.
He watched her like she was the first time someone had ever spoken in a quiet room.
“Well,” he said, voice low and velvet-laced, the smile on his lips tilting into something softer. “You’re lucky. There’s no such thing as time here. Not really. Just weather, and tea, and way too many strawberries. You get used to them, though.”
Y/n imagined that later on this evening, when she settled into the linen-draped bed and curled beneath a quilt that smelled faintly of rosemary and sun, she would remember the way the light bent over him—Harry, Harry, Harry—in that moment. How it made a golden frame around the wild sweep of his hair, how the dust motes rose behind him like glittering wings, how his sun-sweetened and summer-softened skin gleamed like candlelight caught in honey. How Claude, now settled at his feet, blinked slowly with the kind of satisfaction only a cat in the company of good people could possess. But in that moment, all y/n could do was nod—slightly, breathlessly, as if agreeing to something unspoken.
The room held its breath. Then, a creak from the kitchen.
The old woman’s voice floated in, thick as lavender syrup. “Dinner is on the line, and don’t let the salad wilt again, Harry. It gets bashful if left too long in the sun.”
Harry chuckled, a warm, honey-cake sound that y/n wished she could tuck behind her ear like a flower, and rose from his chair. And oh, how he rose.
Some people simply stand, with effort and interruption. But Harry, unlike anyone she’d ever seen, unfolded like a field of wheat brushing upward in a gust of wind, or a book opening to its favourite page. His limbs stretched long and gentle, all linen and loose muscle, his body somehow both heavy and light. The hem of his jumper rode up just slightly as he stretched, revealing the edge of a tattoo—the faintest sketch of two ferns, one on either hipbone, etched in ink where his skin met the waist of his trousers.
He may have noticed her glance; she seemed unable to tear it away in time, but said nothing. Only smiled again and reached for the tray with the teacups.
“You coming?” he asked, not with expectation, but with invitation as sweet as ripe apricots warmed on a windowsill.
With a slight nod of her head and a smile that curled in the corners like steam from a teacup, y/n rose and followed after Harry, and the house creaked like it was pleased to feel two sets of feet walking across its floorboards.
Outside, the garden had grown fuller, richer somehow, as if it had taken a long sip of sunlight in their absence and swelled with it. Every flower seemed to tilt a little closer toward them as they passed, as if they were secrets leaning in to be whispered. A low stone wall rimmed the yard like a sigh that had turned to moss, and the laundry line stretched across it, white cotton and laced linen catching the wind like lazy sails on a midsummer sea. A shed sat farther off, a stoned path leading to it, lined with flourishing bushes heavy with dusky berries and wild chamomile.
Y/n trailed after him, bare soles cool against the flagstones as the sun brushed light over the tops of their shoulders like a blessing. Only when they turned the corner could she see a seating area nestled beneath the arms of a fig tree, so perfectly placed it could’ve only been dreamed into being.
Lunch was set out on a large, oval table made of weathered wood, the paint flaked like pastry. There were bowls of tomatoes, some green, some nearly purple, a round of goat cheese, still soft and warm, a basket of bread knotted with herbs, a tray of fresh meats folded like old love letters, bowls of berries sugared from the sun, trays of fig spreads and rosehip jams, and pitchers sweating glassy drops of lavender lemonade and pink-tinted, petal-steeped milk. The china was decorated with swirling vines, blush roses and ivy tendrils, the glasses were crystalized, dew-dappled goblets, and everything shimmered faintly in the light.
Before y/n could take her eyes away from the achingly lovely table and thank the older woman she imagined was the innkeeper, she had vanished again, as if she was never meant to be seen for long. Harry gestured y/n towards the table while pulling out the chair with the seat cushion embroidered with strawberries.
“Sit,” Harry said, though it came out more like a sun-sweetened song than a command. How could she deny that? She sat without even thinking about how her body obeyed the moment like it obeyed gravity or how Harry had pulled out a chair for her before rounding the table and sliding into his own.
They ate slowly, with the reverence of people sharing a secret. Not because they were trying to, y/n imagined, but because there was no such thing as fast in a place like this. She couldn’t fathom rushing through such a velvet-spilled meal when the birds flitted like ribbon through the branches and the flowers swayed as though humming lullabies, and she had company like Harry.
The bread tore apart into soft, fragrant tufts, and despite the ache in her chest—the one she carried like a glass jar with something broken inside—she couldn’t resist layering the goat cheese atop a still-warm slice. It melted like memory, the tomatoes tasted like sunlight and the absence of worry, the jams burst like soft fireworks of summer on her tongue, and the lavender lemonade fizzed gently against her lips like carbonated light.
There were bees, slow and golden, but they didn’t sting. They hovered like tiny golden monks, drunk on the holiness of nectar y/n imagined tasted similar to the lunch she now savoured.
She often found herself looking up at Harry, this slightly odd-spoken, sun-dusted man with his grass-green eyes and thoughtful words, and he looked right back, elbow leaning on the edge of the table, chin propped in his palm, his sharp jaw working through the final bite of tomato-studded focaccia. One of the curls at his temple had slipped loose, and the wind was playing with it, brushing it against his cheek like a chestnut-velvet whisper.
“You’re not here on vacation, are you?” he asked gently, nothing but sky-wide patience in his tone and the soft set of his eyes.
“No,” y/n said after a moment, her voice quieter than before. Thinner, like a thread that had unravelled just a little, like the thought of what she had left behind mere weeks ago had tugged on it too hard.
He didn’t push for anything more than that, and the majority of y/n was grateful for that, for the lack of demand. A small, secret, yearning part of her, though, wished she had a reason to spill it all. Wished she could unfold without fear of what might fall out.
But Harry continued to look at her with those moss-meadow eyes, that face like it belonged carved into a pew or painted in the corners of an old folktale. He waited with the patience of someone who’d once been waited for. Who knew how long it could take for the right words to find a mouth again. So, without hesitation or further contemplation of how long it had been since she’d trusted anyone with anything, even as measly as a slight admission, she spoke, her shoulders slightly unfurling from their hardened, self-held shell.
“I left,” she said finally. “I didn’t mean to. Or maybe I did, but only halfway. You ever do something like that? Leave in pieces?”
Harry’s head tilted, that loose curl swinging forward like a pendulum.
“All the time,” he said. “I think half of me’s still somewhere else. On the underground in London, maybe. Or in my mum’s cupboard. I think we just scatter a little, keep pieces of ourselves in places dear to us. Or places that stole pieces of us.”
Without a second thought, y/n smiled then, her breath pouring out of her like birds from a newly opened cage. It came slowly, like the first drop of rain hitting a windowsill, but with every sip of afternoon, she felt a little less undone. She didn’t know it was possible to feel so seen by someone so soon after meeting them.
“Yeah. I scattered,” she whispered.
✧✧✧
They didn’t speak for a while after that. They didn’t need to, not with the quiet understanding that something had settled between them—some kind of softness, like warm linen pulled between trees to dry, soft and fluttering. Rather, Harry passed her another piece of bread, and she took it. He filled her cup with lavender lemonade, what Harry called the sunset tonic, and she drank it. Around them, the garden swelled with wind and beesong, the air rich with rosemary and the faintest scent of woodsmoke from somewhere further back—an old oven, perhaps, or a fire kept lit in a room no one visited anymore.
Harry leaned back in his chair and turned his face toward the sky. His throat stretched long in the sunlight, the flutter of his pulse visible just beneath his jaw, and his eyelashes fluttered slowly, like petals drifting shut on a water lily. A swallow skimmed the garden wall, then darted away, wings like slivers of ink across the blue.
“You want to know the funny thing?” Y/n said out of the blue, surprising herself by breaking the cradle of silence and offering more information to the man across from her.
“Always.”
“I wasn’t even trying to come here. I don’t even remember turning down the road.” Y/n attempted to recall what she had been doing, thinking, looking at, before the bend in the road or the moments that followed after the rain started falling sideways. Yet, no matter how she searched the folds of memory, it all slipped through like water cupped in palms.
Harry’s eyes didn’t open despite her admission. He smiled like he’d heard the same confession before, maybe a hundred times. He smiled as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“You wouldn’t,” he said, still facing the sky. “That’s how this place works.”
Y/n placed her fork on the faded linen napkin and turned toward him fully. “What do you mean?”
The breeze kicked up then, teasing at the hem of her dress, and the cotton linens danced overhead—pale ghosts of summer sheets clipped to a line of twine.
Harry, for once, didn’t smile. He opened his eyes, looked at her across the applewood table, and they were serious now—still soft, still drenched in gold—but laced with something else. A sort of carefulness, a reverence, a quiet knowing.
“This place,” he said, voice low, “only shows itself when you’ve forgotten where you were going. When you’re tired enough to stop looking. When something inside you gets quiet, and hungry, and strange. That’s what my mum used to say, anyway, and I’ve come to believe her.”
Y/n said nothing, unsure how to cradle the weight of his words. Her tongue suddenly felt heavy in her mouth, and his words scrambled in her brain like dandelion seeds caught in the wind, spinning too fast to catch.
“It isn’t magic,” he continued. “Not exactly. It’s… milk.”
“Milk? Are you ok, Harry?” Y/n laughed, her words only the slightest bit breathless, startled by the softness of him, the simplicity.
He did smile then, wide and dazzling, his teeth linen and lips lush and pink as a June bloom.
“It’s milk. Comforting. Sweet. A little strange if you think too long about where it came from. But it warms you and you sleep better after.”
His words, softened like cream stirred into warm tea, had y/n looking around. Gazing at the way the garden glowed without a source, at the way the trees leaned just slightly inward, like they were eavesdropping, at Claude the cat, who now appeared balanced on the edge of the laundry basket, watching her as though he’d written her name on the wind weeks ago.
“Have other people come here? Is it just us now?” she asked softly.
Harry didn’t answer right away. He reached for a grape, sitting fat and glistening amongst pale lavender and a sprig of mint, popped it into his mouth, and chewed slowly. His rings glinted like sun on river stones, the light catching her gaze and holding it, however briefly.
“Yes, there are a few other people here now, you’ll meet them soon,” he said. “And people have passed through throughout m’time here. Not many, and not often, but ‘m never alone. Greg, a beekeeper from Dorset who arrived a few summers ago, stayed for nearly a year. It was only when, um… Sophia, came around, did he finally feel free enough to leave. Said this place gave him exactly what he needed, even if he didn’t know it when he arrived. So, I guess what ’m trying to say is sometimes someone shows up with the right kind of ache. And then this place opens its arms for you, and lets you go when you’re ready.”
Y/n swore she wouldn’t cry, not here, not now, but something inside her softened and slipped like melted molasses when Harry said the right kind of ache. A part of her that had been knotted for years began to loosen. Not completely, not yet, but the first few stitches had come undone, and she could feel her breath in places she hadn’t felt it in months.
And Harry—this soft, sun-washed man with mossy eyes and seemingly molten honey for a soul—saw it.
He didn’t reach for her hand, he didn’t offer her platitudes, and he didn’t say anything more. With the wind rustling lavender stems and the day fluttering through golden hour, he simply sat with her, quiet in that holy sort of way that only people who understand sadness can be, until the air cooled, the shadows lengthened, and not loudly, but distinctly—a clear, silver sound rang through the stillness, like something chiming through the fog of a half-remembered dream.
Y/n was unsure of how much time had passed since the lemon drizzle cake had been halved and devoured, with the pair of mismatched porcelain plates sitting forgotten between them, and aimlessly discussing cloud shapes and how sometimes silence fills a room better than music. The bell tolled again, though, and Harry stood, brushing crumbs from his trousers and flicking a stray petal from his sleeve.
“That’ll be Margot,” he said, amused and a little fond. “She’s very particular about her tea readings.”
“Tea readings?” Y/n asked, eyebrows arching despite the smile blooming slowly and sugared across her lips.
He grinned. “Oh yes. Twice a week. She insists the leaves speak clearer when it’s cloudy.”
Y/n glanced at the sky. It was flawless blue, not a single ripple, not a cotton-wisped sigh in sight.
Harry shrugged. “She’s eighty-three. She does what she wants.”
Margot, one of the other guests, y/n learned, lived in the upstairs sitting room, though she called it the “Drawing Room of Misrememberings.” Harry, with a half-smile and reverence, mentioned she had embroidered the phrase in soft blue thread on a pillow that sat alone on a faded chintz armchair, as though the cushion itself were a little poet with terrible memory. According to him, she had supposedly resided at the inn for years, longer than the ivy had climbed the brick, and refused to leave on the grounds that the wallpaper still told stories at night and the floorboards remembered her steps.
When they finally reached Margot’s room, Claude slinking behind them through every creaking corridor of the inn, she greeted them in a cloud of rose water and bergamot, her hair pulled up in a nest of pearly pins that glinted like moonstones in candlelight. Her eyes, softened by time and twilight, shimmered with laughter, and her lips were painted a cherry red that matched the inside of the porcelain teacup sitting on the porch upon y/n’s arrival. The room she dubbed her own was full of shadows and half-lit corners, with tall glass cabinets holding teacups like delicate museum relics. The curtains, sheer as breath, stirred even when the windows were shut, and a record player hummed a ghostly waltz in the distance.
