𝐂𝐖: 18+ SERIES! age gap unspecified but everyone is legal, allusions to smut (in this part), fem!reader, innocent!reader, slight angst, not proof read.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 8.7k
❏ this is kinda just an introductory to this 🤨 but this also me testing the waters to see what kind of response it gets. i tried to give it a little more substance instead of just making it controversially young gf smut. but lmk if u only care for the smut fr. aiming for this to be a 3 parter possibly if anyone actually reads. okay bye love u
(be patient with me i do not have a writing schedule D: it’s just vibes over here)
there were things in life that demanded to be named. not as a matter of understanding, but as an act of survival. temptation. desire. guilt. words so small they barely held the weight of the emotions they described. words that felt inadequate against the reality of their presence, sharp-edged and infinite. harry had spent years pretending these things were separate—different flavors, distinct experiences—but now, in the quiet spaces between reason and instinct, he realized they were one and the same.
desire wasn’t the sweet fruit hanging low on the tree, waiting for him to pluck it. it was a persistent root that had grown into his bones, twisting through his ribs, wrapping around his heart. temptation wasn’t the serpent in the garden; it was the soil itself, fertile and dark, daring him to plant something reckless.
thou mayest. the illusion of freedom wrapped in the guise of agency. it was a promise of autonomy that demanded surrender. harry turned the phrase over in his mind like a stone, rough against his palm, smooth on the other side. it sounded noble, to choose. to be good, even when depravity tasted sweeter. but to choose implied that choice was ever truly his.
the idea unsettled him. if the end was written, if he was meant to fall, then what purpose was there in resisting? if the flame was always there, waiting for the moth, could he be blamed for burning?
but harry frowned at the notion, rejecting it like the apple beginning to rot. to believe it was inevitable was to strip himself of accountability. it was to call it fate instead of what it really was—a weakness he didn’t want to name aloud.
yet even as he denied inevitability, he could feel it breathing down his neck. the soft pull of gravity every time her eyes met his, wide and unguarded. her sweetness wasn’t like the syrupy fiction he had always known, too thick to be real. it was raw, unpolished, pure in its lack of pretense. he wanted to protect it, to shelter it, but how could he when his hands itched to touch it, to ruin it, to mark it as his?
guilt and desire were two sides of the same coin he couldn’t stop flipping. the choices felt infinite and yet singular, converging on her—the catalyst, the temptation, the embodiment of his undoing.
he tried not to touch her, not to look too long, but the world conspired against him. his name on her lips sounded like an offering. her laughter felt like a secret. the way she walked, talked, breathed—it all felt intentional, even though he knew it wasn’t. she was innocent of his thoughts. she had no idea the storm she brought to life in him.
and maybe that’s what made her so dangerous. because he had spent years building walls, convincing himself that control was his greatest virtue. but her presence felt like water—slowly eroding the stone, finding its way into the cracks he didn’t know existed.
he wanted to believe he had a choice. that he could walk away, untouched, untempted. but every step closer to her felt like destiny disguised as coincidence. her smile was a trap, but it was one he wanted to fall into, knowing full well there would be no escape.
harry thought of the apple in the garden. the lie it told about choice. the way it beckoned, its skin gleaming with the promise of sweetness. but the truth was, it wasn’t the apple that made him fall. it was the hunger that had always lived inside him.
thou mayest. the words tasted bitter now. because in the end, he knew he wouldn’t choose. he would only follow.
and maybe, he thought, that was its own kind of freedom.
— BOSTON
there were a thousand ways to love someone.
it wasn’t a single language. it was a mosaic of dialects, some of which he spoke fluently, others he fumbled through, and some he would never master. it came to him in whispers, in roaring applause, in soft apologies spoken under foreign moons. love, in its rawest forms, could be a sonnet sung aloud or the silence between breaths. it could bloom in the mundane, sprouting like ivy through the cracks of familiarity. but it could also unravel—untethered and wild—until it swallowed everything else whole.
now, though, it felt like a question he didn't know how to answer.
he had known it to be beautiful once, grand and uncompromising, like a symphony crashing through the walls of his chest. but now? now it felt softer, quieter. less a roar and more a whisper in the back of his mind, laced with something he couldn’t quite place.
april on the east coast was no season for romance. it was damp with promise, hesitant in its thaw. the skies hung low with slate-colored clouds, heavy but refusing rain, and the mornings were gray and cold enough to bite. it wasn’t exactly the kind of spring that painted postcards, but it had its own charm—the kind of charm that settled not in sight, but in sound. in the low hum of city life, the rush of trains cutting through tunnels, the steady rhythm of days repeating themselves.
this time, though, harry was restless.
juniper had left with a kiss on his cheek and a laugh in her voice, her belly round with new beginnings, her flight booked to london. “don’t let it go to your head,” she’d teased, pointing a playful finger at him. “just because you’re losing me doesn’t mean you’ll fall apart.”
he hadn’t fallen apart. not exactly.
but the void she left behind was wide, even if temporary, and it was her replacement who filled it.
YN arrived on a wednesday.
he had two days before the show. no real obligations until then, aside from this—meeting his new hair and makeup artist, seeing if she knew what she was doing before she had to work on him before a live performance.
he sighed, running a hand through his hair as he pushed open the door to his dressing room.
she was already there.
he paused for a fraction of a second, not expecting to see her yet. she stood near the vanity, back straight, hands clasped together in front of her, like she wasn’t sure what to do with them. on the counter beside her was a cup—one of those paper to-go cups, the kind that came from some overpriced café.
she turned when he entered, eyes widening slightly before she offered a small, polite smile.
“hi.” her voice was soft, a little hesitant. “i’m YN.”
he took a few steps inside, nodding once. “harry.”
she nodded back, exhaling quickly, like she was trying to steady herself. then, she gestured toward the cup.
“i got you a latte,” she started. “i—i wasn’t sure what you usually drink, but i thought it might be nice. to—y’know. start off on the right foot.”
he glanced at the cup, then at her.
she was nervous. he could see it in the way she shifted her weight slightly, in the way she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.
it was a nice thought.
but he hadn’t touched dairy in years.
he didn’t say that, though. didn’t want to embarrass her. instead, he just gave her a small, appreciative nod.
he reached for it, offering a gentle smile. “thanks.”
she looked relieved when he took it, her smile relaxing a little.
harry held the cup, feeling the warmth of it against his palm. he could smell it, the sweetness of whatever syrup she’d probably had them put in. vanilla, maybe. something soft.
he set it down on the vanity without taking a sip.
YN didn’t seem to notice, already turning to grab her kit.
“so,” she breathed, glancing at him as she unzipped it, “juniper gave me some notes on what you like. she said you prefer a really natural look.”
harry nodded, lowering himself into the chair. “yeah. don’t like when it feels too heavy.”
“got it,” she murmured, more to herself than to him, before pulling out a few brushes.
he watched her in the mirror as she worked, as she moved with careful, practiced hands.
she was quiet at first, focused. then, after a minute, she glanced at him.
“have you always done your own hair?”
he blinked, caught slightly off guard. “what?”
“your hair,” she said, brushing her fingers lightly through the strands. “juniper said you’re pretty particular about it. that you usually style it yourself.”
he huffed a soft laugh. “yeah.”
she smiled a little, just a flicker, before returning her focus to her work.
harry swallowed.
this was fine.
just a job.
just another day before a show.
but the latte sat untouched on the counter, the scent of vanilla lingering in the air.
harry had a feeling she’d linger with it.
there was just something about her, something that felt unguarded. almost naive.
she wasn’t, not entirely—he learned that quickly. she had edges, sharp ones when needed, but she wielded them sparingly. the rest of the time, she was all soft hands and big eyes, a honeyed warmth that seeped into everything she touched.
and harry?
harry was careful not to touch her at all.
there was a distance he liked to keep, a careful line between himself and everyone else. not because he didn’t care—he cared more than he’d admit—but because he knew what could happen when he let someone too close.
still, she had a way of leaning past those lines. not intentionally, but like ivy, like roots. like something that simply grew.
by the time april had given way to may, harry found himself watching her more than he should.
she hummed when she worked, soft melodies that floated through the room like ghosts of songs she couldn’t name. she wrote everything down in a little notebook, scribbling furiously with a pen that always seemed to run out of ink at the worst times.
he’d caught her once, shaking it with a frustrated pout, her lips pressed together in concentration.
“you alright there?” he’d asked, the words slipping out before he could think better of it.
she’d blinked up at him, startled, and then laughed, “another losing battle with this pen.”
“you have t’tap it against your forehead twice.” he’d replied, biting back a smile.
her eyebrows furrowed, but she did it anyway—lightly tapping the clicky part against her head, glancing at harry before trying to write again.
of course it didn’t work. he was just messing with her—wanted to see if she fell for it, wanted to see if she’d listen.
it was easy to fall into moments like that with her.
too easy.
thou mayest. a soft hand offering an apple, a question left unanswered. but he had his own questions, ones that wrapped themselves around his throat and refused to let go.
there were a thousand ways to love someone, and harry had spent his life learning only a fraction of them. though sometimes he wondered if he’d been learning them for her.
— EDINBURGH
he had always thought of temptation as a slow build, like the simmering heat of a kettle left on the stove, a soft whistle at first that could grow into a shrieking insistence if ignored too long. but that night, in the quiet sprawl of his hotel suite, it didn’t simmer. it coiled.
the city welcomed them with a gray drizzle and jet lag that stuck to the skin like damp clothes. the flight over had been long, hours stretched taut over time zones and turbulence, and by the time he made it to the room, he wanted nothing more than to shed the weight of travel.
his suitcase lay half-open on the floor, a quiet surrender to the fatigue he couldn’t shake. a glass of water sat on the bedside table, untouched, condensation pooling beneath it. harry stretched out on the mattress, arms behind his head, eyes closed but nowhere near sleep. the city murmured beyond the window—a muted symphony of car horns and distant voices—and he let it play in the background.
his phone buzzed.
yn: did you get back to the hotel okay?
he smiled faintly at the screen, her name like a flame too warm to look at directly. his fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before he responded.
harry: all 10 fingers and toes. safe and sound.
harry: you get back okay?
the reply came almost instantly, her eagerness spilling into the space between them.
yn: mhmmm. i’m just brainstorming a few ideas for upcoming shows :) if you give me a penny, i’ll give you my thoughts.
a laugh huffed through his nose.
harry: consider a penny given, then.
he settled deeper into the bed, phone balanced in his hand as he waited. the seconds stretched into minutes, the screen dimming twice before the vibration returned. when it did, it wasn’t just one text, but a cascade—a waterfall of thoughts so uniquely hers that he could almost hear her voice speaking them aloud.
it was color theory, ideas layered with excitement, messily typed but earnest. how the blues of certain lighting might dull the warmth of his skin, or how curls framing his face might draw more focus to his eyes.
yn: does that make sense?
he hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
harry: absolutely. honored to work with such talent.
her suggestions were good—better than good, really. but it wasn’t the content that had his heart pacing against the walls of his chest. it was the way she thought of him in terms of details. the curve of his hair, the way light caught in his eyes. how she looked at him as if he were something to be fine-tuned, polished, perfected.
he set the phone down, staring at the darkened ceiling.
it wasn’t the first time he’d felt it, the pull of her presence. she had a way of moving through spaces as though she belonged in all of them. she was sharp where it mattered and soft everywhere else, a tangle of contradictions that didn’t feel contradictory at all.
he wasn’t blind to it, either—the closeness, the fleeting touches she didn’t seem to think twice about, the way her laughter lingered in rooms after she left them.
and yet, he couldn’t let himself fall. not into this.
his hand twitched toward the phone again. temptation was a voice now, low and insistent, curling in his gut. he thought of her in her room, probably cross-legged on the bed with her notebook splayed open and a pencil tucked behind her ear, her face alight with whatever new idea had struck her.
she was likely still wearing the hoodie from the plane, the one she had pulled over her knees to keep warm. she had smiled at him through the terminal, soft and shy, a blush touching her cheeks as she said goodnight.
his phone buzzed again.
yn: i think the messy curls could make your eyes look softer. i’m rambling, sorry! just a thought :)
it wasn’t fair, really. the way she existed so effortlessly, the way she lingered in his mind long after she’d left the room.
but temptation had a thousand faces, and tonight, it wore hers.
harry: never stop rambling.
— GLASGOW
it felt colder than it should have for may. the overcast sky hung low, gray and swollen, threatening rain that would inevitably come. harry didn’t mind it, though—he liked how the cold made his skin prickle, how it made the air feel cleaner when he breathed it in. but more than that, he liked how it kept everyone huddled indoors, tucked into the warmth of the stadium where soundchecks were already underway.
YN was perched on a stool near the mirrors, her knees pulled up just enough to keep her feet from dangling. she had been quiet all morning, focused, her delicate fingers meticulously painting tiny daisies onto the nail of his pinky.
“some steady hands there.”
she glanced up at him, and for a moment, her cheeks burned pink. “i have to. can’t mess up, right?”