“I’ve made chamomile today,” she announced, bypassing introductions to instead hand y/n a cup, small and warm yet impossibly light, as though it had been poured from sunlight itself. “You look like someone who needs the kind of quiet that only yellow flowers can give, dear.”
Y/n looked to her side, seeking Harry’s presence for guidance on how to reply, or perhaps how to belong, only to find him curled into the window nook, hand tucked beneath him and fingers trailing idly down the side hem of his pant leg, as though he’d melted into the day like butter in warm bread.
“Don’t tell her I said so,” Margot whispered conspiratorially, “but the house likes you. I can always tell. It shows its best side when someone arrives who means something.”
She blinked at her tea, then back up again, matching Margot’s whisper. “Or maybe it’s him.”
She couldn’t explain why she had felt the urge to breathe slower, to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear like she was being seen for the first time, why the inside of her wrist suddenly felt aware, as though touched by something invisible and tender. Why she referred to Harry in response to this older, whimsical, tea-reading woman. Why the sight of him had her shoulders softening and her pulse quickening in places she didn’t know could flutter.
And yet, standing there with the teacup in her hand and the scent of rosemary and cream lingering in the air, she felt it in her chest—a flutter stitched with silk, a hush between heartbeats that hadn’t been there before.
“Perhaps,” he murmured, having heard the softness in her voice without needing to catch the implication, and his lips curled around the word like he meant it. His eyes, dark-lashed and pond-still, twinkled with a kind of unspoken mischief, gazing at her like he knew how the moment would settle into her later, before gesturing with his palm for her to sit beside him on the weathered green couch, where the light painted the cushions gold.
It shouldn’t have mattered. It was just a word, after all, shaped like any other. But the sound of it from him settled deep. Not like a stone, but like the warm weight of a ripe plum pressed into your palm, a kind of trust that was feathered and fluttering, but wholly yours just for a moment.
Attempting to guise the swell of warmth crawling up her neck and blooming behind her ears, y/n looked down at the teacup resting in her palm. Carefully, quietly, she took a sip, the tea tasting of soft earth and sun-warm petals. It tasted of childhood bedsheets and lullabies hummed without words. Without thinking, she closed her eyes. And when she opened them again, the light in the room had shifted.
Gentled from the previous golden, the room now basked in orange and amber. It poured across the carpet in long bands, like ribbons and slow-moving syrup, fiery but never burning. And Harry, this man who seemed to belong to the in-between hours, had moved closer—not by much, but enough that she could feel the quiet echo of him. His warmth, his presence, his stillness. His scent, rosemary and some faint, clean musk, like linen dried on a wooden line.
His hand was close to hers on the arm of the couch, his pinkie tilted ever so slightly toward her own. Not touching. But close. That invisible space between skin alive with the possibility of contact, that unsaid almost. Outside, a gust of wind rattled the ivy against the windowpane like fingertips over harp strings. Claude, now a sun-puddle near Margot’s feet, twitched his ear, unimpressed with the sudden stirring, but appeased when Margot reached down and ran her finger between his shoulder blades.
“I don’t read fortunes,” Margot was saying, gesturing y/n with a flick of her wrist to finish the remaining drops of chamomile before offering the cup. “I read stories. The kind that already live inside you.”
She turned the cup in her palm, peered inside with theatrical gravity softened by affection and a knowing gleam, and frowned. Not a frightened kind, but curious, one that sensed something slightly out of step, like a piano key gone faintly sharp. One that had y/n shifting in her seat, aware again of her hands, her breath, the way her name might sound in someone else’s mouth.
“There’s milk,” Margot murmured, a little surprised. “You don’t take milk in your tea.”
“I didn’t add milk,” Y/n replied, throat dry and mind fumbling, caught on something she couldn’t name.
“No. You didn’t.” Margot smiled, distant and pleased, as though someone had solved a riddle without realizing it. One y/n wasn’t privy to, with edges soft as old paper, but written in ink that glowed when the light struck just so.
Harry leaned forward, his curls brushing the light, to speak just beneath the level of music, his voice barely a breeze. “It’s starting,” he whispered, just behind her ear, like he was sharing the beginning of a secret rather than the end of a sentence. His breath was warm, smelling faintly of honey and thyme, and it stirred something in the air between them—something almost golden.
Y/n didn’t ask what was starting, what tide had turned, or thread begun to unwind. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know, not yet, and she imagined some part of her already did, in that strange and wordless way the heart knows things before the mind dares to catch up.
A prickle of awareness bloomed along her collarbone, gentle as the first drop of summer rain, and the room seemed to exhale around her: curtains sighing, teacups blinking in the low amber light, the floorboards shifting as though the house, too, was leaning in to listen.
Outside, the ivy trembled against the windowpane, and the orchard murmured something unintelligible in the wind.
And then Claude stirred, Margot hummed a low note that sounded suspiciously like a lullaby, and Harry smiled—slow, sure, and impossibly soft—as if he’d known all along.
As if it had always been her.
author's note: hello lovelies!! thank you so so much for reading, and welcome to the world of Midsummer Milk. i hope you enjoyed reading my little fic <3 i'm very new at this (first fic ever kinda nervy), so please let me know in the comments or asks if you have any comments, concerns or suggestions! anything and everything is welcome. happy june <3
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Warnings- none!
“Your mumma will kill me if I overwater then dahlias, little bug. So we need to keep watch, okay?”
His son let out a gurgle of what he was going to assume was agreement. Smart kid.
“Thank you. She went to go get her hair done. Y’know, she really needed a day off. You’re the sweetest little plum, but you’re a lot of work.” Harry adjusted the sunhat on his head, shading his face. “So we’re going to do some things to take off her plate. What do you think about that?”
Wide green eyes peered up at him with a few blinks. Good enough.
“I told her I’d take over watering the garden for her. I think we’ll tidy up once we go inside, hm? You can go back in the rocker and watch me do it. The dishes need to be washed.” He mumbled, rocking back and forth on his feet as he used his free hand to water the plants. The hose water was cold but it was nice to get a light back spray when the heat was like this in the mornings.
“She’s done a good job back here. Think some of it’s probably the magic you give her, hm?” He looked back to his son as he let out a little gurgling sound, tiny hand fisting his tee shirt. “Precisely. You give the whimsy, and she absorbs it to give to the plants. You always say exactly what m’thinking.”
The garden was bustling with flowers that he’d watched her plant with their baby in his lap underneath the shaded tree. As much as he had offered to do it for her, he’d been met with sharp glances and sharper questions about him thinking she was ‘incapable’ so he’d simply let her at it. Thankfully she had a green thumb as oppose to his dingy one. Harry could handle the watering but pruning, planting and all of that… not so much. He’d proven that last year when he tried to help.
“Oh, look at these. Peas!” He cooed, directing the spray at the quickly growing pods. “Your favorite, hm? You prefer them mushy, though. M’a fan of that myself, though not the baby sized jars. Your mum tells me it’s ‘gross’ but she doesn’t know what she’s missing.” He tutted, making a little giggle escape his baby. Every time he got one out of him, regardless if he actually understood or not, felt like a Medal of Honor. “But she loves us anyways. Grows them for us, you see? That’s the type of person your mumma is. Giving and kind, even if she hates mushy peas. That’s why we’ve got t’love on her when she gets home. She’s getting a pretty haircut and you’ve got the leave it alone for a few days, hm? I know it’s tempting to tug, but let’s give her a break.”
the swan part one: y/n is the new prima for the season, but the real tragedy unfolded in the rumors surrounding the company's patron, harry.
wordcount: 12.4k+
—————
The sunlight streaming in behind Ms. Ariel glanced off of glossy strands of the slick chignon tied on the back of her head; natural backlight, as if she were still on stage, dancing under the spotlight. Even if directing and choreographing, spending more time reviewing than doing any dancing herself, had softened the tight lines of her muscles and relieved the callouses on her body, she still had all of the hallmarks of a dancer. Even her posture alone—straight spine, jutting chin, barred shoulders—gave away the prima position she held for years in the Turkish State Opera.
The usual serene smile she held on her face now had a giddy purse to her lips. She was holding something back, (Y/N)'s nerves stacking as she realized as much.
It wasn't in a ballerina to be restless with fidgety hands and shuffling feet, but she felt the urge rise. In her year with Ms. Ariel and the company, there was very, very few times dancers were brought into her office with a closed door.
"Thank you for staying back a little bit today," Ms. Ariel started, bringing her folded hands to rest on top of the glossy cherry desk. "I know you have some work you need to get to at home, so I'll be quick."
She paused, theatrics growing in the silence.
"You are going to be our Odette in the spring production."
(Y/N)'s breath fell short.
Not even a month ago had the spring production been announced to be Swan Lake. Auditions had been so long and tedious—especially for the leads. Truthfully, she had only thrown her name in the ring just for the opportunity to try, there was no real expectation that she was going to beat out the more established dancers she was up against.
But, here she was. Odette in the company's spring production of Swan Lake.
"I—" she breathed, shifting in her seat as if her posture was anything but perfect, "I didn't think announcements were being made until tomorrow."
Ms. Ariel shrugged. "Yes, the rest of the cast will be officially notified tomorrow along with the call sheet, but I wanted to talk with you myself beforehand."
"Wow," she murmured to herself, "Thank you."
"You're welcome," Ms. Ariel smiled, "I'm sure you understand the kind of work that goes into being Odette—and Odile, to that fact. It is a daunting task, but I want you to know that I have seen you working and excelling in the short time you've been with us. You've been a gift given to our company and I want to see what you can do with the role."
A warmth bloomed behind her eyes. "Thank you. I will take care of her, I promise."
"I know you will. Please, if you need guidance, don't hesitate to reach out. Everyone is a resource here."
(Y/N) didn't know what to say. "Thank you," she muttered, though it felt far from enough for the kind words shared from her mentor. "Really—this is... a dream."
Ms. Ariel nodded, her smile spreading into a true grin. She stood from behind her desk, reaching a manicured hand out. "Celebrate tonight; the hard work will begin next week."
Grateful for the amount of grace drilled into her body, (Y/N) scrambled to match the motion. She took Ms. Ariel's hand in a light shake. "Of course. Thank you."
A huff of laughter fell from Ms. Ariel. "You're welcome, (Y/N)."
Hiking her bag up her shoulder, (Y/N) make quick strides towards the door of the office. In the hallway, Siobhan was where (Y/N) had left her waiting. She pocketed her phone, perking up once (Y/N) clicked the door shut behind her.
Whatever Siobhan found on her friend's face was enough to have her jaw dropping, eyes down turning into concern. "What happened?"
Realizing the sheen coating her eyes, (Y/N) fluttered her eyes in a blink to wipe away the moisture. She kept her voice low as she said, "I got the part."
Siobhan's expression went from concerned to confused in a breath, brows furrowing as the news processed.
"Wait. For the production?"
(Y/N) nodded.
"For Odette?"
(Y/N) nodded once more.
It was with that silent response that Siobhan let out a giddy squeal. She brought her fists to her chest with her feet quietly marching against the floor, a beaming grin on her lips.
"You're joking! Are you serious right now?!"
"Shhh, be quiet," (Y/N) laughed, reaching for Siobhan's wrist to start leading her away from Ms. Ariel's door. Once she brought them far enough away from the door and the studio hosting the after school ballet lessons, (Y/N) allowed herself to let out a laugh—the sound almost delirious.
"I got the part—Odette."
She joined in on a quiet celebration with Siobhan then, right in the entryway of the studio. (Y/N) could only imagine what a sight they were, hair falling out of their buns from the previous lesson, leg warmers scrunched at their ankles, Siobhan's backpack bouncing against her back and (Y/N)'s tote bag dropped to her elbow.
"I'm so happy for you," Siobhan shared, pulling her friend into a warming hug. "I'm so proud of you."
"Thank you," (Y/N) whispered back, hugging her back just as tight before pulling away just enough to face her. "Really—I wouldn't have even come to this city without you, so thank you."
Siobhan waved off her gratitude with a small smile and a shrug of her shoulders. "I'm just happy you're here, too."
"Well," (Y/N) started, leading Siobhan out into the city with their flats padding gently against the pavement, "Ms. Ariel said we should celebrate tonight while we can. Everything starts next week."
"Tonight?"
A small smile bloomed on (Y/N)'s features. "Are you busy or something?"
She knew good and well the plan for the evening was for the both of them to pick up takeaway on the way home before rotting away in bed.
"I can clear my plans," Siobhan laughed.
(Y/N) felt herself just short of skipping along the concrete. She hadn't realized just how much something like this role could mean to her.
She had been a professional ballerina for five years now, settling here only a year or so prior, though she had never been a principal before. She was content doing those side roles and learning ensemble dances, as long as she was on stage. There were so many more established and experienced dancers in the industry, but here she was. The spring's prima. Odette and Odile.
Maybe it was the fact that the sun no longer set at four in the afternoon, or the pending plans with her friend, but (Y/N) had never felt lighter.