“you could,” he mumbled, leaning forward slightly, his tone teasing. “might not mind.”
her lips twitched, barely concealing a smile, but she quickly ducked her head back down, letting her hair fall into her face like a curtain. it was something she did often, he noticed, as if she were hiding—not just from him but from something bigger.
he didn’t press. not yet.
“what color’s next?” he asked, tilting his head to look at the neat little bottles lined up on the counter.
“yellow,” she replied softly. “you said you wanted bright.”
“a sunshine yellow, then.” he watched her carefully as she reached for the polish, her fingers trembling ever so slightly before she steadied them again. “you’re sweet, you know that?”
her hand froze midair, and he swore he saw her breath hitch. she looked up at him then, her wide eyes meeting his, and he felt it again—that pull.
“what?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“you’re sweet,” he repeated, the corner of his mouth lifting into the faintest of smirks. “makes me wonder if anyone’s ever told you that before.”
she blinked, her lashes fluttering like the wings of a moth caught too close to a flame. “i–i don’t know.”
his smile deepened, but there was no malice in it, only warmth. “well, you are. just thought you should know.”
YN turned her attention back to his nails, her head bowed so low now he could only see the crown of it. the pink flush on her cheeks had deepened, spreading to the tips of her ears.
he liked that. he liked how easily she reacted to him, how her softness made him feel like he could step closer without shattering her completely. but he also hated it, hated how it clawed at his resolve, making him forget all the reasons he’d told himself to stay away.
when she finished the daisies, she leaned back, examining her work with a satisfied little nod. “done.”
“you’re sure?” he asked, lifting his hand and turning it this way and that, letting the light catch the glossy polish.
“positive.”
“looks perfect,” he said, though this time he wasn’t teasing. “thank you.”
her lips parted, just slightly, like she wasn’t sure what to say.
before she could speak, the sharp click of the dressing room door broke the moment, and jeff stuck his head inside.
“five minutes, harry,” he called, already looking at his phone as he spoke. “got people waiting.”
he nodded, his expression unchanged, though the moment felt heavier now, disrupted by the intrusion. “right. cheers.”
jeff disappeared again, the door clicking shut behind him.
he stood, stretching his arms above his head, and caught the way YN watched him out of the corner of her eye before quickly looking away.
“i’ll get you something from the vending machine.” he mentioned casually, already fishing into his pocket for his wallet.
her head snapped up. “you don’t have to—”
“hush,” he interrupted, grinning now. he stepped closer, reaching for her hand, and put four quarters into her palm. “you’ll need this. unless y’plan on charming the machine into spitting one out for free.”
her fingers curled around the coins, and she blinked up at him, her lips parting as if to argue. but she didn’t. instead, she offered him a soft, grateful smile.
“thank you.”
he only hummed as she slipped the quarters into her pocket and hopped off the stool, glancing at him one last time before heading for the door. when she was gone, the room felt too still, the faint trace of her perfume lingering like an echo.
he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. his nails gleamed in the fluorescent light, the little daisies smiling up at him like they knew something he didn’t.
meanwhile, the vending machines would glow faintly at the far end of the hallway, their soft hum breaking the quiet. YN shuffled closer, her shoes padding lightly against the concrete floor.
but the faint creak of a door opening behind her made her pause, her head turning toward the sound.
he was there again, stepping into the hallway and heading the opposite direction.
harry moved with the kind of unhurried confidence that made it seem like the space around him belonged to him and him alone. his legs carried him in long strides, the sharp crimson of his trousers catching the dull overhead lights with every step. the matching red suspenders hung loose, swinging lazily at his sides, as though he’d been interrupted mid-motion while shrugging them up.
his shirt was unassuming—blue and striped, halfheartedly buttoned. the fabric clung to the broad line of his shoulders before softening at his waist, tucked neatly into his trousers. the buttons stopped low, of course, just enough to reveal the sharp dip of his collarbones and a teasing stretch of bare skin below.
YN’s eyes lingered longer than they should have, tracing the slope of his jaw, the faint stubble along his chin, the way the fabric shifted across his back when he moved. it was unfair, really, how tall he seemed here, how he could fill even the emptiest hallway with his presence.
he hadn’t noticed her yet. his head was down, focused, his mouth pressed into a line of mild concentration. whatever jeff had needed him for was probably important, judging by the speed of his stride.
but then, as though he’d sensed it, he looked up.
their eyes met briefly—just a flicker, but it was enough.
harry’s pace slowed for a fraction of a second, his brows lifting in faint recognition as his gaze settled on her. he didn’t smile, not fully, but the corners of his mouth twitched like he might’ve.
YN felt her stomach twist, that now-familiar warmth creeping up her neck and blooming across her cheeks. she wasn’t sure why she felt caught, like she’d been caught looking when she hadn’t meant to.
“get your cola yet?” his voice carried down the hall.
she managed to shake her head, “not yet.”
“better hurry, then,” he nodded toward her, resuming his stride. “press’ll be crawling through soon.”
he didn’t wait for her response, his figure already retreating, his strides long and effortless as he disappeared around the corner.
YN let out a slow, shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her fingers unclenching one by one. she glanced down at the quarters in her palm, their edges pressing faint imprints into her skin.
when she turned back to the vending machines, the glow seemed a little brighter, the hum a little louder, but the air in the hallway still felt heavy. she slid the coins into the slot one at a time, their metallic clinks echoing in her ears, and pressed the button for a coke.
her fingers closed around the bottle, and for a moment, she stood there, staring at the blurred reflection of herself in the machine’s plexiglass. her cheeks were still flushed, her heartbeat uneven—only harry could manage such a reaction without even doing anything.
he wasn’t even looking, she thought, shaking her head as she straightened up. he wasn’t even looking anymore. but it didn’t matter, not really. her stomach still fluttered like it always did.
she kept herself busy while harry was off handling whatever jeff had thrown his way. it was easy, most days—finding small things to do in the dressing room, small tasks that helped settle the nervous energy she always seemed to carry.
she tucked loose bits of makeup back into their designated compartments, straightened the mess of brushes and bottles that had accumulated along the counters. the quiet helped, too, though she occasionally paused, distracted by the faint voices coming from the small television mounted on the wall.
the scottish accents were thick and lilting, pulling her attention away entirely when she let herself linger too long. she’d tilt her head toward the screen, catching snippets of an old comedy show she didn’t recognize, before shaking herself out of it and returning to her task.
her coke was still cold against her palm, condensation slicking the skin of her fingers as she took small, absentminded sips. but when she ran out of things to tidy, out of ways to fill the silence, she left the dressing room, wandering through the backstage halls.
this was a habit of hers, especially in new places. she liked exploring, even if the halls all tended to look the same—narrow and gray, the faint hum of activity reverberating off the walls.
voices carried from somewhere distant, bouncing in ways that made it impossible to pinpoint their origin. she walked slowly, her free arm occasionally brushing against the rough cinderblock walls.
then she stopped.
her eyes caught on something hung up on the wall—a plaque with a faded photo and an inscription below it. she stepped closer, squinting to make out the worn text, her head tilting slightly as she read. it must’ve been a gift to the stadium years ago, a relic from a time before she was even born.
the faint hum of voices seemed to grow louder as she stared, but she didn’t move. her thoughts wandered as she read the plaque’s history, the drink cool in her hand, her sneakers shifting on concrete like she couldn’t bear to stand still.
but after a beat, she decided she’d seen enough.
she spun on her heel, ready to continue her aimless walk, but she bumped into something solid before she even realized she wasn’t alone.
“oh!” she gasped softly, jerking back slightly, enough to regain balance.
it wasn’t just something solid—it was someone.
harry.
his hand brushed against her shoulder instinctively, steadying her with a light touch that felt more deliberate than it probably was. he let out a breathy laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he glanced down at her.
“didn’t see y’there, sweetheart.”
the word hit her square in the chest—not the casual murmur of her name he usually used but something gentler, more pointed. he rarely called her that, maybe once every few days at most, and it always left her struggling to figure out if he meant anything by it.
she blinked up at him, still flustered, her heart kicking up in her ribs as she took a step back. he towered over her, as always, broad and imposing in such a narrow place. the suspenders she’d seen earlier were in place now, stretched over his shoulders, accentuating the sharp lines of his frame. and even though she’d only finished fixing his hair a short while ago, it already looked tousled, like he’d run his fingers through it more than once.
her cheeks heated, but she smiled anyway, nodding toward the plaque on the wall in an effort to distract herself. “was lookin’ at this.”
he followed her line of sight, the faint curve of his mouth lingering as he took a moment to glance it over. “from the old firm game,” he muttered, “back in ‘39.”
“oh.” she breathed, her eyes darting between him and the plaque.
“not to be confused with the old firm of ‘71,” he added, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he looked back at her fully.
YN’s eyebrows furrowed as she tilted her head, trying to place the significance.
he leaned in slightly, his shoulder brushing hers lightly as he continued, “–where a bunch of people died.”
the words were said so casually that it took a second for them to register, and by the time they did, he was already walking off.
she gasped, following after him, “what do you mean?” she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief. “people died here?”
he glanced back at her briefly, his expression unreadable, though his lips still carried the faintest hint of amusement. “mm-hmm.”
“well…what happened?” she pressed, quickening her pace to match his.
instead of answering, he slowed just enough to turn toward her, his hand reaching out with an ease that made her breath catch. without a word, he plucked the coke from her hand, his fingers brushing hers for the tiniest moment before he raised it to his lips.
“stadium disaster,” he said finally, his voice calm, ending with the quietest of sighs from his swallow.
he handed the bottle back to her with the same ease, his fingers grazing hers again as the cool glass settled back into her hand.
“that’s it?” she asked, incredulous. “just stadium disaster? that’s all you’re giving me?”
he glanced down at her, “you’ve got a phone, haven’t you?”
“well…” she paused, the faintest of frowns on her lips, “you can’t just drop a bomb on me ‘nd walk away.”
he chuckled, pushing open the door leading back toward another corridor. “can’t i?”
YN opened her mouth to argue, but the door clicked shut behind him, leaving her standing there in the middle of the hallway.
she frowned further, tipping the bottle back to finish the last swallow before tossing it into the recycling bin with a soft clink. without much thought, her feet carried her toward the door he had disappeared through, her curiosity prickling like static under her skin.
it wasn’t that the news upset her, though the thought of people dying here was unsettling, sure. it was more that this stadium—the one they were standing in right now, bustling with life and noise—had that kind of history to it. stadium disaster. how vague. it wasn’t much to go on, and her mind raced with questions she couldn’t quite tamp down.
was it safe for harry to perform here? was it haunted, for god’s sake? and how did he know about it so casually, like it was the kind of trivia everyone carried around in their back pocket? was it some bit of history he’d picked up while preparing for the tour? or—she glanced down the hall, chewing her lip—was he just messing with her?
she pushed through another set of doors, the muffled hum of activity on the other side growing louder as it swung shut behind her. the hallway was wider here, brighter, with distant voices overlapping in a way that made it hard to pinpoint where they came from.
her eyes scanned the space ahead, searching for that familiar figure. he wasn’t hard to spot—tall and broad, the opposite of waldo.
“harry! wait, please!”
he slowed, turning his head just enough to glance over his shoulder. he smiled when he saw her, but he didn’t stop walking.
she huffed, her stride quickening against the floor as she caught up to him.
“s’not fair to tell me something crazy like that and leave me behind.”she mumbled, her voice low enough that only he could hear.
“like what?” he asked, feigning innocence as he glanced down at her.
“stadium disaster,” she repeated, rolling the words on her tongue like they didn’t make sense. “what does that even mean?”
he shrugged, his steps slowing slightly to match hers. “means what it sounds like, doesn’t it?”
“but thats not really an answer, though.”
he stopped then, turning to face her fully, and the sudden weight of his attention made her heart stutter.
“happened after a football match,” he said, his tone even, almost conversational. “old firm derby. too many people trying to leave at once—crush at the exit. sixty-six dead.”
“sixty-six.” she echoed.
he nodded, his expression steady, though his eyes softened slightly when they met hers.
“and…they still use the stadium?”
“course they do.” he shrugged again, slipping his hands into his pockets. “was decades ago. fixed it up after.”
“but how do you know all that?”
his lips twitched, just slightly, and for a moment, he looked almost sheepish. “read about it some time ago. thought it was interesting.”
“interesting.” she mocked, shaking her head, though her lips curved faintly into a smile.
“don’t look at me like that,” he mumbled, a teasing edge creeping into his voice. “you asked.”
she let out a soft huff, though the faint smile still tugging at her lips betrayed her. before she could think of a retort, harry turned and began walking again, and she followed, of course.
his casual indifference to the conversation left her buzzing with curiosity. she hesitated for a moment before blurting, “do you believe in ghosts?”
“ghosts?”
“yeah,” she nodded, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “you said all those people died here. i don’t know—places like that feel like they’d…hold on to something, don’t you think?”
his lips curved into a faint smirk, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes, something thoughtful. “you think this place is haunted?”
she shrugged, looking ahead instead of at him. “maybe. you don’t?”
“not really.” he said simply, his tone light but firm. “don’t reckon i’ve seen enough to believe in all that.”
she frowned, glancing up at him again. “you’ve never had anything weird happen? not even on tour?”
“plenty of weird happens on tour,” he said with a low chuckle, his hand briefly brushing the suspenders at his chest as though adjusting them. “but nothing spooky. unless you count jeff turning into a ghost every time i ask him to sort something out.”
YN couldn’t help but laugh, the sound escaping her before she could stop it. “that doesn’t count, harry.”
“then no,” he replied, his voice calm but edged with amusement. “can’t say i’ve had the pleasure of being haunted. you?”
her smile faltered, her gaze dipping to the ground for a moment. “no, but…i don’t know. places like this make me wonder.”
he hummed low in his throat, tilting his head as if considering her words. “like we’re all just leaving little bits of ourselves behind.”
“yeah,” she said softly, nodding. “something like that.”
they lingered in the doorway, YN a bit unsure whether to turn back toward the dressing rooms or find something else to preoccupy herself with. this was where harry was supposed to disappear, where their brief exchange would end, and where she’d return to her usual wandering.
but he didn’t move just yet. instead, he reached into his pocket, pulling out his wallet. the motion was slow, his rings glinting faintly beneath the fluorescents.
“you haven’t eaten today?” he asked, though the tone of his voice wasn’t really a question. it was low and steady, more like a statement.
her lips pursed slightly as she tilted her head, giving the question more thought than she probably needed to.
“mm,” she hummed, narrowing her eyes playfully as if she were weighing the truth. “no—yes!” she corrected herself quickly, a sheepish smile breaking across her face. “yes. i had breakfast and a snack earlier.”
his lips twitched, the corner of his mouth lifting as if he were fighting the urge to smile. he didn’t say anything right away, just kept his eyes on her.
then, without a word, he pulled two twenties from his wallet, “here.”
YN blinked again, her eyes flicking between the money and his face, confusion blooming across her features. “what? no, harry, i can’t—”
“take it,” he interrupted gently, his voice soft but firm. “go get something decent. don’t let mitch con you into eating crisps f’dinner again.”
she hesitated, the weight of his gaze pressing on her as she chewed her bottom lip.
“seriously,” he added, a faint smile tugging at his mouth now. “you’ll be doing me a favor. don’t want you passing out on me, yeah?”
her cheeks flushed slightly at his words, but after another beat of hesitation, she finally reached out and took the money, her fingers brushing against his briefly as she did.
“thank you…again.”
he only hummed, shrugging his shoulders casually—as if he didn’t just hand her forty bucks for a measly lunch.
and then, just as she thought he might disappear into the room ahead, he glanced at her again, his green eyes steady and bright under the harsh lights.
“don’t wander too far.”
she smiled faintly, her fingers tightening around the money. “i won’t.”
— COVENTRY
her hands were slowly starting to become his favorite greeting.
the way they moved with a gentle rhythm, purposeful but soft, like they carried a melody he couldn’t quite place. it was the third week of the european leg, the air damp with the kind of lingering rain that clung to the skin and made hair curl at the edges. backstage was bustling, but in the quiet moments, when she flitted around him with a quiet focus, all harry could see were her hands.
small, unadorned, sweet.
she was touching up his face, her thumb dragging gently beneath his eye to smooth out a smudge. her breath smelled faintly of spearmint and the watermelon candy she had earlier. her eyes stayed fixed on the task, as if this moment was just another stitch in the fabric of her day. but for harry, it was a tear in the cloth.
she was too close. he could see the faintest sheen of her skin under the lights, the curve of her neck, the way her collarbones shifted as she moved.
lust wasn’t a stranger to him. it had been loud before, all-consuming. but this was different. this was quieter, heavier. something he was trying to smother, yet it refused to die.
he went cold that day. avoided her gaze, clenched his jaw, kept his hands tucked into his pockets like they might betray him.
but it only made her more thoughtful.
he saw her the next morning, her hair clipped loosely at the back of her head, strands falling lazily like they’d escaped on purpose. the change was subtle, but in the way she crafted herself into something sharper, more focused. the clipped hair gave him an undisturbed view of her neck, the hollow of her throat, the delicate slope of her shoulders.
he was undone.
a thousand images pressed against his mind, unwanted but insistent—his hands spanning the column of her throat, bruises painted like watercolored violets blooming along her collarbones—an evidence of his claim—the curve of her jaw tipped back as she let out a sound meant only for him.
harry forced himself to retreat again.
she thought it was her breath next.
he noticed how she chewed bright green gum in a way that drove him mad, like it was an absent habit, the piece of gum rolling in slow movements. sometimes her tongue would peek past her lips as though she were about to blow a bubble but stopped halfway through.
harry had to sit down once after that, shaking his head like he could dislodge the thoughts from his skull. he thought of how her pretty lips would look wrapped around his cock. he could almost feel it—the warmth, the wetness, the sound. he wondered if she’d be as quiet as she usually was, or if she’d scream his name loud enough for the entire stadium to be reminded of who they’re here to see.
and now, she was kneeling by his side backstage, her fingers curling into the hem of his trousers to fix the cuff.
she smiled softly as she worked, her eyes flicking up to meet his for the briefest moment.
“you’ll trip over these on stage if they aren’t fixed.”
he swallowed thickly, nodding, unable to form words. the thought of her on her knees, innocent and sweet, flooded his mind like a storm surge.
“there.” she sat back on her heels, her hands brushing against his ankles as she admired her work.
he looked at her, bathed in the golden backstage light, her hair still clipped back, her lips parted slightly as if waiting for his approval.
he clenched his fists.
the flow of time bent around her, her presence a rippling disturbance in the current.
harry shifted abruptly, muttering something about needing to check on mitch, and left the room without looking back.
— MANCHESTER
the hotel was hushed, its grandeur dimmed by the evening hour. soft light spilled from sconces along the walls, pooling against polished floors, while the faint hum of distant conversation echoed through the lobby. most of the crew had disappeared within minutes, doors clicking shut as they vanished into their respective rooms, leaving the space cavernous and still.
but not harry. and not YN.
her room wasn’t ready yet—something about cleaning and turnaround, an oversight that had left her standing at the front desk with an apologetic smile and her suitcase at her side.
“shouldn’t be more than half an hour,” the clerk had assured her, but YN had waved it off, her soft it’s fine laced with the kind of understanding that always made harry’s chest tighten.
instead of heading to his own room, he had lingered. he didn’t know why, or perhaps he did and simply didn’t want to acknowledge it. either way, he found himself sitting in a low-slung armchair in the lounge just off the lobby, the soft leather cool beneath his hands as he leaned back and stretched his legs out.
she sat across from him, perched delicately on the edge of a matching chair, her fingers fidgeting idly with the zipper of her bag.
his eyes flicked to her now and then, his eyes catching on the faint curve of her profile, the way her shoulders lifted slightly when she let out a quiet sigh. she didn’t seem restless, exactly—just waiting.
the room was sparsely furnished, its decor understated but rich. in the far corners, small tables stood with chessboards carved into their surfaces, their pieces arranged neatly in expectation.
it was YN who noticed them first, her head tilting slightly as her gaze lingered on the nearest table. after a moment, she rose from her chair, her movements unhurried as she approached the board. her fingers brushed lightly over the edge of the table, tracing the grooves of the squares as if testing their texture.
harry watched her from his seat, his elbow resting on the armrest as his hand brushed over his jaw.
“do you play?” she asked suddenly, her voice soft but carrying across the quiet room.
he smiled as he stood, unfolding himself from the chair with an ease that made the movement seem almost languid, and crossed the room to join her.
“a bit.”
“teach me?”
he nodded, pulling out a chair for her. “sit, then.”
he sat across from her after she settled, her fingers resting lightly against the edge of the table as she watched him reach for the pieces.
his hands moved with practiced ease, his rings catching the light as he adjusted the arrangement of the board. his fingers brushed against hers briefly when she leaned forward to help.
“these are pawns,” he said, his voice steady as he pointed to the row of small pieces. “move one square forward, except on the first turn—then it can be two.”
she nodded, her brows furrowing slightly as she leaned closer, her eyes following the path of his hand. his voice was calm, measured, and she found herself drawn to the rhythm of it, the way he spoke as if the game were a story he was unfolding just for her.
“bishops go diagonally,” he continued, sliding one across the board with a smooth motion. “rooks in straight lines. knights—well, they’re tricky. they move in an L shape.”
her lips curved into a small smile as she watched him demonstrate, the pieces clicking softly against the board.
“like this,” harry muttered, his fingers brushing against hers again as he nudged her hand toward the knight.
her breath caught faintly, though she didn’t pull away. instead, she let her fingers linger, her eyes flicking up to meet his for a brief, unguarded moment.
“got it?”
she nodded, her throat tightening as she swallowed the knot that had risen there.
“show me.” he encouraged, leaning back slightly but keeping his gaze steady on her. “go ahead.”
she hesitated for a moment, her fingers hovering over the pawn in front of her as her concentration shifted onto harry—focusing on the way his hips bucked as he tried to get comfortable in his seat, the way his thighs spread apart, wide enough that his knees brushed against the legs of the table.
and it’s like he knew the reason why her cheeks flushed. he was still leaned back, his hands folded and resting against his belly as he watched her. just watched. his breathing was even, the tip of his tongue sliding between his lips as they part.
“you stuck?”
her eyes immediately snap back to the pawn. “no,” she murmured before she slid it forward.
the game moved slowly, each turn deliberate as he guided her through the motions. his voice stayed calm, patient, though the weight of his presence felt anything but.
she leaned forward more as the game progressed, her elbows resting on the table as she studied the board. harry mirrored her unconsciously, the space between them narrowing with every move.
her laughter broke the quiet at one point, soft and sweet, when her knight moved in the wrong direction and harry teased her gently about it. the sound lingered in the air, threading itself into the quiet like a melody, and harry found himself smiling despite the tension coiling in his chest.
she hesitated, her fingers hovering over a bishop as she tried to map out her next move. YN glanced up at him briefly, catching the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, and quickly looked away.
“what?”
“nothing.” harry replied easily, though his smirk deepened.
“you’re doing that thing,” she said, her lips curving into a small pout.
“what thing?”
“that thing,” she repeated, her hand gesturing vaguely toward him. “the… i-know-something-you-don’t thing.”
he huffed a low laugh, shaking his head slightly. “m’not doing anything.”
her pout deepened, but she turned her focus back to the board. she moved her bishop with careful precision, setting it in place with a soft click before leaning back slightly, a triumphant smile blooming on her face.
“checkmate!”
he didn’t move at first. he simply blinked at the board, his lips twitching faintly as he leaned forward, his hands resting lightly on the edge of the table.
“is it now?”
YN’s smile faltered, her confidence wavering as she glanced back at the board, her eyes flicking over the pieces. she felt him lean closer, his presence warm and steady, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the space between them.
“you’ve got my king in a corner,” he muttered, his tone calm but edged with something almost teasing. “but…”
harry’s hand moved then, adjusting one of his knights. the piece landed with a firm click, the move clean and calculated.
“check.”
YN stared at the board, her lips parting slightly as she tried to make sense of what had just happened.
“but—” she started, her voice trailing off as her eyes darted between the pieces.
he leaned back again, his smirk returning as he watched her. “close, though.”
her cheeks flushed, the warmth spreading up her neck as she let out a soft huff, her gaze dropping to the table. “thought i had it.”
he shrugged, already starting to put the pieces in its original places. “almost, sweetheart.” he breathed, eyes fixed on checkerboards of black and white. “s’just a part of learning, hm?”
she glanced up at him then, her eyes wide and uncertain, and he held her gaze for a moment longer than he should have.
before she could respond, the faint hum of footsteps drew their attention toward the desk. the clerk from earlier stood there, holding out a small keycard.
"miss YN?"
she blinked, startled for a moment before realizing what it meant. her room was ready.
he stood first, his movements unhurried as he straightened, his presence still commanding even in the small act of standing. he turned toward her, his hand brushing briefly against the back of her chair as he gestured toward the desk.
"guess that's your cue.”
she hesitated, glancing back at the chessboard, its pieces nearly in their original places, before rising to her feet. she smoothed her hands over her pants, her eyes flicking to his.
"thanks for staying with me.”
he nodded toward her, a small smile on his lips. “anytime.”
Tumblr - It's Good To Be King, Chapter 8 is some of the best fic I’ve read !!!!
Patreon - The Man Beneath !!!!!!! We just got the last part on Sunday😭again, this story is also some of the best fic I’ve ever read !!!! and Disaster in the Making has us ALL BY THE THROAT 😍😍😍 !!!!! YOU WANT SOME SMUT?!?! Come on over !!!! Guru is extraordinary!!