She was a swan, now. The swan.
—————
(Y/N)'s skin felt flushed as she wiggled on her bar seat. It was hard to stay still at the moment, so different from the dancer's poise that was drilled into her. The atmosphere of the upscale, too-expensive bar was perfect—the exact kind of place she pictured herself grabbing a lavender scented drink when she first moved to the city. The girls—other dancers from the company she'd grown close enough to—had joined her and Siobhan for the night, leaving the table filled with bubbly chatter and restless feet.
"Do you know what ending Ms. Ariel wants to go with?" Sasha, one of the others, asked. The red of her second Negroni was beginning to stain the center of her lips to match the flush on her pale cheeks.
(Y/N) shrugged, the straw of her own drink tucked between her lips. "We only really talked about my part—I don't think we talked for more than, like, ten minutes. I do hope it's one of the good endings, though, like the original one or something."
"Yeah, I think I would cry if we had to watch you die or something," Siobhan said, an exaggerated frown on her lips as (Y/N) laughed.
"I don't know if I could make that jump off the cliff, anyway."
"I'm sure we'll find out soon with everything starting next week," Lydia, the fourth of their little girls' night group, suggested. She paused to take a long drink of her margarita before training her gaze to flick between Siobhan and Sasha. "Do you think Harry’s going to be a part of the production?"
A furrow pinched (Y/N)'s brow. That name brought up a twinge of familiarity, though the context eluded her.
Siobhan's eyes widened, spitting her straw out from between her lips. "Oh my god, probably! It's the spring show that he's always all over, right?"
Sasha and Lydia both nodded conspiratorially while (Y/N) looked on bemused.
Siobhan turned her attention to (Y/N). "Did she say anything about him during your meeting?"
(Y/N) shook her head. "We didn't talk about anyone, though."
Sasha made a face, looking to both Lydia and Siobhan with raised brows. "Do you think he finally let it go?"
"Maybe," Lydia shrugged, pursing her lips around her small straw. "Doubt it, though."
Leaning over the table, (Y/N) flicked her confused gaze across each of the ballerinas at the table. "What are you guys talking about?"
Siobhan looked at her with her brows knitted. "Did you never meet him?"
"I don't think so?"
"I guess you started in the middle of the spring season, so you probably never actually met him," Siobhan mused, taking one more sip of her drink until her straw bubbled against the ice on the bottom. Her skin was especially flushed, eyes a bit glassy when she turned to face (Y/N) with a story on her mind. "He's a... patron, I guess. For the company. He donates year round but is usually really hands off. Until the spring production."
"Oh," (Y/N) sounded. Hearing some details, she remembered hearing chatters about a patron of the company. In those overheard conversations, there was never anything specific she could glean, only small chitters and jokes she didn't understand. "Why only the spring shows?"
There was a short silence between the three, eyes flicking to one another as if waiting to see who would be the one to share the next lines of the story. (Y/N) only waited, straw tucked between her lips though she only bit at the tube instead of taking down any more of her drink.
"Um," Lydia started, tipping her head as if rolling her next words around her brain, "I mean, no one really knows for sure, but there's... rumors. Most of the company who was around when everything was happening have left, so no one's really completely sure anymore."
"Okay," (Y/N) said, drawing out the word with furrowed brows. They were starting to scare her, honestly. "Rumors about what?"
"Okay," Siobhan piped up suddenly, taking in a deep breath, "I joined right after she left, so I never actually knew her, but people talked a lot. From what I know, he—Harry—used to be engaged to one of the dancers at the company after they met during one of the shows. Like, he was always a minor patron, but when they started dating, he was just always around and everything. But, something happened, and they broke up, like, months before they were supposed to get married. No one really knows why for sure, but I remember hearing from some of the girls back then, that it was pretty bad."
"Things got intense, apparently," Lydia interjected, eyes wide as they met (Y/N)’s, "Like, really intense."
(Y/N) blinked. "Like... Did someone get hurt?" she pressed, dancing around the implication of her question.
Siobhan shrugged, her mouth making an uncertain line. "I don't know, honestly. From what I remember hearing, she left him. Some of the girls said that he was, like, crazy or something—like, there was something really big that happened. I don't think she even dances anymore, from what I've heard. And she was really talented if you ever look her up."
"Oh, wow," (Y/N) murmured, biting at her bottom lip, "But no one knows what the big thing was that made them break up?"
"Not as far as I know," Siobhan shook her head, blonde hair spilling over her shoulder, "I remember one of the girls just saying that she had been super erratic before they officially broke up. She did not want to be around him, like she made a scene every time he came to pick her up from rehearsal and things. Like she was worried, or scared, or something, I guess. And, then she just left. One day she told everyone they had broken up and then, like, a week after, she was gone. No one even knew where she went until almost a month later. And, I don't know if this is real or just something people started saying when everything came out with the break up, but there were people who said he was really scary during the whole thing—to be careful around him, really."
(Y/N) didn't know what to say as the story seemingly came to a close. This was far from the kind of insight she thought she would gain tonight.
"So... he only does the spring show now?"
"As far as I've been here, yeah. I think because he donates so much this time of year, he ends up being more involved."
"Um," (Y/N) started, shifting in her spot with her eyes dropping to the salted rim of her friend's glass. "Does he... Does he have a say in casting?"
"Oh no!" It was Sasha that spoke up this time, saying her first words since listening like a captivated audience to the same story. "He's not involved like that—Ms. Ariel makes all of those choices. He just gets a little more say in what show is put on, I know that for sure. Otherwise, I think he just does more with the business side of everything—it's like he's a producer almost."
"Oh, okay," (Y/N) murmured, nodding her head as she took a small sip from her drink, "Do you guys think I need to be... worried?"
Siobhan let out a loud laugh. "God, no! It's all just rumors. You probably won't even see him that much, honestly."
(Y/N) got a quiet "Oh" out before the topic was drifting away with Sasha's help, something about her girlfriend's family being brought up instead. (Y/N) listened on as closely as she could, though she was far from being involved. Much of her mind was still stuck on these so-called "rumors" about this season's producer.
While the idea that the implications of the rumors could be true was something that worried her, she had to trust that Ms. Ariel wouldn't have someone involved with the show that could be a threat to the dancers.
Even though a very skeptical part of her found it hard to believe that rumors so intense, funneled through a group as close knit as one of ballerina's, didn't hold at least a grain of truth.
—————
(Y/N) huffed as her tote slipped down her shoulder again. Even the ribbed texture of her knitted cardigan couldn't keep it from slipping down to her elbow. Hiking it up once more, she pushed the front door to the studio open, a gust of warm air blowing the early morning chill off of her form.
Her wrap skirt fluttered around her hips as she closed the door behind her, ensuring she heard the click of the door shutting before she started deeper into the studio. Production rehearsals didn't officially commence for another few days, but she wanted to stop by one more time before then to get her own time in before everything would be committed to being a swan princess. The next months of her life were going to be consumed by the same handful of dances, the same moves, the same techniques—she needed a chance to do something as herself before then, doubting any other opportunities would arise between now and the rest of the production.
Trailing down the halls, she got a peek into each of the different rooms through the large windows spanning the corridor. Some parents were waiting before the windows, watching as the children's lessons were conducted. Their own spring production—a rendition of Margot Robbie’s Barbie—was set to take the stage in less than two weeks, leaving the costume room in varying shades of pink with glitter and stars all over the place. The amount of times (Y/N) had seen these dances through the windows, heard these songs through the walls, she figured she could join the stage at any time without incident.
Meandering down to the very last open room, (Y/N) signed herself in. The room was much smaller than the others for the lessons, with only a small window available for viewing. The floor was a warm hardwood, reflected back in the mirror lining the wall opposite the door. A golden barre bisected the mirror, gleaming in the light. Her footsteps echoed in the quiet room as she crossed towards the sound system tucked in the corner.
She took her time setting up all of her things, glancing up at the mirror. The reflection used to scare her when she was a child. It used to be so nerve wracking seeing each of her movements, especially when she couldn't be sure if she was doing it right until she saw the rest of her class at that same moment. (She was a child with anxiety as she later learned in her adult life—big surprise). Though it took time, she learned to appreciate having that mirror on her when she danced.
There was something exciting about seeing the lines made by her body. The kind of lines she had only seen in films or on stages. It was those movements and shapes that had inspired her to become a ballerina instead of just dreaming of dancing. The mirror let her see herself as the ballerina in those dreams.
Just as she began shedding her cardigan and sitting down to get her pointe shoes on, she realized there was something missing. She had her phone connected to the sound system, an instrumental song queued up, and her bag with extra hair ties, a couple of snacks for later, and her water bottle—
That's what she was missing. No water bottle.
Throwing her head back with a heavy sigh, (Y/N) rolled her eyes at herself. Of course she left it in her car.
At least she hadn't been able to lace up her pointes yet. Pulling on her regular shoes, (Y/N) resigned herself to trek all the way back to her car one more time. She could take it as a warm up, maybe, instead of a time waster.
She left her cardigan on the floor as she started back through the studio. The same parents and instructors she had just passed were just where she left them, some barely even glancing up as she brushed shoulders while scooting past.
As soon as she retrieved her water bottle from the cup holder of her car, she immediately doubled back. Without her cardigan, everything was much colder outside than she remembered. At least she still had her leg warmers and skirt on.
Speeding up to a jogging pace, (Y/N) just began pulling open the door when the weight of the pull drastically changed. Someone on the other side was pushing, she gathered, just a hair too late. The strength she had put into opening the heavy door was now overpowered, throwing her off balance as she stumbled back. A gasp left her mouth as her arms fluttered out beside her, eyes flicking behind her shoulder.
In the same moment, a strong hand sharply took her arm. The grip steadied her back on her feet before her skirt and thighs could be marred by a fall on the pavement. Once flat on her feet—and feeling much less graceful than any ballerina should—(Y/N) looked up at the owner of the saving hand.
A man she didn't recognize as a fellow dancer, a parent she had passed in the hallway, or a production member for the upcoming show stood before her. A warm brown suit was tailored to his form, tie knotted tight around his neck in a matching hue. The warmth traveled up to the dappled chocolate shades on his hair, everything pushed out of his face though the curling texture could still be seen framing his temples. All of the brown framing him left the green of his eyes to pop against his creamy skin, varying shades flecking his irises. A handful of freckles were spread across the bridge of his nose, faint even under the lowering golden sun. Shadows were cast across his face, emphasizing the straight lines of his features.
Regaining her breath, she felt her skin warm as his hand slipped off from her arm. "Sorry, I didn't—I wasn't paying attention. Thanks for... stopping me."
A slight smile touched the man's raspberry lips. Faint dimples thumbed into his cheeks for a fleeting moment. (Y/N) swore, if even for a second, his eyes glazed over the planes of her face.
"No worries," he assured, voice accented and warm as he took steps to hedge around her, "Jus' be careful."
"Right," (Y/N) breathed out with a laugh.
She took lingering steps back towards the building. Only for one second did she allow herself to look over her shoulder, following his retreating form towards a sparkling car in the lot.
His shoulders...
Blinking herself back to real life, (Y/N) reminded herself there was a whole rehearsal room waiting for her.
—————
(Y/N) curled up in her seat, extensively grateful to have been able to stop home before coming to the evening's meeting. If she had been forced to sit through this in her jeans, she worried she would have lost her mind.
"I know we do these later so everyone has a chance to make it after work and all, but I really don't want to be here past nine," Siobhan muttered at her side, voice joining the quiet chitter that was filling the theater.
(Y/N) hummed in agreement. As nice as it was to see the theater again—especially now that she was able to picture herself twirling in the spotlight right in the center—she would much rather have attended through video. At least this gave her an excuse to pick up dinner on her way home instead of cooking anything.
Ms. Ariel is heard before she is seen, the click of her shoes echoing across the stage. In a line, she was followed by her assisting choreographers, the orchestra conductor, alongside the musical and production directors. She didn't hesitate as she took center stage over the directors, hands clasped at her middle with a beaming smile on her lips.
"Thank you all for coming tonight—I know it's late so we'll make this quick for everyone," Ms. Ariel started, sweeping her gaze across the rows of filled seats. "We'll all be working very closely together these next months, so I want to make sure we are all on the same page going forward."
The theater fell silent save for Ms. Ariel at center stage as she listed off her cohorts for the production, the timeline coming after. The show's opening weekend would come at the end of April, celebrating the peak of spring. Rehearsals, both individual for the principals and ensembles, would be starting on Monday; the schedule should already be in everyone's inbox.
(Y/N) listened intently, feeling the pressure of being this season's lead. She didn't want to miss a single word. This spring was going to be her moment—her chance at hopefully making a real name for herself in this city. Opportunities like this didn't come to many dancers, especially not after she moved companies mid-way through her career. If she were to be lucky enough, she wouldn't even need to hold a day job, ballerina becoming her sole title.
The anticipation built a fire in her chest, the kind that urged her to get started right now. She didn't need to sleep, she needed to get into a rehearsal space and practice her thirty-two fouettés. She wanted to try on her tutus and practice slicking her hair back. Tchaikovsky was about to be her top artist for the next few months.