@1d1195
Beautiful Enough !!!! Multiple parts this month! You should read them all !!! Sam excels with angst! This is a wild (and beautiful duh) ride and I’m loving it so much🤩And let me plug in the Masterlist as well as everyone’s monthly reminder to read more of Sam’s work🤩
@harrywavycurly
Got a couple over here!! Little Secret SO GOOD! Sunday Softies: Loved You Better My favorite of the Sunday Softies so far!! And Day Off Grumpy x Sunshine central🙂↕️🙂↕️🙂↕️
@maudie-duan
Honey, I'm Home 😍😍😍She is ALWAYS delivering with the smut !!!!! The writing? Remarkable!
@faithscherry
BLEED INTO YOU Omggggg this !!!!! I need to reread and then reread 10 more times after! A recent gem for Mafiarry!
@ellewritesx
teach me slowly I finished this story this month and wow!!!! I really really reallyyyy loved it!! An excellent writer!
@harrysbabycherry
lovesick PART 6 !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AHHHHHHHHH !!!!!!!!!!!! IF YOU HAVEN’T READ THIS STORY WHAT ARE YOU DOINGGGGGG?!!?!?!!?! READ IT NOW HELLO!!!!!
@heartateasee
Just the Girl YOU GUYSSSSSS! The angst !!!!!!! I loved this story so much. Wow.👏
@narrycherries
woman This series !!!!!! Multiple parts this month🤩I’m loving these two sooooo much !!!! Miss Cherries has been FEEDING US 🍽️ !!!!!
@ghstyles
Scrub in YES !!!!!! You all better clock in on this !!! An incredible writer!
@watchmegetobsessed
BET ON IT Ahhhhh!!!! This was such a treat !!!!!!!!! A must read for fratrry lovers🙂↕️🙂↕️
@this-is-tiny-mia
Sunshine !!!!!!!!!! I really hope everyone takes the time to read this!! Absolutely amazing🥰🥰
@jarofstyles
I’ve been loving their picture blurbs and this one is soooo good🤭 Picture Blurb !!!!! They always do darkrry really well!
@maladaptivescorpio
Messy Eaters Ahhhhhhh😍something filthy and fun🍕!!! I’ve been super pleased with their smut!
Here’s a list of fics I’ve read in the past but want to give them a shout out:
@harrystylesgotmefuckedup
...and the thick accent Soooo good !!!!!!
@strwbabydoll
The Feeling Came Late An ongoing series that deserves more love🥰!!!!
@heartateasee
Safe AHHHHHHHHH!!!!! A MUST READ!!!!!!! I love this series so much omgomgomg !!!!!!!
@cloudyluun
Vegas Lights I loved this!!! Can always count on good writing from them🙂↕️🙂↕️
@jezebelblues
la vie en rose !!!!!!!!!!!! Oh my gosh this is a fluffy and smutty masterpiece !!! Makes me so happy :))) need to reread 11 million times
@ijustmissyouraccenths
It Was Enchanting to Meet You Thissssss! So dreamy !!!!! A MOVIE !!!!!! I loved this sooooo much😌
@fkinavocado
Clear my schedule PLSSSSS😍😍😍Their LHH Masterlist is GOLD!!!!!
Summary: You’re an aspiring actress waiting to be discovered—the embodiment of sunshine itself: radiant, stubborn, and perhaps a little too kind for your own good. Then you step into Harry’s world, one painted in shades of grey, and nothing for either of you is ever the same
A/n: Hello my lovessss! I don’t even know where all this inspo came from, but I’m so happy with how it turned out! I’m always looking to grow and write better, so I’d love any feedback you have. Thanks for reading, love you all!
Word count: 20k
Warnings: Slow burn, angst, a bit of a mean Harry not too much, smut, virgin reader, oral sex m to f, unprotected but then protected sex lol.
You stared at the number in front of you—301—etched in gold serif font, elegant and a little old-fashioned. Pretty numbers, you thought. Your gaze dropped, scanning the ground for a welcome mat, but your brows knit together when you found nothing. No cheerful “hello,” no quirky quote. Just bare floor.
Balancing two large suitcases and a tote bag slung over your shoulder, you adjusted the strap of your pink, flower-patterned sundress, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door with the biggest smile you could muster.
It was supposed to be one of those clichés—you knock, and someone warm and welcoming swings the door open, shows you around, tells you about the neighbors. A sitcom moment. But instead—
“Oh. You’re here.”
The voice was flat, the expression even flatter. He didn’t step aside or offer a hand with your bags, didn’t even invite you in. He just turned around, leaving the door wide open, and walked away.
You blinked, confusion tugging at your smile, but dragged your suitcases inside anyway. Grey walls greeted you, minimalistic décor in every shade of beige, black, and dull gray. Cold. Quiet. Not exactly welcoming.
And then—him again. Standing in the middle of the living room, holding out a piece of paper. At the top, in bold capital letters:
HOUSE RULES
No loud music.
No guests without permission.
Don’t touch my stuff.
Quiet hours: 10 p.m. – 7 a.m.
Do NOT go into my bedroom.
Respect my food in the fridge.
Always carry your keys.
You skimmed through them, lips twitching. Some rules seemed normal enough, but others practically screamed: Hi, I’m grumpy as hell.
“Rules,” he said matter-of-factly. “They’re easy to follow. Your room’s down the hallway. Mine’s across from it. If my door is closed, don’t knock unless the apartment’s on fire.”
You blinked, swallowing hard like a stray kitten caught in the rain. “Yes, understood.”
“Great.” He didn’t even look at you as he disappeared into his room, door clicking shut.
He didn’t even ask my name, you thought with a sigh.
Dragging your bags down the hall, you found the room he’d pointed out. Grey walls again, a slightly crooked bed, but a large window and a big closet. Simple, but enough. It surprised you how quiet everything was—the neighborhood, the apartment, him.
You weren’t used to quiet. Back home, silence didn’t exist. A big country house full of noise: two brothers, three sisters, mom, dad, grandma, an aunt and her twins. Someone was always crying, laughing, or arguing over a lost jacket. Pots clattered in the kitchen, dad’s lawnmower roared at dawn, and voices spilled through every corner.
Now—just silence.
You exhaled slowly, glancing at your suitcases. “It’s fine,” you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else.
You unpacked piece by piece, filling the room with tiny comforts: lavender bedding that smelled faintly of home, your worn bunny plushie, two pink mugs with cat ears, and a colorful French press. The quiet pressed in around you, but little by little, the room began to feel like yours. You wandered into the kitchen, opening cabinets until you found one with a strip of masking tape labeled with your name. So…he had remembered it from your application. That counted for something, right?
You carefully placed both of your pink cat-ear mugs inside and set your colorful French press on the counter beside his sleek, black Nespresso machine. The contrast made you smile—sunshine versus storm cloud, side by side.
When you turned around to head back to your room, you startled, letting out a tiny squeak as you jumped. He was standing right there, silent as a shadow.
“What’s that?” he asked, brows furrowing.
“This?” You pointed at the French press, forcing a smile. “It’s my Bodum French press. You like coffee?”
“Yeah,” he said simply.
You waited, hoping he might add something more—a follow-up question, a joke, anything. But instead, he moved past you, sat down on the sofa, opened his laptop, and that was the end of the conversation.
You exhaled softly. Moving away from home, you’d expected challenges. You braced yourself for missing family, for the hunt to find a job. But this? Living with him? That already felt like a new, impossible level of hard.
Later that day, you finally finished unpacking the last of your things in your new room. The space looked warmer now, a little more you. Still, your stomach reminded you that your side of the fridge was empty, and maybe—just maybe—you could even bake something later.
You tucked your wallet into a tote bag, slipped on your shoes, and slid the final cardboard box into the back of the closet. With a deep breath and a smile, you headed for the front door. A new start. You weren’t going to let a stranger—or his rules—dim your light and…
“Forgetting something?”
The voice made you pause, one foot already out the door. You turned back to see him leaning lazily against the wall, keys dangling from his finger. He wasn’t even looking at you, just spinning the key ring like it was second nature.
“Oh…right…” You crossed the room, plucking the keys from his hand with a sheepish smile.
“Rule number seven,” he said flatly. “Always carry your keys.”
🍒
When you came back from the grocery store, tote bags digging into your hands, the faint sound of sizzling reached you before you even stepped into the kitchen. Peeking in, you spotted him at the stove, working a pan with calm precision—stir-fry, by the smell of it.
“Hi,” you said softly, almost careful, already knowing not to expect much of a reply.
He didn’t look up, didn’t say the word back, but you caught the tiniest twitch in his jaw. Taking the silence as permission, you slipped past him and began stocking your side of the fridge, then the pantry.
Even with that stern, unreadable face, you noticed it—his eyes flicking, quick and subtle, toward what you were unpacking. Maybe he was silently judging your colorful cereal boxes, or maybe he was just curious. Either way, the thought made you bite back a smile.
You placed the last box of cereal into the pantry, then hesitated, glancing at the sizzling pan in front of him.
“Smells good,” you said softly. “Do you, um, want me to help with anything? I’m a pretty decent vegetable chopper.”
He didn’t even look up, just shook his head once. “I’ve got it.”
That was the end of the conversation. You lingered for a moment, then nodded, more to yourself than him. “Alright… I’ll just wait until you’re done to make mine.”
He gave no reply, so you slipped away to your room, scrolling idly through your phone to pass the time. The house was quiet except for the faint clatter of pans and the hiss of steam drifting through the walls.
Peeking out, you padded softly into the hallway. The kitchen lights were still on, the air fragrant with soy and garlic. He was there, already at the small dining table with his laptop open beside him, eating from a bowl like nothing in the world could disturb him.
On the counter, set neatly near the edge, was a second plate.
Your eyes flicked from the food to him, but he didn’t look at you—didn’t acknowledge you at all. He just kept eating, focused and unbothered. But something about the way that second plate sat waiting in plain view left no room for doubt.
With a small, grateful smile, you pulled the plate toward you, whispering under your breath, “Maybe not all grump.” Before you could even finish, he pushed back his chair, scooped up his laptop, and disappeared down the hall. A second later, the sound of his bedroom door closing clicked through the silence.
You stood there for a moment, half amused, half frustrated. No words, no nothing, just action.
Still, you felt like you needed to say something back. When you finished and cleaned your plate you went straight to your room, grabbed a sticky note from your desk, you scribbled quickly:
“Thanks for dinner ♡”
With a grin, you tiptoed to his door and slid the note under the crack. It felt silly, like sneaking around in a game, but it was the best you could do.
🍒
The next morning, you woke to sunlight spilling through the big window and the faint hum of the city outside. The apartment, though, was silent. Too silent.
You stretched, rubbed the sleep from your eyes, and padded into the hallway barefoot. His bedroom door was wide open now, bed neatly made, no trace of him anywhere.
With the apartment empty, curiosity itched at you. You wandered slowly through the living room, eyes scanning the plain gray walls and beige furniture. Nothing personal. Not a single photo frame on the shelves. The counter was bare, save for the black Nespresso machine and the French press you’d left beside it. You even peeked toward the side table by the couch, but there were only chargers and a coaster.
No pictures. No postcards. No magnets from trips. Not even a forgotten grocery receipt.
You stood in the middle of the room, tote bag from yesterday still by the door, feeling both amused and unsettled. “Who lives like this?” you murmured.You circled back towards your room, ready to give up, when something caught your eye. A slip of paper sticking out from under his laptop charger on the coffee table.
Curiosity won over hesitation. You tugged it free—a folded bill, crumpled at the edges, like it had been stuffed in a pocket and forgotten.
It wasn’t just a bill, though. Your eyes flicked to the bold letters at the top: The Rusty Note — Live Music Fridays.
Beneath it, smaller print listed the lineup. And there it was: Midnight Avenue. The band name had a scribbled circle around it in black pen, and at the bottom of the receipt was a drink order—two beers, one soda.
Your brows lifted. So he’s in a band.
Suddenly, the quiet, guarded guy in the next room didn’t feel so one-dimensional. You pictured him under stage lights, guitar in hand, the opposite of the silent shadow you’d met at the door.
You set the bill back exactly where it had been, heart racing a little. A secret. A clue.
“Midnight Avenue,” you whispered, trying the words on your tongue like they were part of a puzzle you’d just begun to solve.
And also, just like that you broke rule #3
Back in your room, you sat cross-legged on the bed with your laptop balanced on your knees. The name still echoed in your mind—Midnight Avenue.
With a guilty grin, you opened a new tab and typed it in. The search results popped up quickly: a modest Instagram page, a couple of tagged posts, a handful of grainy bar photos.
You clicked on one video. The sound was tinny, recorded from someone’s phone, but it was enough. There he was, on stage under dim neon lights, guitar slung across his chest. His face was the same unreadable mask, but the way he played wasn’t. Confident. Alive. Like the music pulled out a side of him you couldn’t imagine in the quiet gray apartment.
You scrolled further, finding flyers for past gigs, a few comments about the band’s “moody sound” and “late-night energy.” In one picture, he even looked like he was smiling—not big, not obvious, but enough to make you blink.
You leaned back against your lavender pillows, heart thudding faster than it should. So he wasn’t just the silent, rule-obsessed roommate. He was someone people went out of their way to see. Someone who belonged to a world you hadn’t known about until now.
The thought of asking him about it crossed your mind—then you pictured his face, that flat tone of voice, the shut door. No. BAD IDEA.
🍒
The first few days in the city slipped by in a blur. You woke early, sometimes to find the apartment already empty, other times catching the faint sound of the shower running through the walls before his door closed again. He came and went like clockwork, never volunteering where he was headed, never asking where you were going.
You tried. Cheerful good mornings, small comments about the weather, even casual questions about the best grocery store nearby. He’d answer, but never more than the bare minimum. Words from him felt rationed. So you filled the silence with your own noise.
There were auditions. One ended before you’d even spoken a line, the casting director waving you off with a polite, “We’ll be in touch.” Another felt promising until the girl before you walked out clutching the script with the confidence of someone already chosen. You told yourself it was fine. There would be more.
In the evenings, you propped your phone against a mug and FaceTimed your family. Your sisters talked over each other, your dad asked if you were eating enough, your mom wanted a tour of the apartment. You tilted the screen carefully, avoiding the gray walls and keeping your lavender bedding in view instead.
When your friends called, you laughed and exaggerated the quirks of city life—the subway, the pigeons, the endless honking. But you didn’t mention him. Not really. How could you describe someone so silent, so carefully walled off?
Still, curiosity lingered. You caught yourself listening for the sound of his guitar through the walls, sometimes you peeked into the kitchen just to see what he cooked, hoping for a clue about who he really was. But if he noticed your curiosity, he never showed it.
It was 10:30 p.m. when you stumbled back into the apartment, makeup smudged and your tote bag heavier than usual though you carried nothing new. You had spent all day chasing a role that had slipped right through your fingers the moment you walked into the audition room. The casting director’s blank stare, the clipped thank you, the way no one looked up when you left—it all replayed in your head like a cruel loop.
By the time you reached your bedroom, you could feel the tight ache in your chest breaking into sobs. You didn’t even bother turning on the main light, just dropped onto the bed and fumbled for your phone. One ring, two rings, and then your best friend’s familiar voice filled the silence.
You let it out—how you felt humiliated, how maybe you weren’t cut out for this city, how every step seemed to prove you didn’t belong. Your words cracked, spilling into tears, your friend’s voice on the other side a lifeline of soft encouragement. “You’re not a failure,” they repeated. “You’re brave for even being there.”
Your knees were curled into your chest, the phone wedged against your ear as you tried to steady your breathing.
“I’m just… I don’t know what I’m even doing here,” you sobbed into the speaker, your best friend’s voice a soft murmur on the other end. “I thought I could handle rejection, but they didn’t even look at me, like I wasn’t worth the two seconds it would take to listen. And maybe they’re right—maybe I’m not worth it.”
Your words tumbled out, jagged and breathless, not realizing how loud you’d gotten in the quiet apartment.
The knock on your door startled you so badly you almost dropped your phone.
“Hold on,” you whispered to your friend, wiping at your face with the heel of your palm.
The door creaked open just enough for Harry to appear, his hand still on the knob. His hair was mussed, his expression sharp and impatient.
“It’s past ten,” he said flatly, voice low and firm. “Walls are thin, so—”
He stopped.
The second his eyes met yours, glassy and rimmed red, his words faltered. He didn’t move for a beat, like he’d been caught in something he hadn’t meant to step into.
You pressed your lips together, mortified. Your friend’s voice was still faintly audible through the speaker, asking if you were okay.
Harry’s jaw flexed. “Sorry,” then, without another word, he stepped back and shut the door gently.
You stared at the closed door, your breath still shaky.
Swallowing, you lifted the phone back to your ear. “Sorry, I—uh—I’ll call you back,” you whispered, hanging up before your friend could protest.
For a long while, you just sat there in silence, the air heavy with what had just happened. After that you just went to brush your teeth and slumped in the bed praying to fall asleep quickly to forget about the audition and about your very grumpy very unknown roommate seeing you cry and making him uncomfortable.
You had broken almost three rules by now—it was silly how you were more worried about the rule breaking and making him uncomfortable than your actual feelings. The thought made you want to laugh and cry at the same time. Instead, you pulled the blanket over your head and tried to will your brain into silence.
But of course, it didn’t work. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the way he’d stopped mid-sentence, the flicker of something softer in his expression before he shut the door.
Somehow, Harry being witness to your tears felt worse than the casting director telling you “thank you, next.” And the worst part? You couldn’t figure out why.
The next morning, sunlight bled through the curtains, nudging you awake far earlier than you wanted. Your head throbbed faintly, your throat raw from crying. With a groan, you rolled over, half-expecting to hear faint kitchen noises or footsteps.
But the apartment was silent.
Dragging yourself out of bed, you padded into the hallway, hair messy, socks slipping on the wood floor. When you stepped into the kitchen, you stopped short.
On the counter sat a plate—scrambled eggs, two pieces of toast, and a small bowl of cut fruit, still fresh enough to glisten. A mug of black coffee steamed beside it, the smell curling warmly through the air.
Your chest tightened.
There was no note, no sticky reminder, nothing dramatic—just breakfast, plated neatly, waiting for you.
You glanced around as if he might appear from behind the fridge or step out from the hallway, but the apartment was empty. His keys were gone from the hook near the door.
Still, you sat down at the small table, staring at the food for a long moment before taking the first bite. It was simple, but somehow it tasted better than anything you’d eaten since moving in.
And you couldn’t help the small, ridiculous smile tugging at your lips.
You spent most of the day in your room, alternating between scrolling job boards and rereading the audition notes that made you feel worse the longer you looked at them. But the thought of the breakfast kept sneaking back in, softening the edges of your mood.
By late afternoon, you heard the sound of the lock turning.
Harry stepped in, hair a little messy from the wind, guitar case slung over his shoulder. He kicked his boots off near the door and set his case down without noticing you at first.
Your heart thudded. You wanted—needed—to say something.
“Hey,” you started, voice tentative. “About… last night.”
That caught his attention. He looked over, unreadable as ever, one hand still resting on the strap of his bag.
You twisted your fingers together. “I—I’m sorry if I was too loud. I didn’t mean to break your rules. I just… had a rough day.”
For a moment, you thought he was going to brush you off with a shrug and retreat to his room. Instead, he leaned against the wall, arms crossing over his chest.
“You don’t have to apologize for crying,” he said simply, his tone even.
Relief washed over you, but also a little courage. “Right. Okay. Um… thank you. For breakfast.”
His jaw worked for a second, like he wanted to deflect, but then his gaze flicked to yours. “Figured you probably didn’t eat last night. Don’t make it a big deal.”
You smiled despite yourself. “I won’t. Promise.”
For the first time, something like the shadow of a grin tugged at his mouth—small, fleeting, but real—before he pushed off the wall and grabbed his guitar case.
“Good,” he said, and disappeared into his room.
Still, the moment lingered. And for the first time since moving in, you felt like maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t entirely untouchable.
That evening, you were in the kitchen again, determined to bake something. The cupboards were still half-bare, but you had managed to grab flour, sugar, and a carton of eggs earlier. Cupcakes weren’t home, exactly, but they felt close enough.
You were whisking the batter when you felt that prickle at the back of your neck—the same one you always felt when he suddenly appeared without a sound.
“Do you always hum when you cook?” Harry asked.
You jumped, nearly spilling the bowl. “God—you’re like a ghost,” you muttered, clutching your chest before setting the whisk down.
His lips curved—just slightly. “Didn’t mean to sneak up.” He moved to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of water.
You eyed him as he twisted the cap. “I didn’t know you noticed things like that.”
“I notice a lot of things,” he replied evenly, though his eyes lingered on the bowl, the bright silicone spatula, the messy bit of flour on your shirt. “Cupcakes?”
You nodded, suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah. Thought it might make the place feel less… gray.”
Something flickered across his face, quick as lightning. “Not a bad idea,” he said, softer than you expected.
You blinked. “Do you… want one? When they’re done, I mean.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just took a sip of his water, watching you over the bottle’s rim. Then, after a beat:
“Maybe.”
And with that, he retreated back to the sofa, laptop in hand—but the word stuck with you. Maybe. It wasn’t much, but from him, it felt like a door cracking open just enough to let a sliver of light through.
The smell of vanilla and sugar soon filled the apartment, warm and inviting in a way the gray walls never managed to be. You pulled the tray from the oven, setting it on the counter, and carefully spread pale pink frosting across the tops.
You hesitated before carrying one over to the living room, your heart thumping faster than it should for a simple cupcake.
Harry was exactly where you’d left him, laptop balanced on his knees, fingers tapping lightly at the keys. His hair fell into his face until he pushed it back absently.
“Hey,” you said softly, holding out the plate. “They’re ready. You said maybe.”
His eyes flicked up, then down to the cupcake, then back to you. He didn’t move for a second, as though testing whether this was some kind of trick. Finally, he closed the laptop with a quiet click and set it aside.
You placed the plate in front of him, feeling a ridiculous rush of nerves as he picked it up. He turned it in his hand once, studying the frosting swirl, before taking a bite.
For the briefest moment, his expression shifted—just a flicker—but you caught it. His jaw relaxed, the corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile.
“It’s good,” he said, voice low.
Relief bubbled out of you in a laugh. “Thanks. I was afraid you were going to say you don’t eat sugar after nine p.m. or something.”
That earned you a look—sharp at first, then unexpectedly amused. He shook his head, taking another bite. “Not one of the rules.”
His eyes met yours then, and for the first time, he didn’t look away right after. The silence stretched, softer this time, before he returned to his cupcake like it was a shield.
Still, that sliver of light through the door grew just a little wider.
You lingered nearby as he finished the last bite, trying not to stare too openly but unable to help it.
“So…” you started, voice casual. Too casual. “Do you play often? The guitar?”
Harry’s eyes lifted to yours, unreadable. “Yeah.”
“Are you, um—like, in a band or something?” you pressed, tilting your head innocently.
For a second, you swore you saw his mouth twitch, not in amusement but in recognition. His gaze narrowed, sharp but quiet, like he could see straight through you.
“Funny question,” he said slowly, leaning back against the cushions. “Makes me wonder how you’d even think to ask it.”
Your stomach dipped. You tried for a shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Just… curious. Most people don’t have a guitar case lying around unless they use it.”
He studied you for a long moment, as though weighing the truth in your words. Then he leaned forward, setting the empty plate on the coffee table.
“Curiosity’s fine,” he murmured, his voice even but edged, “as long as it doesn’t cross into rule three or five.”
Your breath caught. You plastered on a smile, forcing your tone light. “Noted.”
But the way his eyes lingered, sharp and knowing, made your pulse thrum faster. For the first time, you wondered if he already suspected how much you wanted to know.
🍒
The days blurred into a quiet rhythm. You tiptoed around his rules, careful not to push too hard, and he—well, he started giving you more than one-word answers. Not a lot more, but enough to feel like cracks in his armor.
A muttered “Morning” when you crossed paths in the kitchen. A dry “That smells edible” when you burned your first attempt at pasta. Even the occasional question tossed your way, quick and casual, as if he regretted asking it immediately after.
Still, the apartment was missing something. It wasn’t just the silence—it was the sterility of it all, beige and gray swallowing every corner. So, one afternoon, you came home balancing a small terracotta pot in your hands, a tiny green plant with wide leaves that practically radiated cheer.
You set it on the coffee table in the living room and stepped back, smiling. “There,” you said to no one, brushing the dirt from your hands. “Instant upgrade.”
You didn’t hear him until his voice came from the hallway. “What’s that?”
You turned, caught in the act, but didn’t back down. “A plant. His name is Finn.”
Harry’s brow furrowed as he walked closer, hands in his pockets. He looked at the plant for a long moment, and you braced yourself for the inevitable rules lecture.
Instead, he crouched slightly, tilting his head as if assessing it. “It’s not fake?”
You blinked. “No. Real.”
His lips pressed together, and for the first time, you saw something like approval flicker across his face. “Looks… good.”
The words were quiet, almost reluctant, but they warmed you more than you wanted to admit.
You grinned. “So Finn can stay?”
He straightened up, glancing at you briefly before turning toward his room. “As long as you water him.”
It was a small thing, but to you, it felt monumental. Like he’d just admitted—without saying it—that maybe he didn’t mind sharing the space with you after all.
🍒
Friday night, the city buzzed with life around you, but you didn’t feel like part of it. You were just tired—bone-deep tired—from the week. When you reached the apartment building, though, your stomach sank.
Your tote was lighter than it should have been.
Keys.
You dug through the bag twice, then three times, even checked your pockets though you knew better. Nothing.