"I would also like to introduce this season's patron. We don't usually do this, but our spring patron has a special role. I realize a few of you have already met him, but for everyone who has not,"—she looked to stage right just as heavy steps began to descend upon the stage—"this is Harry Styles. He will be very present through this season, and has already helped a lot, so if you have any questions, you can always ask him as well."
(Y/N) blinked as she took in the man now standing at Ms. Ariel's side. Clad in a navy blue suit, matching tie wrapped around his neck, was the man that had kept her from stumbling back onto her rear just the other day. The man with the green eyes and the warm brown hair, the one with the sprinkled freckles on his nose. His shoulders were just as broad as she remembered.
His eyes swept over the rows of dancers; (Y/N) swore he snagged on her for an extra second. A small smile touched her lips. "Hello," he quietly muttered at Ms. Ariel's side, his voice graveled from disuse.
He was quiet then as Ms. Ariel continued speaking, clarifying his role and the role of the others on stage. He had his hand clasped behind him, entirely reserved as if he didn't realize he was as tall and broad as he was.
This was not at all the kind of man she pictured when the girls had talked about Scary Harry. he was so reserved, so put together. He almost seemed shy with the way he kept twisting and untwisting his fingers at his back, the view only given when he swiveled enough for her to see his back.
She had pictured leering eyes, gnarled hands that had grabbed and pushed and reached over the heads of others. While she couldn't say that this man wasn't intimidating, it just wasn't in the way she had thought. He was almost too pretty to look at, she thought; long lashes, flushed cheeks, freckled nose. The lines of his face had softened in her memory, leaving her to be struck again by the straight set of his nose and cut of his jaw.
While looks could be deceiving, she hoped she wasn't wrong about the soft set of his eyes.
"Was there anything anyone wanted to add before we adjourned for the night?" Ms. Ariel asked, taking a step back as she looked at her colleagues. A pause of silence sounded among the stage.
"Um," Harry finally piped up, cheeks gaining a flush (Y/N) couldn't be sure was there just moments before, "I wanted to say thank you to Ms. Ariel and the rest of the directing team for allowing me to be a part of another production. I realize I haven't had a chance to meet many of you,"—he looked at the dancers now, eyes dancing to each face—"but I look forward to working with each of you. I can't wait to see how this show comes together."
He ended with a thin smile on his face, lips pressed together with a nod of his head. Ms. Ariel led the team in a round of applause before calling for the end of the meeting. As the dancers around (Y/N) stood to collect their things, she lingered for just a moment. Eyes on the stage, she saw as Harry watched the flood of dancers, almost looking just as relieved as everyone else set free from this meeting. Even from here, she could see that color that had painted his cheeks draining back to the peaches and cream of his regular complexion.
"Are you coming or did your legs fall asleep?" Siobhan asked beside her, stretching with her arms above her head.
"Oh yeah," (Y/N) sighed, falling back to herself as she took her eyes from Harry. "Sorry, I think I'm more tired than I thought."
"Same," Siobhan laughed, "I'm already exhausted from the rehearsal schedule and it hasn't even started."
"Exactly," (Y/N) agreed with a small smile, collecting her things before starting to follow the rest of the company out of the theater.
Even when she heard the low rumble of Harry's voice meld with the rest of the executive team, she made a point to keep her eyes forward. Siobhan didn't need to notice this sparking curiosity just yet.
—————
(Y/N) idly twirled as the Swan Theme played through her rehearsal space, mesh skirt flaring out around her hips. She could imagine the scene playing out like a film in her head: the first moment she is introduced as Odette, as she hides from Prince Siegfried aiming a crossbow in her direction. Though they were far out from donning costumes, she couldn't help but to imagine herself in that traditional pristine white, feathered tutu with a gleaming bodice.
Ms. Ariel entered the studio, fanning her hands out. "Sorry, sorry—Rima wanted help with the ensemble blocking. Did you see the video I left up on the iPad?"
(Y/N) smiled, "It’s alright. I did watch it, yeah. Is that the version we're going with?"
"A little," Ms. Ariel shrugged, lips pursed, "I wanted to do a prologue like that, but I wanted to see if you had any thoughts on doing the epilogue instead."
The solid toes of her pointe shoes tapped across the floor as she blocked herself out through the swelling music. "Is there a way we can do both?" (Y/N) asked, a bit sheepish at her request. More stage time meant more money, more production, more time.
Ms. Ariel paused, head tilted as she scrolled through on the tablet. "A prerecorded epilogue? We could project it into the curtain right before."
"That might be fun," (Y/N) offered, unable to help herself as she twirled along to the music. The crescendos and dips had her pirouetting and sweeping through the room. The sound of her pointe shoes tapping against the hardwood was especially satisfying alongside Tchaikovsky. "We could make the transformation to the swan look extra special if we can edit it right."
The choreographer brightened at the thought. "And for Rothbart."
(Y/N) smiled at the light in Ms. Ariel's tone. She doubted there was any more convincing needed.
The sound of Ms. Ariel's mind working practically joined the soundtrack, all of the gears and cogs spinning like a sewing machine as the production began to thread together. While (Y/N) was sure this first rehearsal between them was supposed to help her get into the character of Odette, and the counterpart of Odile, she wasn't going to interrupt Ms. Ariel after getting her say in for the progression of the story.
Instead, (Y/N) twirled and jumped, playing along with the music filtering through the space. From her periphery, she could see some of the ensemble dancers coasting past the peekaboo window into the studio. Some of the girls stopped, lingering in front of the window as they watched the impromptu moves (Y/N) performed. She smiled when she caught their gazes, offering a small wave as she twirled through the room.
"(Y/N), come look at this," Ms. Ariel called over the orchestra, gesturing her over to the sound system.
Giving one last beaming smile to her fellow dancers, (Y/N) whirled around to make her way across the room. She picked up her water bottle on the way.
With the way the media cart stood and Ms. Ariel had positioned herself, the mirror before them showed off everything at (Y/N)'s back. Including the large open window for spectators.
Though she gave her attention to the examples Ms. Ariel was going over for the prologue, deciding just how extensive they wanted to get with the prerecording, it was hard to ignore the flutter of movement showcased in the mirror. She glanced up to find some of the girls—Sasha and Lydia included—flitting past during their own break from ensemble work. A small smile touched (Y/N)'s lips as she made eye contact with the group that will be making up her wedge of swans.
That curl stilled when she spotted the quiet figure standing behind the shifting crowd, arms crossed with lips in a thin line.
Harry Styles was there. Watching her rehearse for who knows how long.
There was a definitive space between the window and where he stood against the other side of the hallway. The rest of the dancers made their way through the gap, minding his personal space specifically. (Y/N) wondered how many of them had also just heard the plethora of rumors about their spring patron.
(Y/N) met the intensity of his gaze for no longer than a split second before she flicked away, her skin growing warm. Her brain glitched, throwing the last few words from Ms. Ariel right out of her head.
She had heard him say that he was going to be more involved. Siobhan had even warned her that he typically was seen much more through the studio during the spring. And yet, (Y/N) hadn't been expecting to see him. Not on her first day as the swan.
Especially not looking at her the way he was. Furrowed brows and green gaze intense enough to make her blood simmer under her skin.
"I think we could do something with that, right?"
(Y/N) blinked. "Yeah, definitely. It looks fun."
She spared one more glance to the mirror only to find that corner no longer occupied. A familiar back was now retreating down the hall.
—————
"That was good, (Y/N). You did good. How do you feel?"
Out of breath, she nodded her head, "Good—Really good." Despite the sweat beading down the back of her neck and the sore muscles in her stomach, she held a beaming smile on her face.
This week had been all about strength training in between rehearsing the numbers, working up her core in preparation for the thirty-two fouettés for Odile. They were far from done in that department, but everyday (Y/N) grew more and more steady. After this weekend, she would begin rehearsing with Kingston as Prince Siegfried, and start working with the ensemble of swans.
Ms. Ariel matched her smile, her own skin shining with a sheen of sweat from working alongside (Y/N). "You'll sleep hard tonight, that's for sure," she laughed, settling her hands on her arms, "Rest up this weekend, but keep up with your stretching. If you need anything just text me."
"I will," (Y/N) heaved, catching her breath, "Thank you."
With a squeeze of her arms, Ms. Ariel bid her a goodnight before leaving for her office for the remainder of the evening. (Y/N) took her time collecting her things, chugging down the final dredges of her water before reaching for her phone. It didn't take long before she was scrolling through a food delivery app, eager to pick out her dinner for the night. She deserved something greasy and salty after the workout this practice was.
The spectator's window was empty tonight, the ensemble heard next door as they practiced their own numbers. (Y/N) was growing so used to the audience, that it felt weird to not have any watching eyes tracking her moves.
Though there was still a specific pair of eyes that still threw her off balance whenever she caught sight of them.
Harry hadn't bumped into her again or shared any more words past a good morning or good night depending on when they happened to pass in the hallway. Their interactions now lived mainly on opposite sides of the glass, (Y/N) dancing and breaking in her pointe shoes with Harry watching the moves like a television judge.
Though it didn't appear he even stopped by her studio this evening.
Exiting the space with her tote on her shoulder, (Y/N) double checked the pick up time for her dinner. Another twenty minutes of waiting before the three minute drive she'd make to the restaurant.
Now it was her turn to be a spectator, she thought. Taking a seat on the love seat offered before the glass, she was going to watch the swans dance.
The ensemble tonight consisted of Siobhan, Lydia, Sasha, and two other dancers. Their backs were to her as they faced the mirror. Through the pane, (Y/N) could hear the Dance of the Cygnets playing, the baseline becoming the thumps of the pointe shoes hitting the ground.
As hard as she knew she was working, she couldn't imagine being tasked with this number. The techniques were famously hard to get down. But here the girls were, more in sync than she would imagine a group of dancers who had only been practicing together for a week.
From her view, she could see the small smile on her as she watched the move.
She could also see the shadow of another person edging into the space next to her.
From the corner of her eye, she saw a familiar broad form, clad in a traditional black suit, watching the dancers with her. (Y/N) rolled her lips between her teeth.
Was she supposed to say hi? It wasn't much of a secret that Harry wasn't particularly talkative when it came to interacting with the dancers. The only person he was regularly conversing with tended to be Ms. Ariel or the rest of the department heads. For the ballerinas, he reserved subdued smiles and quiet greetings.
It felt... rude, though. To not say anything to him. They were all dancing on his dime this season, anyway.
Besides, (Y/N) had to wonder if his reserved persona came from the fact that there was a rumor mill churning out stories in his name. She doubted anyone had come to him personally with any of these stories, but it was hard to believe that in the last few years of production that he hadn't heard something.
Before she could think too hard about it, she tipped her head towards him, face angled upwards to where he was standing at the other end of the loveseat. His brows were set in that signature furrow, intense gaze just short of burning a hole through the glass.
"What do you think?" she asked quietly, just audible over the orchestral music and thumping pointe shoes.
From where she sat, she could see the way his hands, hidden under his folded arms, curled into fists, his lashes fluttering as he blinked. His throat bobbed as he turned to match her gaze, the pinch in his brows smoothing out.
"Um," he started, flitting his gaze to the window for a lingering moment, "They're really good already. Everyone's doing really well. Very talented."
A warm smile molded (Y/N)'s features. That was a high honor coming from him, someone who had to have seen countless ballets by this point in his life.
"It's crazy how they can only get better from here," (Y/N) said, an airy laugh threaded through the words.
"It is," he answered simply, a barely there twitch touching the corner of his mouth.
A silence settled between them, the music inside the studio starting up again as the ladies reblocked themselves to start the number over. Glancing at the time, (Y/N) was two minutes past when she should have left to pick up her dinner.
Standing up from where she had made her home on the loveseat, she hiked her bag up her shoulder before turning to face Harry.
"Thank you for everything you're doing for this production, by the way. I don't think I really understand what a patron is able to do, but I'm sure it's hard work," (Y/N) laughed at her attempt at a joke. Hopefully, he thought it was funny and not that she was some kind of silly ballerina with ribbons for brains.
When he finally turned to look at her, that initial twitch of his lips she'd seen before hard turned into a slight curl. A ghost of a dimple touched his cheek.
"Of course. It's worth it."
(Y/N) matched his smile with her own beaming one. "I'll see you around, Harry. Have a nice night."
The last she saw of him was the small nod he gave in her direction, with his hands hidden under his folded arms flexing into fists.
"You as well, (Y/N)."
—————
(Y/N) rolled her neck as she turned the page on the lengthy manuscript in her hands. This author definitely loved a long, descriptive, adverb heavy sentences.
As grateful as she was to be a real life ballerina—the prima for the season, even—as a little girl, (Y/N) didn't picture her life consisting of playing in tutus and pointe shoes in the evening with a day job. But, the money for her apartment has to come from somewhere until she could be a real principal dancer for more than a passing production.
All she needed to do was get through this chapter, make her suggested edits, and then she'll let herself take a break.