Your phone was in your hand, thumb hovering over his number. Rule seven screamed in your head—Always carry your keys. You could practically hear his voice reminding you. Calling him felt like confessing a crime.
So instead, you sat down against the door. I can wait a while. At first, it was just to think, to stall for a minute. But the hallway was quiet, and the cool wall behind you made your eyelids heavy. Hours blurred, and before long, exhaustion pulled you under.
The sound of steps jolted you awake. Your head shot up.
“Jesus Christ—Y/N” Harry’s voice cut sharp before it faltered. He crouched down, frowning as he took in the sight of you curled against the doorframe, your dress wrinkled, your face marked from leaning on your arm.
“What happened?” His voice was low, urgent in a way you hadn’t heard before.
“I—uh—” You rubbed your eyes, embarrassed heat rushing to your cheeks. “I forgot my keys. Didn’t want to bother you. With the… rule.”
For a second, he just stared at you, something tightening in his jaw. Then he shook his head, running a hand through his hair.
“In this scenario,” he said firmly, almost like he was scolding himself more than you, “it’s obviously okay to call me. You don’t sit out here all night.”
The guilt in his eyes was clear, even if his voice stayed even. He stood, reaching down to help you up. “You could’ve been freezing. Or worse.”
You took his hand, letting him pull you inside. “I didn’t want to break the rules,” you murmured
He exhaled, something like frustration threading through it. “Forget the rules right now, alright? I don’t…” He trailed off, jaw tight, shutting the door behind you. “I don’t want you waiting out there again.”
The words lingered between you, heavier than any rule taped to the fridge.
You hovered in the entryway, clutching your bag. He set his guitar case down with more force than necessary, then disappeared briefly into the kitchen. When he came back, he was holding a glass of water, which he pressed into your hands.
“Drink,” he said, softer this time.
You obeyed, the cool water easing the dryness in your throat. When you set the glass down, you caught him watching you, something unguarded flickering across his face before he looked away.
“You were out late,” you said, trying for lightness. “Gig?”
He gave a short nod, toeing off his boots. “Yeah.” He paused, glancing at you again. “Went alright.”
It wasn’t much, but it was the first piece of his life he’d willingly offered. And after the night you’d had—sitting on the floor outside your own home, waiting, doubting—you clung to it.
“Good,” you whispered, the corner of your mouth tugging up.
For once, he didn’t retreat straight to his room. He lingered a moment longer, then jerked his chin toward the hallway. “Get some sleep. You look wrecked.”
And though the words were blunt, there was no edge to them this time—only a strange, quiet concern that followed you all the way to your bedroom door.
The next morning, the smell of something warm and toasty pulled you out of sleep. Blinking at the clock, you realized it was barely eight. That alone was unusual—Harry was never up this early unless he had somewhere to be.
Padding into the kitchen, you found him again at the counter, sleeves pushed up, hair a little messy, sliding scrambled eggs onto two plates. A small stack of toast leaned precariously beside them, and the coffee machine gurgled as it finished its last cycle.
Your throat went tight, remembering last night—the door, the guilt in his eyes, how small you must have looked curled up outside.
“Morning,” you whispered.
He glanced over, jaw flexing like always, then nodded once. “Sit.”
You did, suppressing the smile tugging at your lips as he placed a plate in front of you. He didn’t linger, didn’t hover. Just poured himself coffee and sat across from you, silent but present. It was more than enough.
And then you noticed it—tucked under your plate, almost like a placemat. A sheet of lined paper. The familiar scrawl made your stomach flip.
The Rules (modified):
Don’t go into my room.
Don’t touch my stuff.
No loud calls after ten. (exception: emergencies, yes crying is an emergency.)
If you forget your keys, call me.
Your eyes flicked up, and he was already watching you. Not glaring, not scolding—just watching, a little stiff, like he wasn’t sure how you’d react.
You traced the paper with your fingertip, lips curving despite yourself. “So… exceptions exist.”
He grunted, stabbing at his eggs with his fork. “Yes.”
You bit back the flood of gratitude rising in your chest, choosing instead to take another bite of toast like it was the most casual thing in the world. But your heart was racing.
Because for the first time since moving in, the rules weren’t just walls. They were… bending.
And that, you decided, was your biggest victory yet.
🍒
You smoothed the hem of your new dress in front of the hallway mirror, it was a pale yellow dress that looked like it had been plucked straight from a fairytale. The fabric was light and airy, layers of sheer tulle falling gracefully into a full, mid-calf skirt that swayed with every step. Tiny dotted patterns scattered across the material caught the light, adding a subtle shimmer. The bodice was fitted like a corset with sweetheart cups that framed your neckline and delicate ribbon ties rested on your shoulders.
Exactly what you needed for today’s audition.
Behind you, you heard footsteps. Harry’s, slow and even, padding down the hall toward the kitchen.
You turned, smile blooming nervously. “Hey—um. Do I look okay?”
He stopped dead a few feet away. For a beat, he didn’t say anything, just let his eyes flick over you once—quick, but not quick enough. His jaw flexed, like he had to physically lock something back down.
Then, before he could stop himself, the words slipped out. “You look like the sunshine.”
The heat that rushed to your cheeks was instant, impossible to hide. “Sunshine?” you repeated, the smile tugging at your lips betraying how flattered you were.
He blinked, as though realizing what he’d said. His mouth tightened, and he cleared his throat. “I meant… bright. Loud, even. Hard to miss.”
But his ears were pink, and you could tell he was scrambling for cover.
You tilted your head, biting your lip to stop your grin from growing. “I’ll take sunshine,” you said softly, brushing past him toward the door.
And though he didn’t answer, you caught the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth before he ducked his head.
Later the door swung open with a dramatic push, and you all but burst into the apartment. Your tote bag nearly slipped off your shoulder as you stumbled in, laughing breathlessly.
“I got it!” you squealed, tossing the bag on the couch. “I actually got the part!”
Your whole body seemed to glow, the yellow dress still fluttering around your knees as you spun once in the middle of the living room, too thrilled to care if you looked silly.
Harry had been stretched across the sofa with his laptop, but at the sound of your voice he froze, watching as you beamed at nothing and everything all at once.
He’d seen you smile plenty of times, but not like this. This was blinding, unrestrained, pure joy radiating out of you until it filled the room. It made something sharp twist in his chest.
Because, if he was honest with himself, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt anything like that.
Still, he found himself staring, jaw slack, as the corners of his own mouth tugged upward without permission. It was… contagious. Your happiness. And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t just want to observe it from the safety of his own silence.
He wanted—just for once—to share it with you.
“You got the part?” he asked
You stopped twirling, eyes wide with delight, and nodded so hard your hair bounced. “I got it, Harry! They actually picked me!”
He set the laptop aside, shifting forward on the couch. A strange, cautious warmth pressed against his ribs, a feeling that made him nervous to name. But still, he let himself smile, small but real. “Then I guess… congratulations.”
Your laughter bubbled again, brighter than before, and he thought maybe—just maybe—he could get used to this sound filling the apartment.
You spent the next hour pacing around your room, phone pressed to your ear as you called everyone you loved. Your mom. Your dad. Each one of your siblings. Your best friend. The words I got it! echoed again and again, your voice bright, bubbling, unstoppable.
Through the thin apartment walls, Harry could hear it all—your laughter, your excited footsteps, the rise and fall of your joy spilling into every call. And even though he tried to keep his focus his lips betrayed him, tugging upward into a quiet smile.
It stirred something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not jealousy—no, he didn’t begrudge you your happiness. It was more like a tug, an ache he couldn’t name. The way you trusted so openly, the way you shared so freely, like happiness was meant to be scattered around without fear it might run out.
He set the laptop down, running a hand over his jaw. Maybe… maybe he should do something.
His mind immediately began spinning. Should I buy a bottle of champagne? No—too posh, too over the top. Dinner, maybe? Invite her somewhere nice? What? No, that would feel like a date, and he wasn’t—this wasn’t—
He groaned, scrubbing his hand through his hair. Maybe I should just cook? Something simple? But then he pictured himself fumbling around the kitchen and her bright eyes watching him, and his pulse spiked. No, no.
Beers? he thought desperately. That was safer. Neutral. But even that felt too forced.
Then it hit him. Of course. The gig.
She could come, watch the band, have a fun night, soak up the music, the atmosphere. It wasn’t a date, not really—it was casual, public, easy. And maybe, just maybe, it would let him share a piece of himself without having to strip down all his walls.
The idea settled into him and he sat there, rehearsing the words in his head like he was preparing for battle: You should come tonight. It’s just a small set. No big deal.
Casual. Harmless. Nothing more.
So why did his heart pound as if it meant everything?
You ended the last call with your best friend, still smiling so wide your cheeks ached. Your phone slipped onto the bed beside you as you leaned back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, replaying every little detail of the day in your head.
A soft knock on your door startled you. Not much of a knock, really—more like the back of a knuckle brushing against wood.
“Yeah?” you called, sitting up.
The door cracked open, and Harry leaned against the frame, arms crossed like he hadn’t been pacing in the hallway for the past three minutes working up the nerve. His voice was calm, casual—at least, that’s what he was aiming for.
“Big day, huh?” he said.
You grinned at him, still unable to contain yourself. “Huge. I can’t believe it, Harry. I thought they hated me, and then—” You stopped yourself before launching into another retelling. “Sorry. I’ve been talking everyone’s ears off.”
His lips twitched. “Could hear that.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks, but he didn’t sound annoyed—just… aware. Observing.
Then, after a pause, he shifted his weight and spoke quickly, like ripping off a bandage. “Listen, uh. I’ve got a gig tonight. Just a small set, nothing major. Thought you might wanna come.”
Your brows shot up. Of all the things you thought he might say, that wasn’t on the list. “A gig?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged, gaze darting past you to the corner of the room, like he couldn’t quite hold eye contact. “Bar downtown. We start around ten. You don’t have to—it’s just…” He trailed off, clearing his throat. “Figured it’s a way to celebrate?”
The way he said it—so offhand, like it didn’t matter either way—didn’t quite cover the faint pink climbing his ears.
You bit your lip to keep from smiling too much. “You’re inviting me.”
“I’m… mentioning an option,” he corrected, deadpan, though his jaw worked a little like he regretted opening his mouth at all.
Still, you could feel the smallest crack in his armor, and it warmed you all over. “Well,” you said lightly, “then I guess I’ll take the option.”
His shoulders relaxed just the faintest bit. “Cool. I’ll… we leave at 8.”
And with that, he nodded once, retreating back down the hall before you could see the tiny, nervous smirk tugging at his lips.
🍒
The bar was dim, alive with the low hum of chatter and the clink of glasses. A string of colored lights zigzagged above the small stage, casting everything in a warm, intimate glow.
Harry walked in beside you, his hands shoved into the pockets of his black jacket, shoulders tight like he already regretted bringing you. You, on the other hand, practically bounced on your heels, your yellow dress a burst of light in the low-lit room.
As soon as you reached the stage area, a couple of guys looked up from tuning their instruments.
“Harry!” one of them called, grin spreading wide. He had curly hair pulled back into a bun and sticks tucked under one arm—clearly the drummer.
Harry gave a nod. “This is—” He hesitated for half a second before gesturing toward you. “My… roommate.”
You stepped forward with your brightest smile, offering a hand. “Hi! It’s so nice to meet you.”
The bassist, tall and lanky with glasses slipping down his nose, chuckled as he shook your hand. “Roommate, huh? You don’t look like the type Harry would put up with.”
“Hey,” Harry muttered, shooting him a look.
But you just laughed, the sound light and unbothered. “Guess I’m lucky then.”
After a round of quick introductions, Harry mumbled something about needing to check the set list and drifted toward the back of the stage, leaving you to find a spot. You chose a small table off to the side where you could see clearly, resting your chin in your hand, still smiling like the whole night was already magic.
Back on stage, as they plugged in cables and adjusted mics, the bandmates couldn’t resist.
“So,” the drummer said under his breath, nudging Harry with his stick. “Who’s the sunshine?”
Harry’s brows drew together. “What?”
“The girl,” the bassist chimed in, jerking his chin toward you. “She’s, like… a flower come to life. All bright and smiley. Total opposite of you.”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “She’s just my roommate.”
“Uh-huh.” The drummer smirked. “Funny how your roommate shows up looking like she wandered out of a fairy tale.”
Harry busied himself with tuning his guitar, but his ears burned.
“She’s sweet,” the bassist added, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Smiled at me like I’d just handed her a winning lottery ticket. Can’t remember the last time someone looked that happy to be here.” He shot Harry a teasing grin. “No wonder you brought her.”
Harry’s head snapped up. “I didn’t bring—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “She wanted to come.”
“Sure,” the drummer said, smirking. “Just a coincidence the grumpiest guy we know suddenly has sunshine tagging along.”
The bassist chuckled. “Honestly, I like it. It’s like yin and yang. You, all broody and dark, her, all light and joy. Balance, man. It works.”