Harshly blinking, (Y/N) directed her attention solely on the typed pages in her hands.
His palms flexed around nothing, tattoos dancing over the golden skin, leading her eye to the hem of his sleeve. Rebekah eyed him as he hesitated, tongue thick in the back of his throat. The Adam's apple adorning the front of his throat bobbed like the apple of eden, forbidden for anything more than her eyes.
Archer was never this nervous, she realized. Never tongue tied, never hesitant. his entire life—career, bedroom persona, spot as the captain of his hatchet-throwing league—was built on him being certain of every move.
This couldn't be good, she decided. Not when he looked at her with his glittering eyes, long lashes, the corners pinching just enough to show creases that weren't typically there. He was going to tell her something she wasn't ready to hear. Something she didn't want to hear from his rosy lips.
"Bek, I... I can't keep doing this," he choked out, his voice a rumbly mix of gravel and gemstones, "We have to stop."
Rebekah blinked, tipping her head with pouty mouth agape. "What do you mean?"
Those hands flexed once more, hardening into immoveable fists.
"Because I love you," he stumbled out, "I love you, and I wasn't ever supposed to.I love you too much to keep doing this when I know you don't feel the same. Not when you—
(Y/N) blinked back to real life then, startled by the film playing out in conjunction with the written words in front of her.
This man, the character Archer, had evolved into a version of Harry. The long lashes and pinched corners turned into golden flecks dancing through green irises and a furrowed brow. That golden skin went creamy with freckles on the bridge of his nose. The tattoo on his skin was now an inked cross between his pointer and thumb. (Y/N) recalled the timber of his voice and lilt of his accent when it came to the dialogue.
That wasn't right. There was no reason to be thinking of Harry Styles—the patron of her ballet company—at the moment. Not when she was reading a manuscript about a couple engaged in a BDSM arrangement that went too far in the feelings department.
(With the main male character also being a hatchet throwing captain? That was a detail (Y/N) couldn't remember hearing, but she hoped she marked that as needing a revision).
Her break was going to have to start now, she decided. Having a two minute conversation with him almost a week ago was not supposed to linger in her mind like this.
(Y/N) folded the manuscript closed, determined to take that vision with it.
—————
"You're alright locking up?"
Ms. Ariel looked at (Y/N) with her handbag in the crook of her elbow, bottom lip caught between her teeth. Though she tried to be discreet about it, (Y/N) still caught the nervous glance she shot at the clock above the window. 8:34pm.
"Yes, I'll be fine," (Y/N) insisted. For the third time. "I'll be right behind you, anyway. Don't worry."
"Okay, okay," Ms. Ariel finally relented, shooting off a text as she edged out of the door. "If you need anything, just call and I'll turn around."
(Y/N) nodded her head, knowing that no matter what she isn't going to call Ms. Ariel for anything. Not after she had already arranged a rehearsal time to work around (Y/N)'s editing deadline.
(She had a hard time getting back into the headspace to finish that manuscript. Every time she opened it up, Harry's face somehow made its way onto the male love interest's body. Very confusing).
Just as (Y/N) began collecting her things, silence filling the darkened building, a set of pounding footsteps clicked through the space once more. She jumped at the sound, her spine stiffening to go ramrod straight with her eyes on the door.
Was there another late lesson going on? Another group rehearsing that she's missed?
Ms. Ariel popped her head in once more, phone pressed to her ear. "I gave you a key, right? Or did I give it to Harry?"
Her brow pinched to a furrow at her choreographer's question. "I have a key," she offered, hoping her unasked question received an answer anyway.
She watched as Ms. Ariel deflated in relief. "Okay, great. I'll see you Monday—Keep stretching! If you want extra time, just call me!"
This time, (Y/N) waited until she heard Ms. Ariel's footsteps retreat through the building, bookended by the resounding click of the front door closing. Then she felt clear to pack up and clean up the space. Trading out her shoes, she held onto her discarded pointes by the ribbons. The shoes dangled at her side as she cruised through the building, glancing through the window of each rehearsal space to ensure all lights were off with doors pulled shut.
Making it to the front door, she pulled out the key passed on by Ms. Ariel. According to the directions given, the door needed to be locked up before she stepped outside; when (Y/N) asked why she couldn't lock everything from the outside as normal, Ms. Ariel just gave a flapped hand and a promise of "it's a long story!".
Sticking the weathered key into the lock, she twisted her wrist only for the lock itself to halt the motion. Her brows knitted together, eyes on her hand as she attempted once more to break whatever blocked the twist.
She wasn't sure how long she stood there attempting to push through the block. She pulled out the key and reslotted it, attempted to brute force her way against the block, twisted the knob along with the key. At some point she even took a breath and checked her phone, pretending as if she didn't desperately need this key to do its job. She couldn't call Ms. Ariel, not when she was already almost late to her stepdaughter's graduation dinner.
But, she also can't just leave the studio unlocked.
Her palm grew slick with panic sweat. Okay, if she doesn't get it in the next three tries, she has no choice but to call Ms. Ariel. She will grovel and beg for forgiveness later, but the door needed to be locked now.
"Is it sticking, again?"
At the sound of another voice, (Y/N) almost jumped out of her skin. Whirling around, hand to her throat, she saw Harry standing just beside her. His clothing was much the same as usual, though he was missing the tie and the first buttons of his shirt were let loose. He looked to her with raised brows, apology on his lips.
"Oh my god, you scared me."
"Sorry," he breathed, a bit sheepish in the way he dropped his gaze to her hand, "I thought y'heard me. Sorry."
With her heart rate settling, (Y/N) calmed enough to give a small smile at the sound of the apologies just flooding from Harry. How those rumors could hold up against everything that she saw in front of her, she couldn't understand.
Her imagination did not compare to the real thing, that was for sure.
"It's okay," she offered, "I didn't know anyone else was here."
Harry gave a half-hearted shrug. "Yeah. Ariel gave me some plans for set pieces to look over and approve before Monday, so 'm jus' finishing that up. I didn't know y'practiced this late?"
"Sometimes," (Y/N) chirped, "It depends on my work schedule. But I don't think I'll ever leave before Ms. Ariel ever again—especially since I apparently broke the lock."
Harry let out an airy laugh at her words. "'S tricky," he murmured, "It sticks all the time. I don't know why Ariel wants everything to be locked from the inside when it barely works."
"Oh," (Y/N) sounded, taking the key out of the lock with suddenly tired limbs. Now, without panic fueling her, she felt particularly fatigued. "Okay."
"Sorry I didn't catch y'earlier."
"It's okay," she shook her head, "You're still working?"
Harry nodded, matching her gaze tentatively. "I can lock up if y'want."
"That would be really nice, I think," she said on a breathy peel of laughter, "Do you need the key?"
"I've got one," he said, a slight curl to his lips. There was that ghost of a dimple denting his cheek, gone before she had a real chance to admire it.
"Cool, thank you," she responded lamely, feeling a bit silly now that she realized just how much that panic had caused her to stress sweat. She didn't particularly feel like a pretty ballerina when this heady sheen of sweat and sticky underarms. "I'll see you next week?"
"At some point, I'm sure," Harry smiled, this time showing two barely there dips in his cheeks. "Get home safe, (Y/N)."
Edging out the door, a small smile bloomed over her lips. "You too, Harry."
With that, (Y/N) was out the door before she had any more material to replace characters with in her manuscripts.
Though, as she pulled away, she couldn't help the look into the rearview mirror. Right at the glass door of the studio, where she swore she could see Harry turning back into the building.
He waited for her.
—————
(Y/N) twisted in the mirror, pristine white tutu fluffing around her hips. Feathers were carefully laid along much of the bodice and layered over the very top of the tutu. The thin straps of her top were pinned with down feathers, more being pinned across the back to give the look of feathered wings sprouting between her shoulder blades. On the top layer of the tutu the collection of feathers thinned until they were nothing but small puffs over the tulle. Throughout, there were crystals beaded on the costume, gilding the feathers and looking like dew drops as they rained down to set along the fluffy layers of her tutu. Everything was made costume to her measurements, acting like a second skin as she moved and stretched. On a hanger behind her was the black version of the same outfit, reserved for her numbers as Odile.
"(Y/N), that is so pretty!" Siobhan's excited squeal broke over the noise in the studio. She, also clad in her swan's costume, bounced up to where (Y/N) was standing on an apple box while the head of the costume department did her own analysis of the outfit. "Do you love it?"
"I do," (Y/N) smiled, shooting a look to the costumer through the mirror. "It's perfect."
Lea, the costume head, reciprocated her smile in quiet thanks, though her critical eye continued looking over the tutu. With only a month until opening weekend, any last minute changes to these outfits were going to have to happen as quickly as possible.
The other principals—Prince Siegfried and Rothbart—were being sized alongside her, though their own garments weren’t quite as elaborate as her own. Other dancers—swans—were fluttered through the space, followed by others in the costume department to mark alterations. There was a level of chaos filling the room, but there was something special seeing all of the flickering crystals. The rainbows of light danced over the walls, trails of glitter falling in the wake of the rotating swans, the specks now forever a part of the flooring.
Even without everyone cast in their makeup, their hair pasted and gelled to perfection, there was still a magic to this cast. This was the Swan Lake.
She was Odette.
"Ready to try on Odile?"
(Y/N) blinked back to her own body, meeting Lea's eyes in the mirror. "Sure, yeah!"
"I can grab it!" Siobhan bubbled, trundling away towards the rack holding the Swan Princess collection of costumes.
Beginning to untie the back of her bodice with the help of Lea, (Y/N)'s eyes followed Siobhan's journey to the rack. The black crystals caught her eye, the light glancing off of the facets like starlight. She admired the points of light dotted along the walls.
Her breath caught when she looked through the window.
Through the glass was Ms. Ariel, huddled with another. Her eyes skimmed across the whole space, while the others' were trained in one spot: right on (Y/N).
Harry gave her a lingering look. His gaze touched on the details of her costume, following the flow of the feathers and the dripping crystals. He wasn't aware he had been caught, that much was clear.
Especially when his lingering eyes finally worked their way back up to her face. Even though the glass, (Y/N) could see the flush that painted his cheeks, his eyes quickly flitting away.
A small smile curled (Y/N)'s lips, her own skin warming just as Siobhan returned with the black swan regalia.
"What?" Siobhan prodded, huddling closer to her friend in conspiracy. "Did I miss something?"
(Y/N) was quick to shake her head, "No—just watching the swans run around. I think Lea's team is going to lose their minds."
At that, Siobhan and Lea both blurt out in laughter.
Through the mirror, (Y/N) could see Ms. Ariel and Harry departing from the viewing window. Her smile fell the smallest bit.
—————
"Has anyone said where the dinner next week is booked?"
A shiver ran down (Y/N)'s spine as she gulped down the shot that Kingston—her counterpart as Prince Siegfried—had already muscled through. She couldn't even process his question for another three seconds, eyes shut closed as she attempted to look tougher than she actually was when it came to shots. They were supposed to be grabbing drinks and snacks for the entire table of other dancers—post rehearsal bonding—before Kingston had egged her into taking a shot with him while they waited on the chips and guac.
"No," she finally coughed out. "I haven't heard anything. I don't think anyone's actually decided yet."
"Well, we only have, like, less than a week before opening night, and I won't go on without a family dinner the night before." Kingston looked at her with a raised brow in defiance.
"As if we'd put on the show without you," (Y/N) smiled, bumping her hip against her friend's.
"I don't know," he drawled, tipping his head in her direction. Kingston looked at her through his lashes, his dreads falling over his shoulder as he leaned in conspiratorially towards her. "I think you'd replace me if you could."
(Y/N) blanched at the accusation. That wasn't the kind of thing she thought he had in mind when he leaned into her like they were sharing an inside joke.
"Why would you say that? I would never replace you!"
Kingston let out a boisterous laugh. He threw his head back, unperturbed by (Y/N)'s blatant shock.
"You didn't think I would notice?" he pressed, huddling close to her once more. "You know I always know what's going on around the company."
When (Y/N) only looked at him with her furrowed brows, nothing leaving her lips, he let out another laugh. This one coming out airy and a bit more private.
The volume of his voice dropped to match as he inclined his head in her direction. "How's Harry?"
Her knee-jerk reaction came in the dropping of her jaw and a mumbled Um. This question shouldn't elicit any kind of reaction from her, that was something she knew. If he was asking her seriously, how Harry was, she wouldn't even have an answer. They've exchanged maybe twenty words, at most.
Yet, there was still a warmth simmering under her skin. She felt like she'd been caught.
"What do you mean?" she finally settled on. Hopefully, the least conspicuous of responses.
Kingston was not at all fooled. "You think he came to watch Kaleb be fitted into the monster costume? Especially when there was the Swan right there? The same one that always looks all giggly every time he's around?"
(Y/N) dropped her eyes to the bar top. How long could a bowl of guacamole take?
"It's okay, you know," Kingston relented, bumping (Y/N)'s hip. "I'm just playing around. He's cute—I don't blame you."
Maybe it was the shot working its magic in her system, maybe it was the fact that no one else had seemed to share this kind of fascination with him. But, (Y/N) nodded, rolling her lips between her teeth.
"Really cute."
"See, I knew it," Kingston declared, looking triumphant before casting his eyes down the bar. "You know, though, right?"
She paused. "About the... rumors, or?"
"Mhm," he hummed, "Or am I going to have to be the one to burst your bubble?"
(Y/N) felt her bubble burst anyway then. She thought Kingston was on the same page as her. He hadn't been around the company much longer than she had, neither of them being present when the whole ordeal had gone down. He was supposed to be as naively open as she was.
"No. I know."
"Good," he said, looking at her with a serious set in his gaze, "The only reason I bring it up is because I want you to be careful. I know you can take care of yourself, but if any of what people have said is true, that's a situation none of us need to get into. If it does go further than the studio, just let someone know—just in case."
"I—Wait—" (Y/N) floundered, unsure of what front to attack first. "It's—No, it's not like that. We've barely ever talked, there's nothing to go further with."
Kingston lifted his hands as if in surrender, only missing the white flag. "I had to say it, just in case."
(Y/N) shook her head. "It's not like that at all," she swallowed, "And... I don't think any of that stuff is true anyway. What people have said. Ms. Ariel wouldn't let him work with us if she thought he was... bad."
He gave her a half shrug. "You never know, babe. Just be safe and aware, that's all."
Before much more could be offered in her defense, the bartender returned with a tray of chips and guacamole, fresh from the tiny kitchen in the back.
"I'm so sorry about that wait!" she chattered, "We're training back there. Thank you for being so patient!"
Kingston offered assurances that there was nothing to be sorry for before collecting all of their drinks and snacks upon the newly gifted tray. (Y/N) kept her mouth shut, helping to carry all of the drinks and everything else they ordered.
"It's okay, (Y/N)," Kingston murmured, a kind smile on his face, "Let me know if you ever need anything, that's all I'm saying. Your secret is safe with me."
(Y/N) gave a small smile in response. She understood where Kingston was coming from; if one of her friends told her they were interested in someone who had even a whiff of a possibility of being harmful to an ex in the past, she would be staking out the house at all times. Just because she didn't believe Harry fell into that category didn’t mean no one else could worry about her.
And it wasn't like she was interested in him anyway. Not when she'd barely spoken to him.
—————
(Y/N), arms extended at her sides, thighs tight as she held her legs in straight pointed lines, soared above the stage. Kingston, dressed as Prince Siegfried, lifted her over the boards in time with the swelling music. She hoped the light caught her tears just right, letting them sparkle just like the crystals on her costume.
Odette and Siegfried were in the afterlife, free from the wrath of Rothbart and the swan curse. The goal was to be as ethereally blissful as she could achieve, overjoyed with the eternity that stretched before her with the love of her life. The one who sacrificed himself to be with her, no matter that the sacrifice was his life.
If she would be able to achieve these same tears, the same clutching fingers that clung to Kingston, the recentering of her gravity as she revolved around him—all while she performed as the prima she had been named, perfect in technique and timing—(Y/N) wasn't sure. Especially when a theater full of eyes would be trained right on her.
She supposed that was what practice was for, anyway. Now was the time to find herself in these moments, in the halves of the swan, so she wouldn't have a problem giving the performance of a lifetime when it came to opening night.
Besides, if her feet and legs hurt then as much as they did now, she doubted it would be very hard to summon tears to her eyes.
(No one had warned her the fouettes were going to make her toes go numb, especially being performed over and over again every week. Any pedicures were going to have to wait until they wrapped, it appeared).
The song came to an end, the finale upon her as Kingston lowered her to the ground, twirling her into him. Pressing his forehead to hers, they shared a moment in the dreamscape that would be projected over them during the show. Her eyes fluttered closed as they caught their breaths together, skin slick with sweat.
As soon as the music flourished to a feathery end, (Y/N) pulled him in for a real hug.
"We did it!" she bubbled, jumping up and down on the flat of her pointe shoes. Their first full run of the show was complete, costumes and all.
"I think I'm going to fall over," Kingston laughed, holding her just as hard. Though it wasn't his first time as a principal, he still glowed like never before. Perfect evidence as to why he was cast as the Prince Charming of Odette's story.
"Let's go sit before Ms. Ariel makes us go again," (Y/N) laughed, still greatly out of breath.
Though she took Kingston's hand, ready to lead him to the edge of the stage to take a breather, where he could easily access his inhaler should he not regain his breath, they both stilled, awaiting their proper dismissal. Out in the aisle of the theater, standing a few rows from the front was Ms. Ariel and the director of the production.
And Harry.
They had all watched the tail end of the run, staying silent. Looking out to the trio of faces, (Y/N) couldn't help but to snag on Harry's.
Gone was the pinched brow, the crossed arms, the intense eyes. The lines of his face were left to soften in the shadows of the theater. His eyes gleamed in the low light as he gazed up at her. If she didn't know any better, she would have liked to think of his gaze as admiring with the way he looked at her.
Like she was something to revere, complete with overheated skin, a sheen of sweat, and trembling limbs.
It was Ms. Ariel's voice that threw her back into the rest of the world.
"That was beautiful, you two. Almost perfect," she smiled, this time taking on Harry's previously critical stance with crossed arms and squinted eyes. "There's a couple of blocking changes we need to make, and I want you two to rehearse as much as you can together for the next week, even if I'm not there. But, you have it. I believe it."
That was the biggest relief (Y/N) could have been given. She could perfect her technique, she could learn the steps and refine her shapes, but if no one believed the story she was selling, it would all become a moot point.
"Thank you," she murmured, Kingston doing the same with his hand held in hers.
"Take a break, okay? I'll call you when I'm ready to block."
They didn't need to be told twice before both Kingston and (Y/N) were rushing from the stage, Kingston being dragged behind the swan.
Before exiting into the backstage and disappearing from the front of the theater, (Y/N) stole a glance in the direction she knew she shouldn't.
Nonetheless, she felt a heat bubble behind her cheeks when she met a pair of green, gleaming eyes.
Kingston had to tear her away, leading them backstage.
—————
Adjusting her leg warmers, (Y/N) curled into her theater seat, eyes fixed on the stage.
Just days from now, she was going to be up there, these seats filled to the brim with spectators. Opening night was officially sold out as of yesterday morning.
Tonight was the tech run of the show. This was (Y/N)'s first look at the set up of the show, complete with set pieces and the proper lighting. The orchestra had already had their own run earlier in the evening, though (Y/N) could still peek at the pit before the stage filled with seats and sheet music. For now, a track was faintly playing through the speakers of the theater to make up for the lack of band, letting the notes be the cue for the lighting and the different effects set forth from the tech booth.
The director, Ms. Ariel, and majority of the production team was present for the run. (Y/N) was the only person sitting in one of the plush red theater seats, having come here right after leaving the studio.
Tomorrow was the final rehearsal, set with the entire cast and ensemble , even the understudies and alternates. After that, a day of rest would be given, including a night out for a family dinner amongst the cast before they would be swinging for the fences, multiple shows every week for the next eight weeks.
Tonight was her last moment of peace here in the theater, she thought. Before she would be slotted in as Odette every night, feeling the weight of the story and the pressure of the technique until each movement came as easy as breathing.
The spotlight glided over the stage, following an invisible dancer. The production lead shouted corrections from the wings, ensuring everything would be perfectly in line with the stage directions Ms. Ariel gave at the beginning of the night.
For a moment, just seeing the spotlight, something in (Y/N) shimmered, warming her chest.
In days, it would be her shining under the light. The beads on her costume would cast rainbows over the audience. She was going to be clad in feathers, moving just like one over the stage. She would be captivating the theater as she told a story she'd held so close to her heart since she was a girl. Seeing that spotlight, she was only reminded of the gravity of what she had signed up for.
(Y/N) was a ballerina. A prima for the first time in her life. She was Odette and Odile, two of the most famous characters in ballet history.
This was her dream.
Absorbed in the phantom show going on in front of her, (Y/N) didn't notice she was no longer alone until the static prick of the air shifting her took her attention. At the end of the aisle, she saw Harry.
He stood with the grays of his suit blending into the shadows of the theater, his hands folded behind him. He looked taken aback when she spotted him, his mouth opened like a guppy, the barely there light pointing out the quiet flush on his cheeks. She couldn't help the small smile that molded her features at his expression.
"Harry?" she asked, voice just over the sound of Tchaikovsky
"I—Sorry," he said, dropping his gaze to land on one of the seats surrounding her, "Do y'mind if I sit with you?"
"Of course not," she beamed, making room for him as she removed her jacket and tote bag off the seat next to her.
Harry side steps his way into the aisle, taking the plush seat at her side. He carried a warmth with him as he sunk into the spot, wafting around her. She felt his presence like a static at her side, taking up weighty space. The stagnant scent of the theater now replaced with something warm and charred, flicks of something sweet threaded through. He definitely smelled much better than she did after dating through the entire morning.
Moments passed as they both looked ahead, watching as the show came together. Projections danced around the stage, showing a wintery blue sky while snowflakes fell in puffs down to the boards. Somewhere off stage, a gentle breeze blew through to sweep the flakes askew, the effect meant to coincide with the swans that would decorate the stage in two days' time.
"It's so pretty," (Y/N) murmured, "seeing everything come together like this."
From the corner of her eye, she spotted a small smile touching Harry's lips. "'S amazing," he said, voice melodic and low like the baseline of the music.
Tipping her head, she chanced a small look in his fraction. "Does it ever get old? Seeing this all the time?"
A look passed over his features, fleeting and quick, as if he were surprised that she was acknowledging that there was ever a production before this. Like he couldn't believe she was broaching any form of the past.
She could imagine he was much more used to others tiptoeing around him. Especially when it came to this place.
Recovered, he shook his head, eyes still forward on the stage. "Never. Some shows aren't always my favorite," he smiled, "but 's never takes away from this."
"Yeah?" she perked up, forgoing her sight of the stage to give her attention to him with her chin propped up on her folded knee, "What is your favorite?"
Harry cocked his head, turning to look at her with pursed lips. "I've always liked The Rite of Spring and La Sylphide, or anything that fits the springtime." He paused, hesitating some as their eyes met. "This year's is really growing on me, though."
A bright smile bloomed on (Y/N)'s face. Though she was more than sure that it was nothing else but the light shining from the stage, the faux snowflakes reflected in his eyes, but she swore there was a twinkle in his irises. Something almost glowing as he gazed at her.
"Swan Lake is my favorite," she shared, unconsciously moving closer to him within the plush of her seat, "You've probably never seen it but there was this, like, animated kind of movie I watched when I was younger that was a version of Swan Lake and it's been my favorite ever since. It's become a lot more special to me now, though."
(Y/N) blinked, her lashes fluttering as she realized just how close she now was to Harry. Through the interaction, she had slightly shuffled until her legs were flush to the armrest, Harry's body turned straight towards her with his eyes fixed on the planes of her face.
Something pricking like static passed in the air between them.
From here, she was able to see the way his lashes tangled at the corners of his eyes. His freckles had warmed around the center of his face, the sun adding more color to the spots. The raspberry color of his lips were deepened in the shadows of the theater, berry rich.
"You're... You're an incredible dancer. I hope you know that." His voice wavered, unsure as the words slipped out.
"Thank you," she smiled, partially aware of the scene change on stage with the music lifting and the light filling through the theater. Off stage, Ms. Ariel's voice could be heard with the muffled director's. None of it was enough to steal her attention away from Harry. "I don't really understand what a patron does yet, but it seems like you do a lot for everyone—Ms. Ariel especially. Thank you for being kind and... wanting to be a part of all of this."
Harry dropped his head, breaking the intensity. "Um," he sounded, something low in the drawl of his voice, "of course. Thank you."
Mouth open, ready to ask what happened, (Y/N) was cut off by the sound of Ms. Ariel's booming voice.
"(Y/N), are you still here? Can you come up here for a second?"
That prickling static was severed at the sound of her voice. She snapped away from Harry, feeling caught red-handed. Harry watched with attentive eyes.
"Yeah, I'm here," she shouted back, giving him an apologetic smile as she rose from her spot, "Sorry. It was nice talking with you, Harry."
"'S alright. Thank you, (Y/N)."
He stayed there as she collected her things and went towards the stage. The warmth that had radiated from his presence was left behind, a flash of goosebumps erupting over her skin.
The only bit of warmth that lingered fell on her back, right where she hoped he was watching her.
—————
the swan is a central figure in the classic ballet, swan lake
ahhhhhhh thank you sm for reading! its been a long time since ive posted anything so im super excited to get something out there! so sorry for any mistakes ! I would love to hear everyone's thoughts or predictions so feel free to send them in!
authors note - realised ive not wrote anything angsty in a little while, so here’s this. enjoy huns x
word count - 1.3k
in which, it’s a thursday night, your sat up, waiting for your husband to return home, after he promised he’d be home hours ago, your sat on the sofa on the verge of tears, and when he walks through the door, all the tensions rise.