Harry’s blush deepened as he muttered, “You two sound ridiculous,” but his fingers fumbled on the strings, betraying him.
Meanwhile, you sat at your little table, completely unaware, still smiling as you waved when you caught Harry glancing your way. He quickly looked back down, but not before the drummer elbowed him again with a knowing grin.
When the lights dimmed, a ripple of excitement spread through the bar. The casual chatter quieted, replaced by the anticipation of music about to begin. You leaned forward in your chair, elbows braced on the table, eyes fixed on the stage.
Harry stood near the mic, guitar slung low across his chest, head bent as he adjusted the strap. Even under the glow of red and amber stage lights, he seemed the same as always—closed off, unreadable.
But then he strummed the first chord.
The sound filled the bar instantly—confident, rough around the edges, alive. His bandmates joined in, the rhythm locking tight, and suddenly Harry wasn’t your grumpy, rule-obsessed roommate anymore. He was something else entirely.
The lines of his face sharpened in the lights, his jaw tight with focus, his eyes half-closed as if he was lost somewhere only the music could take him. He leaned into the mic, voice spilling out low and raw, pulling every head in the bar toward him.
You sat frozen, goosebumps prickling up your arms.
He didn’t just play the guitar—he commanded it, every strum a piece of him let loose into the room. It was loud and unapologetic and yet so clearly his truth. For the first time, you understood why the rules, the silence, the walls—maybe he needed them just to contain this.
Your lips parted as you watched, unable to stop the slow smile spreading across your face.
And when his eyes flicked up for the briefest second, scanning the room, they landed on you. Just for a heartbeat.
Your smile widened, a little breath catching in your throat.
Harry’s fingers faltered for the tiniest moment, a split-second stutter in the strings, before he caught himself and pushed harder into the chorus, jaw flexing like nothing had happened.
But you saw it. And he knew you saw it.
By the time the song ended, the bar erupted in applause, whistles and cheers bouncing off the walls. You clapped so hard your palms stung, still beaming up at him like he’d just revealed a secret side of himself meant only for you.
And maybe, deep down, that’s exactly what it felt like.
The walk back to the apartment is quiet at first, though not uncomfortably so. The night air is cool against your skin, humming with the distant buzz of traffic and the echo of laughter spilling from nearby bars. You walk beside Harry with your usual bounce, coat wrapped tightly around your shoulders, a smile that hasn’t dimmed since the very first song he played.
Harry keeps his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, head ducked, curls clinging damply to his forehead. He looks tired in that flushed, post-gig way, but there’s something warm in the corner of his mouth, like even if he doesn’t admit it, he’s still buzzing too.
“You were amazing,” you blurt suddenly, unable to keep it in any longer.
He glances at you sideways, caught off guard. “Mm?”
“Like—Harry, seriously. Amazing. I don’t even know how you didn’t tell me you play like that! You just—” you wave your hands, as though words aren’t enough to capture what you feel. “Your voice! And the guitar, oh my God. And the way everyone just… followed you, like you were the center of everything. You don’t even realize, do you?”
His steps falter, just barely. Compliments usually skim off him, deflected with a shrug or a joke, but you aren’t teasing. You’re looking at him like he hung the stars, and it makes him visibly uncomfortable. He shrugs, tugging at his sleeve.
“It was fine.”
“Fine?” you gasp, scandalized. “Harry, it was so much more than fine! You were brilliant. I wish you could’ve seen yourself—actually, no, I wish you could’ve seen yourself through my eyes. The way your face changed when you sang? And when you did that solo? Everyone was staring at you.”
Harry’s chest tightens. Too much. Your happiness, your belief in him—it’s warm and suffocating all at once. By the time you both climb the stairs and step into the apartment, he looks like he’s carrying a weight only he can feel.
You kick your shoes off by the door, still glowing. “Harry, I swear, you’re gonna be huge one day. Not just local gigs, not just little bars. Bigger. People need to hear you. They have to.”
“Stop,” he mutters, moving toward his room.
You blink, mid-sentence. “Stop what?”
“Just—stop.” He doesn’t look at you, his hand already on the door. His voice comes out harsher than he means, rough with nerves. “You don’t need to say all that.”
The silence after that cuts deeper than anything.
You stand there, frozen in the middle of the living room, arms still lifted in a gesture that now feels awkward. The smile slips right off your face. “Oh,” you whisper, small and stung.
He disappears into his room, the door shutting firmly behind him. Not a slam, but solid enough that it feels like a line.
You stay rooted where you are, heat rising in your cheeks. Embarrassment washes over you in waves. Maybe you’d overdone it, maybe all that excitement spilling out of you was too much. You’ve been careful, trying not to overwhelm him, trying to respect the way he pulls back. And here you went, dumping everything on him in one breath.
You sit on the couch, hugging your knees. The silence presses heavy, but after a moment you remind yourself—this isn’t cruelty. He wasn’t trying to hurt you. This is Harry, retreating into himself, unsteady under the weight of kindness. It’s not about you being wrong. It’s about him not knowing how to hold it.
Through the wall, you think you can hear the faint creak of his mattress as he sits.
Inside his room, Harry is dragging his hands down his face, cursing himself. Every word you’d said replays in his head—brilliant, amazing, bigger than this. And he can’t believe any of it. Can’t let himself. But the way you’d said it, like it was the truest thing in the world, burrowed under his skin. He shuts his eyes, listening.
Your voice carries faintly through the wall, muffled but clear. You’ve picked up your phone, calling someone—maybe your sister again, maybe a friend. He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but your laugh filters through, bright and unguarded.
“I’m just… so proud of him,” you’re saying. “You should’ve seen him tonight. He was everything. I’ve never seen someone glow like that before. And he doesn’t even realize. He doesn’t see it at all. But I do.”
Harry’s chest aches. He presses a hand against it, as though that will keep the feeling at bay, but it doesn’t.
Because even after he pushed you away, even after he shut the door, you’re still out there believing in him—louder than he can ever believe in himself.
And for the first time in a long, long time, he finds himself smiling in the dark. Not a smirk, not a mask. A real smile. Small, fragile, but real.
Maybe, he thinks, it wouldn’t be so terrible to share in some of that happiness you carry so easily.
🍒
The morning light filters into the kitchen when you shuffle in, still in socks, hair messy from sleep. The apartment feels unusually still, like it’s holding its breath after what happened last night. You hesitate for a second before stepping farther in, half-expecting to find Harry already gone like most mornings.
But he’s there.
Sitting at the table, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other tapping lightly against the wood. His guitar leans against the wall nearby, and there’s a plate of toast and eggs on the counter—your plate, you realize.
His head lifts when he hears you. His eyes meet yours, green and sharp in the early light, but softer than usual. Almost uncertain.
“Morning,” you say carefully, testing the air.
“Morning,” he echoes, voice rough from sleep or nerves—you can’t tell which.
You walk over, fingers brushing the edge of the counter as you pick up the plate. For a moment, you wonder if you should just sit in silence, let it all fade. But then you notice the way he’s watching you, like he’s waiting for something—like he’s the one holding his breath now.
So you smile. “Thanks for breakfast.”
He clears his throat, gaze dropping to his mug. “’S nothing.”
You sit across from him, plate between you, and the silence stretches again. Only this time it’s not awkward—it’s heavy, expectant. You can feel him wrestling with words.
Finally, he exhales and leans back, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “About last night…”
You look up. His jaw flexes, like he’s bracing himself.
“I didn’t mean to—shut you down like that,” he says slowly, carefully. “I’m… not used to it. People saying things like that about me. About the band. I don’t… I don’t know how to take it.”
Your chest softens instantly. The words aren’t smooth, not polished, but they’re honest. Maybe the first honest thing he’s given you since you moved in.
“I know,” you say gently, setting your fork down. “I figured it wasn’t about me. I didn’t take it that way.”
His eyes flick up at that, sharp and searching, like he’s checking if you’re telling the truth.
You nod, holding his gaze. “You don’t have to explain or make excuses, Harry. I meant what I said, but you don’t have to believe me yet. You will, someday. For now, just—don’t worry about it.”
Something flickers across his face then—relief, disbelief, something warmer underneath. His lips twitch, almost like a smile, though he presses them together quickly, hiding it.
“You’re not mad?”
You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Mad? No. Embarrassed maybe, for rambling so much, but never mad. Not at you.”
His shoulders drop a fraction, like a weight has eased off. He looks at you differently now—not just the noisy, sunny roommate he can’t keep up with, but someone patient enough to see through the walls he’s built.
For a moment, neither of you speak. The sunlight spills across the table, catching in his hair, warming the quiet between you. And then, almost too quietly to catch, he says:
“You’re… easier to be around than I thought.”
Your heart skips, but you don’t let your smile falter. You just reach for your toast, keeping your tone light. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me so far.”
He huffs through his nose, shaking his head, but then it happens—an actual laugh. Low, short, almost like he didn’t mean for it to escape.
You freeze mid-bite, eyes widening. “Wait.” You set the toast down carefully, pointing at him with exaggerated seriousness. “Was that a laugh? Did I just make you laugh?”
Harry smirks, trying to bury it behind his mug, but you catch the way his shoulders shake slightly.
“Oh my god, it was a laugh!” you say, grinning so wide it hurts. “I should write this down. Mark the date and time.”
He groans, rubbing a hand over his face, but you swear there’s still the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, but it’s softer than usual—lighter, almost fond.
And you can’t stop staring at him, at how different he looks in that moment, not weighed down by walls or silence. For the first time since moving in, you feel like you’ve just caught a glimpse of the Harry that lives underneath the rules, the stern looks, the quiet.
And it makes you want to see it again.
That night, the apartment was unusually calm. You sat curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, scrolling half-distractedly through your phone while the glow of the TV played in the background. Harry walked in from his room, hair still damp from a shower, and for a moment he just stood there, hovering like he wasn’t sure whether to stay or retreat.
Then, quietly, he asked, “So… the audition?”
Your head snapped up, eyes wide. You hadn’t expected him to bring it up. Not him.
“It—” your voice cracked on the first word, and you laughed nervously, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “It actually went really well.”
Harry tilted his head, watching you closely, waiting for you to go on.
“They said I had something different, that I wasn’t like the others. I swear I thought I’d bombed it, but then—then they called me back in and said they wanted me for the part. I couldn’t believe it!”
You were grinning so hard your cheeks ached, your words spilling out like water bursting through a dam. You told him every detail—the waiting room, the nerves, the moment they said your name.
And Harry… he listened.
Not with that half-distracted air he usually carried, not with the distant coolness you’d grown used to. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes fixed on you as though your joy was something rare, something worth holding on to.
When you finally stopped for breath, cheeks flushed, he gave the smallest nod. “Knew they’d see it.”
Your smile faltered just a little. “You… what?”
Harry shrugged, but his lips tugged in a tiny almost-smile. “Knew they’d pick you. You light up when you talk about it—it’s hard not to notice.”
Your chest tightened at his words, unexpected warmth rising in your throat.
And then, as if he realized he’d said too much, he cleared his throat and straightened. “If you need help practicing… lines or whatever—you can… ask me.”
You blinked at him, stunned. “You’d actually do that?”
His eyes flicked away, a faint pink brushing his cheeks. “Don’t expect me to be good at it. But yeah. I’d help.”
For a long moment, you just stared at him, smiling so wide it was almost ridiculous. “Harry Styles, volunteering to rehearse lines with me. I should definitely mark the date and time for this too.”
He let out another one of those quick, reluctant laughs, shaking his head as he muttered, “You’re impossible.”
But you noticed the way his eyes lingered on you, softer now, like he was secretly glad you were.
🍒
The first time, it was the rain.
You hadn’t realized the sky had cracked open until you were already halfway back from the store, juggling two bags of groceries and drenched head to toe. By the time you stumbled into the apartment, your hair was plastered to your cheeks, sundress clinging uncomfortably to your skin.
Harry appeared from the hallway almost instantly, eyes widening. “Bloody hell—” He grabbed a towel from the closet and pressed it into your hands before you could even drip onto the rug.
“Take a shower. Now,” he said firmly, another towel already tossed over your shoulders. “You’ll catch a cold if you stay like that.”
You blinked up at him, water dripping from your lashes, lips curving into a small, surprised smile. “You sound like my grandma.”
“Don’t argue,” he muttered, turning toward the kitchen. “Go. I’ll make you tea.”
And you did—heart thudding at the thought of him in there, waiting with a steaming mug when you came back warm and dry.
The second time, it was the couch
You’d meant to just rest your eyes for a second, the script still open on your lap as you curled up on the couch. But when Harry came back into the living room, he found you fast asleep, cheek smushed against the cushion, soft breaths evening out.
For a long moment, he just stood there, frozen.
Then, carefully, quietly, he slipped into your room and returned with your blanket. He shook it out once, then draped it gently over you, making sure it tucked around your shoulders.
You stirred, shifting slightly under the sudden warmth, but didn’t wake.