It’s a Thursday night. The clock ticks past 1:14am.
You’re still on the couch. Still waiting. Still holding your phone like it might finally buzz, light up, and tell you this has all been some stupid mistake.
But it doesn’t.
Your last message to Harry has gone unanswered for hours.
So have the others. So have your calls.
He promised he’d be home before ten.
Then the door opens. Quiet. Slow.
You hear the keys drop on the table.
And suddenly it’s real.
He’s home.
And everything in you twists.
You stand up as he enters the room, hair messy, eyes tired, jacket draped over one arm like he’s only slightly late. Like he didn’t leave you drowning in silence for hours.
He sees you and pauses mid-step. “Hey—”
“Where the hell have you been?” you cut in, voice low and cold, sharp enough to slice air.
Harry blinks. “The studio. I told you—”
“You told me you’d be home before ten.” You cross your arms. “It’s almost two, Harry.”
He exhales through his nose, rubs his jaw. “We were in the middle of something. I lost track of time.”
“You lost track of five goddamn hours?” Your voice cracks like glass. “Are you serious right now?”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t even check your phone. Not once?” You step forward, heart hammering. “You couldn’t take ten seconds to say, ‘Hey, I’m alive. I’ll be later than I said.’ That’s all it would’ve taken, Harry. Ten seconds.”
“I left it in my bag, I wasn’t checking—”
“Right. Of course,” you scoff, hands trembling now. “Because the bridge of a song was more important than me sitting here thinking you were dead somewhere on the side of the fucking road stop being dramatic.”
“Dramatic?!” you snap, voice shaking. “You disappeared, Harry. You didn’t come home. You didn’t call. I sat here imagining the worst. Every single car crash, every terrible headline—do you know what that does to a person?”
“I’m not a child, I can take care of myself—”
“Oh, congratulations,” you bite. “But maybe try taking care of the people who wait for you. Maybe try being here for the people you promised to come home to.”
He throws his jacket down. “You think I don’t care? I’m killing myself in that studio trying to make this work and all I get when I walk in the door is this—what, a guilt trip?”
Your hands clench at your sides. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare throw that in my face.”
He steps closer. “Then what do you want me to say?!”
You don’t even blink. “That you’re sorry. That you get it. That you see me.”
“He waited for you, Harry. He asked about you every twenty minutes, then he started crying because he thought he did something wrong. He kept saying, ‘Daddy always says goodnight.’ You didn’t show up.”
Harry’s face shifts — finally, a crack in the wall. “I didn’t mean to miss that. I—shit. I didn’t know.”
“No, you didn’t,” you say. “Because you forgot. Not just about me. About him. About both of them.”
And just as the words leave your mouth, a sound cuts through the hallway. Small. Wet. Fragile.
Suddenly—
A soft sound.
A sob.
You both freeze.
Then you hear it again. Louder. Fragile. Heartbreaking.
Your heads snap toward the hallway.
He’s there.
Your son.
Six years old, standing barefoot in his Star Wars pajamas, eyes full of tears, his little chest rising and falling in fast, panicked hiccups.
You don’t know how long he’s been there. Long enough.
“He baby…” you whisper, instantly walking toward him, but he recoils, crying harder, hands rubbing his eyes furiously like he doesn’t want to be seen like this.
Neither of you saw him come down the hall.
But he saw you both.
He heard you.
“Hey, hey, come here,” Harry says, rushing over, but your son shakes his head, little voice breaking:
“You were yelling…”
“I know,” Harry murmurs, kneeling down. “I know, I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I thought you weren’t coming back,” he says, the sentence fractured by sobs. “You didn’t say goodnight.”
You bite the inside of your cheek so hard you taste blood. Harry’s head dips, his shoulders crumpling.
Your son wipes his face again, still crying. “I waited…”
Harry reaches out, hand gentle, voice quiet now — too quiet, like he’s trying to stitch something broken. “Go back to bed, buddy. I’ll be there in a minute to tuck you in, yeah?”
Your son nods, hesitant, still hiccuping. But he turns, rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of his pajama top.
Harry adds, softly, “Be careful walking past your sister’s room, yeah? Don’t wake her up.”
Your freshly turned one year old.
The little boy nods again, too tired to speak, padding back down the hallway with the weight of what he overheard still thick in the air.
The silence that returns is devastating.
Harry’s still kneeling, hand resting on the floor like he’s trying to hold up the house with just his fingers.
His head drops.
“That’s what we did,” you murmur after a long pause. “That’s what we gave him tonight.”
Harry doesn’t speak. His breath is unsteady, barely there.
You glance at him. “You’re his hero, Harry. Every night, you’re the one he waits for. And tonight, you weren’t there.”
“I know,” he whispers. His voice breaks on it. “I know.”
Silence falls between you like a curtain. Heavy. Suffocating.
You sit back down, suddenly too exhausted to stand anymore. The adrenaline is ebbing and now all that’s left is this deep, hollow ache that feels like it’s been carved out of your chest.
He kneels in front of you. Hesitates. Then speaks, voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “There’s no excuse for not checking my phone. No excuse for not being here when I said I would be. You have every right to be angry.”
You want to stay mad. You want to scream. But you just look at him, eyes full of tears you no longer bother trying to hide.
“I was so scared,” you whisper. “I thought I was going to get a call from the police. Or a hospital. I couldn’t breathe.”
“I know,” he says, pain flickering across his face. “And I hate that I made you feel that way. That I wasn’t there for you.”
“I didn’t want to think the worst,” you say. “But it just kept coming, like wave after wave.”
He reaches up slowly, carefully, and brushes his fingers against your cheek. You don’t pull away this time.
“I’ll do better,” he says. “I have to do better. You matter more than anything. I don’t want you to ever feel like this again.”
You search his eyes. He means it. You know he does.
But the trust — the kind that makes you feel safe — doesn’t mend in a single apology. It has to be rebuilt. Brick by slow brick.
“I need you to understand,” you say quietly, voice raw. “I’m not angry because you were late. I’m angry because I love you so much it hurts when I don’t know if you’re okay. Because you’re my person, H. And if I lost you…”
He presses his forehead to yours. Closes his eyes. “You’re not going to lose me. I promise you.”
A long pause.
Then, as if the dam finally breaks, you collapse into his arms.
And this time, when he holds you, it feels real. Solid. Warm.
He lets you cry into his chest while he murmurs soft, broken apologies into your hair.
description: "In which, y/n is sweet as honey, and Harry is hopelessly in love with his best friend."
pairing: best friend!harry x y/n
warnings: sexual content, swearing
soft - by @moonchildstyles
description: “harry is y/ns best friend, so she thought she knew everything about him. but, it looks like they both had some secrets: harry thought about her a lot more than she realized and y/n has really soft hands.”
pairing: bestfriend!harry x y/n
warnings: sexual content, swearing
panick attack - by @muffindaddystyles
description: "Where you got a panic attack while attending a lecture at university and Harry’s out of reach."
pairing: best friend!harry x y/n
warnings: swearing, panick attacks
nest - by @moonchildstyles
description: "harry is y'ns best friend. he also happens to be an alpha. spending a week at his place has her brain doing weird things."
pairing: alpha!harry x wolf!y/n
warnings: swearing, sexual content, a/b/o
louder on set - by @havethetimeofyourstyles
description: "in which harry stumbles across your live stream."
pairing: best friend!harry x camgirl! y/n
warnings: swearing, sexual content
pleasing - by @moonchildstyles
description: "y/n is harry's best friend and she'd never received a valentine's present like this one before."
description: Harry's got the hots for his young stepmom and she's pretty fond of him too. But they're both trying really hard to be good.
pairing: stepson!harry x stepmom!y/n
warnings: sexual content, swearing
undone - by @watchmegetobsessed
description: "Harry is obsessed with Y/N. The only problem is that he is her boss, so he keeps this obsession to himself. But everything changes after one drunken night."
pairing: boss!harry x y/n
warnings: sexual content, swearing
wildest fantasies - by @watchmegetobsessed
description: "You’ve been struggling to finish your assignment for Professor Styles’ Creative Writing class. Inspiration is seem to be avoiding you, so to relieve some stress, you mess around with your roommates and write a rather dirty fiction of the hot professor everyone is into on campus."
You, Me, and the Fat Baby Makes Three - by @harryforvogue
description: "the one where Harry hasn’t been on a proper date in ages. also, he has a kid with platinum blonde hair, and makes a living by creating his own candy."
pairing: single dad!harry x y/n
warnings: swearing
untitled - by @harryhoney-bee
description: "Harry is a single dad and a nurse. Y/n is a postgraduate student who fits perfectly the spot for Estela’s babysitter."
pairing: single dad!harry x babysitter!y/n
warnings: n/a
clover - by @moonchildstyles
description: "harry is a newly single father to a brand new baby and he doesn't know what he's doing. going home for the summer, he didn't expect to find himself a new kind of honey named (y/n)"
pairing: single dad!harry x y/n
warnings: sexual content, swearing
untitled - by @jawllines
description: "Harry is a single dad and Y/N is surprisingly good at babysitting"
pairing: single dad!harry x y/n
warnings: sexual content, swearing
au pair - by @sushirrrry
description: "a working single dad and his au pair start to bond over simple bedtime routines, but a steamy kiss after bath time threatens their professional boundaries."
pairing: single dad!harry x aupair!y/n
warnings: sexual content, swearing
honey - by @1d1195
description: "Harry doesn't love anyone beyond his baby girl, his company, and his family. But when the sweet girl that adores his baby like her own infiltrates his every thought, Harry's wondering if he should make an exception."
kisses and cuddles - by @musicforastylesrestaurant
description: "in which, you're at work (much to your dismay) and harrys at home looking after your poorly two year old, who got sent home from nursery the other day with a temperature, and harry goes into full on nurse mode, giving loads of kisses and cuddles, and nursing her back to full health."
pairing: dad!harry x y/n
warnings: n/a
italy with beau - by @lovecanyon
description: "dad!harry"
pairing: dad!harry x y/n
warnings: n/a
piece of his heart - by @0oolookitsme
description: "Harry and Y/n were students, and now, parents to a newborn babygirl as well. With all of the newfound emotions rushing through them, one thing he knew was that they were going to build this new little family slowly, and lovingly."
pairing: artist!harry x photographer!y/n
warnings: mentions of unplanned pregnancy, financial stress.
spring walks - by @musicforastylesrestaurant
description: "in which, it’s your’s and harry’s first walk as a family of four, and even though it’s spring, the weathers very chilly and your little one is in the pram whilst your four year old is sat on his daddy’s shoulders."
pairing: dad!harry x y/n
warnings: n/a
take a hike - by @erodasfishtacos
description: "When Harry and Y/N take the baby for a hike and end up being followed by fans."
description: Harry regrets not getting the number of a girl he met at a speed dating event over a year ago.
pairing: older!harry x y/n
warnings: age gap (23/36), alludes to smut.
{part two} - sexual content, daddy kink
old man - by @rawdogmeharry
description: the one where Harry’s family loves Y/N and he loves her even more.
pairing: older boyfriend!harry x y/n
warnings: age gap (12 years), sexual content, swearing, daddy kink
{part two}
insecure - by @harrywritingsbyme
description: (excerpt) “When you first saw Harry’s gray hair, you were floored. You were literally trying to figure out how someone managed to get hotter as the got older.”
pairing: older boyfriend!harry x reader
warnings: age gap, sexual content, swearing
you and me - by @havethetimeofyourstyles
description: (excerpt) “You were gorgeous—are gorgeous. Many people knew that too. You were a bit oblivious to it all; how people would stare at you, and many guys you used to go to school with, used to try and talk to you.”
pairing: older!harry x reader
warnings: age gap, sexual content, swearing
fine line - by @softonstyles
description: (excerpt) “Aurora’s world revolves around her studies — until Harry, her roommate’s irresistible father, steps in. What starts as a harmless connection quickly spirals into a forbidden attraction, drawing them dangerously close to a line they know they shouldn’t cross.”
pairing: older!harry, best friend's dad!harry
warnings: age gap, sexual content, swearing
such a tease - by @harrywritingsbyme
description: (ask) “please write a whole smut with best friend's dad!harry.”
pairing: best friend's dad!harry x y/n
warnings: age gap, sexual content, swearing
bambi - by @finelinefae
description: “y/n tries a dating app and meets the CEO of Pleasing”
description: “Your best friend's dad, Mr. Styles, is quite good at giving advice, amongst other things OR How your illicit affair with Mr. Styles began”
pairing: older!harry, bestfriendsdad!harry
warnings: age gap, sexual content, swearing
dilf - by @gurugirl
description: “Y/n meets an older man at a bar and she's not taking no for an answer. Harry likes her persistence.”
pairing: older!harry
warnings: age gap, sexual content, swearing
daddy does it better - by @lukesaprince
description: “Where you and Harry have an interesting connection and decide that a one night stand is the best course of revenge after his son cheats on you.”
pairing: older!harry, exboyrfriendsdad!harry
warnings: age gap, sexual content, swearing
best friend’s dad - by @jarofstyles
description: best friend’s dad harry series
pairing: older!harry, bestfriendsdad!harry
warnings: age gap, sexual content, swearing
the arrangement - by @gurugirl
description: “Harry's wife proposes that he find a mistress to meet his needs in the bedroom as she is no longer willing. His wife has 2 rules: The first is that he finds a professional, and the second is that no feelings are to be involved. But both of those rules are thrown out the window when he meets Y/n.”
pairing: older!harry, sugardaddy dom!harry x college student subby!reader
warnings: age gap, sexual content, swearing
untitled - by @harryisalrightig
description: “You’re Harry Lambert’s assistant and you have a massive crush on Harry who’s much older than you.”
pairing: older!harry, famous!harry x lambertsassistant!yn
warnings: age gap, sexual content, swearing
prosecco - by @moonchildstyles
description: “harry is just on the edge of thirty-five, and y/n is someone he's sure he shouldn't get involved with. until she seeks him out, anyway, and he realizes no one has ever really shown her how she should be treated.”
pairing: older!harry
warnings: age gap, sexual content, swearing
lovesick - by @harrysbabycherry
description: “harry just wants y/n’s number and she’s not interested. at least that’s what she says.”
description: in which y/n and Harry aren’t really close until y/n falls in the shower and Harry falls in love.
pairing: university student roommate!harry x y/n
warnings: sexual content, swearing
apartment 304 - by @autumn-sunflowers
description: in which Harry and Y/N are roommates and fall in love.
pairing: university student roommate!harry x y/n
warnings: sexual content, swearing, sexual assault
hot yoga - by @howrry
description: (excerpt) ““Hey, H!” she called. She was only wearing a black sports bra and a pair of peach leggings. Over the course of living with her, Harry had noticed that Y/N’s body tended to soak up sun in these warmer months, evident by her glowy skin covered in a sheen of sweat.”
pairing: university student roommate!harry x y/n
warnings: sexual content, swearing
hidden videos - by @stylesharrys
description: Y/N’s a camgirl and Harry’s roommate, Harry borrows her computer for his college essay.
pairing: roommate!harry x camgirl!y/n
warnings: swearing, sexual content
lock the door - by @atlafan
description: 11K of college!Harry friends to lovers.
pairing: college!Harry x y/n
warnings: sexual content, swearing
flatmates - by @watchmegetobsessed
description: (excerpt) ““This friend of my future roomie is looking for a flatmate. You gave me his number, maybe you could give him a call and see if the room is still available.”
pairing: flatmate!harry x y/n
warnings: sexual content, swearing
louder on set - by @havethetimeofyourstyles
description: in which Harry stumbles across your livestream.
pairing: roommate/best friend!harry x bi/cam girl!y/n
warnings: sexual content, swearing
pomegranate - by @moonchildstyles
description: "harry and yn are roommates and she doesn’t want him to feel lonely.”
pairing: roommate/best friend!harry, virgin!harry
warnings: sexual content, swearing
housemates - by @harrysbabycherry
description: "in which y/n needs a roommate and her brother has someone in mind”
pairing: roommate!harry, brothersfriend!harry x y/n
description: a fan asks for a picture while Harry and Y/N have brunch.
pairing: singer husband!harry x y/n
warnings: fluff, minor smut
soon to be married - by @lovingyouangel
description: Harry is asked about his fiancée in an interview, and he doesn’t hold back.
pairing: singer fiancé!harry x y/n
warnings: none
three minutes - by @erodasfishtacos
description: (prompt) “Harry slips up and it’s only right his wife serves him a little punishment.”
pairing: famous husband!harry x reader
warnings: language, sexual content (sexting, dirty talk, public, subby!h)
wedding bells - @emotionally-imbruised
description: (excerpt) “The day is finally here. All of your closest friends and family are here with you to witness and celebrate your marriage to the absolute man of your dreams, Mr. Harry Styles.”
pairing: husband!harry x y/n
warnings: none
forever is a long time - by @tokyoharry
description: you and Harry fight the night before your wedding.
pairing: fiancé!harry x y/n
warnings: angst, fluff
kept promises - by @bdeharry
description: (excerpt) ““Love you so much. Can’t believe I get to spend my life with you” Harry sighed, brushing your nose against his, you smiled.”
pairing: husband!harry x reader
warnings: sexual content
#hendallreunited - by @erodasfishtacos
description: (request) “to write broad but to write something angsty”
pairing: husband!harry x y/n
warnings: language, sexual content, angst
jealous wife - by @finelinevogue
description: "you can’t help feel jealous when people stare at harry for looking so good”
description: in which Harry’s your soulmate and you don't quite know that yet.
pairing: physical therapist!harry x professor!yn
warnings: slight angst, mentions of heart condition and flatlining
soulmates - by @haroldloverboy
description: in which Harry and Y/N are soulmates.
pairing: university!harry x y/n
warnings: sexual content
invisible string - by @secretly-a-cold-blooded-murderer
description: in a world where soulmates are connected by an invisible red thread, how would you find yours?
pairing: famous!harry x journalist!y/n
warnings: none
the only one by @gucciharrywritings
description: in a society where you pass out when in the presence of your soulmate, Harry falls unconscious during one of his concerts.
pairing: famous singer!harry x y/n
warnings: none
soulmates - by @writersblog1d
description: the one where Y/N and Harry are soulmates, but they stop talking.
pairing: harry x y/n
warnings: swearing
thanks, liar - by @peterspeachy
description: “Oh, you’re so gorgeous” is what has been written in your soulmate’s writing across your collarbone since you were ten. You’ve hated your soulmate ever since.
pairing: harry x reader
warnings: none
you’re mine, right? - @gucciharrywritings
description: Harry and Y/N are trying to get used to their new found connection.
pairing: singer!harry x university student!y/n
warnings: fluff, minor smut
soulmates - by @harrywavycurly
description: Harry and Y/N are trying to get used to their new found connection.
pairing: harry x girlfriend!y/n
warnings: none
forever by @moonlightsolo
description: (ask) “soulmate AU where u have the same tattoo mark as your soulmate and if u make eye contact with your soulmate it lights up and at a Harry concert when you are dancing and he turns to you to make fun of you (in his way) it lights up that everyone can see in the stadium.”
description: "Y/N’s family works for a wildlife preservation society and Harry is king of the jungle or tarzan!harry"
pairing: tarzan!harry x y/n
warnings: sexual content, swearing, mention of death, hunting
citrine - by @moonchildstyles
description: "harry's a witch and its been a long time since he's been round anyone new, but there's no way he's getting y/n out of his head."
pairing: witch!harry x y/n
warnings: sexual content, swearing
frontlines - by @sushirrrry
description: "a WWII hospital nurse and a wounded air force lieutenant form a bond in his recovery, stealing intimate moments that help them both heal."
pairing: military!harry x nurse!y/n
warnings: soldier PTSD, descriptions of injury, discussions of death, survivors guilt, war trauma, graphic details of WWII
oleander - by @moonchildstyles
description: "nothing could draw y/n in the way harry could."
pairing: vampire!harry x y/n
warnings: sexual content, swearing, blood, dead body, mentions of a parent death, vampirism, panick attack
loved, heard, seen - by @fkinavocado
description: "in which your husband and Harry’s wife dragged you both into a situation you didn’t want to be in, but as it turns out, everything happens for a reason"
pairing: swinging!harry x swinging!y/n
warnings: swearing, smut, angst, mentions of cheating/swinging
sunshine - by @stylesloveclub
description: "In which Harry's a dick and y/n is a virgin who cries a lot."
pairing: grumpy!harry x sunshine!virgin!y/n
warnings: swearing, sexual content
athens - by @moonchildstyles
description: "harry's in his fourth year teaching university and he knew he was bound to have a favourite student but he didn't know he would meet someone like y/n"
pairing: professor!harry x student!y/n
warnings: swearing, sexual content
their beating hearts - by @musicforastylesrestaurant
description: "In which Harry's a dick and y/n is a virgin who cries a lot."
pairing: doctor!harry x patient!y/n
warnings: swearing, sexual content, angst, domestic violence, hospitals, mentions of suicidal thoughts
prose - by @stylesloveclub
description: "In which y/n's taking way too many units, and Harry's the teaching assistant for her Literature class."
pairing: ta!harry x student!y/n
warnings: swearing
neglect - by @moonchildstyles
description: "harrys in an unhappy marriage and didn't realize he was missing so much sunlight until y/n came in"
pairing: neighbour!harry x y/n
warnings: swearing, toxic relationship
independant - by @1d1195
description: "“Go on a date with me,” he groaned. “Because of the cookies?” “No! Well, yes. Right now, yes, because of the cookies. But s’not usually because of cookies.” She laughed. “I don’t date, Harry.”"
pairing: coworker!harry x y/n
warnings: swearing
ophanim - by @stylesloveclub
description: "In which Harry is a grumpy angel on Earth, and y/n has just been sent down from Heaven."
pairing: grumpy!angel!harry x angel!y/n
warnings: swearing, sexual content
aster - by @moonchildstyles
description: "harry is a tattoo artist and y/n just wants to know if he's like this all the time or if he just doesn't like her"
pairing: grumpy!tattooartist!harry x shy!y/n
warnings: swearing, sexual content
midsummer milk - by @sweetstylesstrawberry
description: "On the edge of a fading summer, y/n finds herself visiting a countryside inn known for its strawberry milk and ghost stories. The guests are peculiar, the clocks all run slow, time slips in dreamy spirals, and when Harry arrives… sweet, sun-drenched, and soft-eyed… nothing feels real. But the strawberries were sweeter than ever."
description: "being Mr. Azoff's assistant was y/ns dream job, it was just a bummer that his most beloved client seemed to hate her."
pairing: famous!harry x jeffsassistant!y/n
warnings: sexual content, swearing
love on tour - by @finelinevogue
description: "you join harry for love on tour"
pairing: famous!harry x y/n
warnings: sexual content, swearing
mint to be - by @moonlightsolo
description: (ask) "could you write something about harry flirting with y/n whose a fan during one of his shows. like maybe she had a sign that caught his attention (like a pick up line or a joke) and then for the rest of the concert he kept staring at her and making little jokes/comments to her."
pairing: famous!harry x fan!y/n
warnings: sexual content, swearing
clingy - by @atlafan
description: (ask) "clingy harry"
pairing: famous!harry x y/n
warnings: sexual content, swearing
unscripted - by @moonchildstyles
description: (ask) "this wasn't y/ns first time being a PA to a major star on a film set, but this was the first time she'd worked with someone like harry styles"
pairing: famous!harry x personalassistant!y/n
warnings: sexual content, swearing
love on tour - by @gucciwins
description: "Y/N Belmonte was getting her first break in a long time. There was no filming lined up and no new auditions to prepare for. You had decided to spend the next few weeks and maybe months with your best friend but after being surprised with a concert to love on tour and being recognized by the man himself, Harry Styles, well it led to an exciting meeting. Now Y/N has found herself joining Harry and crew for the rest of the tour; it seems like you are in for a ride. Love, friendship, and fame."
pairing: famous!harry x famous!y/n
warnings: sexual content, swearing
l'amoureux - by @moonchildstyles
description: "weddings are beautiful, especially in paris, but as the bride's personal assistant, y/n didn't expect to lose herself in the magic."
pairing: famous!harry x bridespersonalassistant!y/n
warnings: n/a
untitled - by @finelinevogue
description: (ask) "What if Jeff and reader get in an argument about something concerning Harry/touring and Jeff says something about how reader doesn’t even belong on tour and Harry steps up to defend her?"
pairing: famous!harry x y/n
warnings: swearing
bunny's love on tour, literally - by @misskathcake
description: n/a
pairing: famous!harry x wife
warnings: swearing
sherbert - by @moonchildstyles
description: "y/n's never been in a music video before, but she's sure there couldn't be anything better than singing with harry styles on the beach."
pairing: famous!harry x wmsmvextra!y/n
warnings: n/a
forever - by @moonlightsolo
description: (ask) "Hi so I'm hoping you get this request I'm obsessed with harry fanfics lately so I was wonder about a soulmate AU where u have the same tattoo mark as your soulmate and if u make eye contact with your soulmate it lights up and at a harry concert when you are dancing and he turns to you to make fun of you (in his way) it lights up that everyone can see in the stadium?"
pairing: famous!harry x reader
warnings: swearing
pleasing - by @moonchildstyles
description: "y/n is harry's best friend and she'd never received a valentine's gift like this one"
pairing: famous!harry x best friend!y/n
warnings: n/a
hey angel - by @watchmegetobsessed
description: n/a
pairing: famous!harry x personalassistant!y/n
warnings: sexual content, swearing
blush - by @moonchildstyles
description: "y/n is a makeup artist and she doesn't think she's ever had a better Halloween"
pairing: famous!harry x makeupartist!y/n
warnings: n/a
HSLOT verse - by @erodasfishtacos
description: n/a
pairing: famous!harry x longtimewife!y/n
warnings: swearing, sexual content
pearls - by @moonchildstyles
description: "y/n is a part of harry's band and he cant keep his mind off her"