Harry lingered only a second longer, watching the way your lips parted in sleep, the faint crease between your brows softening as you relaxed deeper. Then he turned off the lamp, leaving just the glow of the hallway light behind, and disappeared back to his room.
You didn’t know why you woke up the next morning with your blanket around you. But you smiled when you did.
🍒
The door rattles open and you glance up from the couch just in time to see Harry come in, shoulders hunched from the late evening chill, arms weighed down with two grocery bags. His curls are damp at the edges, a sure sign he walked the last blocks in a fine drizzle, and there’s something about the way he kicks the door shut behind him, exhaling like the weight of the day is still clinging to him, that makes you smile.
“Let me help” you say, standing and automatically moving toward him.
He shrugs, setting one of the bags on the counter with a heavy thud. “It’s fine” he says.
You reach for the other bag before he can protest, pulling out a carton of milk, a loaf of bread, a pack of pasta. “Still,” you say, lining them neatly on the counter. You shake your head at the way he always fusses with the smallest things, then reach deeper into the bag — and freeze.
Because tucked between his usual oat milk and black coffee beans, you find it. Your cereal. The one brand you always keep on the top shelf, half-hidden because it feels a little childish. And right after that, your favorite kind of chips. The exact flavor you’d torn through last week.
You turn, eyes widening, the box in your hand like evidence. “Harry,” you say, your voice pitched higher than you intend, “you bought my cereal.”
He glances over, expression unreadable, like maybe he hadn’t expected you to notice so soon. Then, with a casual roll of his shoulders, he says, “Saw you were running low.”
That’s it. No grin, no joke, no acknowledgment of what it means. Just a quiet, almost dismissive explanation, like he’d picked up a spare roll of paper towels.
But your chest tightens, because you know him well enough now to read between the lines. You know this man who insists he doesn’t care much about details but somehow notices when you’re down to your last coffee pod, who pretends he doesn’t listen yet recalls every small thing you mention. You know, and your heart beats faster because of it.
“You noticed?” you ask softly, unable to keep the excitement from lacing your words.
Harry exhales a laugh through his nose, reaching for the bread as if that might save him from answering. “Hard not to. You have a whole ritual with it every morning. Box was nearly empty yesterday.”
There’s a warmth in his tone he doesn’t seem aware of, a fondness tucked into the edges. You can’t stop staring at him, at the way his profile looks in the golden kitchen light, jaw tight like he’s holding something back.
You want to tease him — you want to say, Since when do you pay that much attention to me? — but the words stick in your throat, too fragile to risk. Instead you smile, wide and giddy, and tuck the cereal against your chest like a prize.
Harry finally looks at you then, eyes flicking to your grin, and for a fleeting second his calm mask falters. His lips twitch as though he might smile too, then he clears his throat, busying himself with lining cans in the cupboard.
But the air has shifted. You can feel it humming in the space between you, charged and bright.
“Thank you,” you say at last, voice softer than before.
He shrugs again, but slower this time, like the gesture costs him something. “Don’t mention it.”
And in that silence, something clicks in you.
This isn’t about groceries. It’s not about cereal or chips or keeping track of what’s running low. It’s about him seeing you. About the way he can’t help but take care of you, even if he doesn’t have the words for why.
And maybe it’s about you too — the way your pulse races, the way you’re suddenly warm all over at the thought that Harry notices, that Harry cares.
You bite your lip to keep from laughing, because the happiness bubbling inside feels too much, too obvious. But he hears it anyway, the little sound that escapes, and he glances back with raised brows.
“What’s funny?” he asks.
You shake your head quickly, grinning like you can’t stop. “Nothing.”
Harry studies you, long enough that you almost squirm under his gaze. Then, to your shock, his mouth curves into the smallest, softest smile. The kind you haven’t seen from him before. And it’s enough to make your breath catch, because you realize he isn’t annoyed, he isn’t brushing you off. He’s letting you see it — the quiet, hidden piece of him that wants to make you happy.
And standing there in your shared kitchen, surrounded by groceries and rain-damp air, you know: this is how it begins.
🍒
Harry stood frozen at the edge of the sidewalk, staring at the flower shop window like it had personally offended him. Bouquets of bright pink peonies and sunbursts of yellow tulips smiled back through the glass, an explosion of color against the gray street. He adjusted his leather jacket, jaw tight.
“This is ridiculous. I’m going.” He muttered it more to himself than anyone, already shifting his weight as if he could walk away from the whole idea.
Before he could move, Sam caught his arm, grip firm. “Nope. Not a chance.”
Harry turned, glaring at his best friend. Sam only raised a brow, smug. The two of them — tall, dressed in black, boots scuffed from late nights in dingy bars — looked wildly out of place lingering outside a flower shop. Like predators afraid of bouquets.
“You heard me,” Sam went on, nodding toward the cheerful window display. “She just finished her first big project. You need a way to say you care. To show her you’re proud. That you want to celebrate her.” His grin widened as Harry’s scowl deepened. “That you liiike he-e-er.” The last words came in a sing-song tone that made Harry want to sink into the pavement.
“Shut up,” Harry snapped, heat creeping up the back of his neck. “I don’t like her.”
Sam’s gaze flicked to Harry’s cheeks, now faintly pink. “Mm-hm,” he said, drawing the sound out like it was a verdict. “Sure you don’t.”
Harry jerked his arm free, but he didn’t move away. He looked back at the flower shop, heart thudding. Inside, a florist was rearranging a bucket of roses, humming to herself. It should have been simple: walk in, pick something, leave. But every single bunch looked like it might scream too much or not enough.
He rubbed a hand across his jaw. “What flowers do you even buy for… a literal flower?” The words slipped out, low and almost pained.
Sam burst out laughing, earning a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Oh, that’s rich. Man’s out here buying her favorite snacks one week and can’t figure out if daisies are too obvious.”
Harry shoved his hands into his pockets, muttering, “Forget it. She doesn’t even like this kind of thing.”
“Oh, she does,” Sam countered immediately. “She’s the type to light up over something thoughtful, doesn’t matter if it’s a fifty-dollar bouquet or one daisy wrapped in paper.”
Harry exhaled slowly, eyes flicking back to the flowers. He could already imagine your smile if he got it right — that warm, unstoppable kind that made his chest ache. And that was the problem.
Sam gave him a push toward the door. “Go on. Worst case, you leave with nothing but pollen on your jacket. Best case… she keeps smiling at you.”
Harry hesitated, but his hand found the shop’s door handle anyway.
The little bell over the door chimed as Harry stepped inside, shoulders tense like he’d walked into enemy territory instead of a flower shop. The air was thick with perfume — roses, lilies, carnations, all blending into something both sweet and overwhelming. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, scanning the room like he might find a sign that said For Sunshine, Buy These. Because of course he started to call her sunshine in his mind.
The florist, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and pruning shears tucked in her apron, glanced up. “Looking for something special?”
Harry cleared his throat. “Uh… yeah. Something like that.” His voice came out rougher than intended.
Sam was already poking around the displays behind him, whistling, enjoying every second of Harry’s discomfort.
The florist tilted her head. “Anniversary? Birthday?”
Harry’s jaw flexed. He hated this. Hated how easily the question made his pulse spike. “No. Just… congratulations.”
“On what?” she asked pleasantly.
He hesitated. Saying her first big film went well out loud felt like exposing too much. Like admitting that he listened to you when you talked about your dreams, that he stored the details away. He shifted his weight. “Work thing.”
“Got it.” She smiled knowingly. “Something cheerful, then. Something that says I’m proud of you.”
She guided him toward a bucket of sunflowers, tall and golden, their faces practically glowing. Harry stopped dead, staring at them. Sunflowers. Too on the nose. Too obvious.
Sam sidled up beside him, grin wide. “Perfect. Literal sunshine for your sunshine.”
Harry gave him a look that could kill. “No.”
He turned away, landing on a bunch of white daisies. Simple. Fresh. Not too heavy with meaning. But then his eyes caught on a cluster of yellow tulips, soft and elegant, like bottled warmth. Then there were the roses — classic, romantic, dangerous.
“This is a nightmare,” he muttered under his breath.
The florist chuckled, watching him circle like a trapped animal. “What’s she like?”
Harry blinked. “What?”
“The person you’re buying for. What’s she like? That usually helps.”
For a moment, his throat went dry. What were you like? He could list a thousand things, all of them lodged in his chest. You were bright. Brave. You filled a room without even trying. You had this way of making silence feel less heavy. You made him laugh when he thought he couldn’t anymore.
“She’s…” He swallowed hard. “She’s a lot. In a good way.”
The florist’s smile deepened. “Then you need something that won’t be swallowed by her light. Something that will stand beside it.”
Her hand landed on a bunch of mixed wildflowers — yellows, whites, soft pinks, all tangled together like summer in a bouquet. Not too polished, not too formal. Just… alive.
Harry stared at them. They weren’t overwhelming. They weren’t cliché. They looked like something you’d actually put in a jar on the kitchen counter and smile at every morning.
Sam leaned close, whispering, “If you don’t get those, I will.”
Harry sighed, shoving a hand through his hair. “Fine.”
When the florist wrapped the bouquet in brown paper, tying it off with twine, Harry’s stomach twisted. It felt like too much and not enough all at once. He paid quickly, muttering a thanks, and bolted out into the street before he could change his mind.
Sam followed, smirking. “You’re so gone for her, man.”
“Shut up,” Harry said again, but this time the words lacked bite. He held the flowers carefully in one hand, staring at them like they might reveal whether this was a mistake.
🍒
By the time Harry reached the apartment building, his palms were damp against the brown paper wrapping. The bouquet crinkled softly every time he adjusted his grip, and it drove him mad how fragile it felt in his hand — how fragile he felt, standing there with something so bright meant for you.
He stopped outside the door to 301, heart thudding in his ears. The hallway was quiet, save for the hum of the overhead lights. He shifted his weight from one boot to the other, jaw tight, the words he thought he’d say looping in his head and tangling every time.
Congrats. That sounds stupid. You deserve these. Too much. Saw these and thought of you. Christ, no. She’ll know. She’ll know.
Harry scrubbed a hand over his face, muttering under his breath. “It’s flowers, not a bloody marriage proposal.”
Still, his chest tightened every time he pictured your reaction. Would you laugh? Tease him? Smile that blinding smile and make him feel like he was standing in the sun without a way to shield himself?
He tried to rehearse it again.
Hey, you did good. Proud of you. The words burned his tongue even in thought. Pride wasn’t something he knew how to hand out. Not even to himself.
He took a deep breath, staring at the door handle like it might bite him. He could still turn back. Leave the flowers on the kitchen counter, no note, no explanation. You’d find them and never know it took him ten minutes of pacing in the hallway to gather the courage.
But something in him — the same reckless thread that had pushed him onto stages, that had kept him from walking away the first time he saw your smile — held him there.
Harry tightened his grip on the bouquet, exhaled slowly, and muttered, “Alright. Just… don’t be a dick about it.”
Then, finally, he turned the key and stepped inside.
You were sitting cross-legged on the couch, laptop balanced on your knees, still buzzing from the last few texts your best friend had sent congratulating you. The front door clicked open, and you glanced up. Harry stepped in, shoulders hunched, leather jacket half-unzipped, a bouquet of wildflowers in his hand like it was a weapon he didn’t know how to wield.
Your eyes widened instantly. “Oh my god… are those—?”
He cleared his throat, eyes flicking everywhere but at you. “Heard the short film closed well and, uh, wanted to… congratulate you. To like—” He winced, adjusting his grip on the flowers. “Be proud. I mean—I am proud. Like… yeah.” His voice trailed off into a mumble.
Your heart soared so hard it nearly hurt. Harry. Harry, who never said more than a few clipped words if he could help it, was standing there in your living room, cheeks faintly pink, tripping over sentences just to tell you he was proud.
You practically flew off the couch, grabbing the flowers before he could change his mind. The brown paper crinkled under your fingers, and the colors of the wildflowers were so bright they looked stolen from a dream. “Harry! These are gorgeous!”
He scratched the back of his neck, lips twitching like he was fighting a smile. “They’re just… flowers.”
“No, no, they’re not just flowers,” you insisted, spinning once with the bouquet clutched to your chest. “They’re beautiful, and they’re thoughtful, and—” you stopped mid-sentence, breathless with excitement. “Can I hug you? Please let me!”
Harry froze. You saw the hesitation flicker across his face, like his brain was trying to process the request through a hundred filters of rules and walls and distance. But then his shoulders dropped just slightly, the fight leaving him.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, almost like he was giving permission to himself more than to you.
You didn’t wait a second longer. You wrapped your arms around him, burying your face against his chest, the flowers squished between you both. He smelled like rain and coffee and something distinctly him. For a moment, his arms hovered awkwardly at his sides, and then—slowly, cautiously—they came up to hold you back.
The hug lingered longer than you thought it would. You could feel his heartbeat against your cheek, steady but a little fast, and it made you smile even wider. When you finally pulled back, you kept bouncing on your toes, clutching the bouquet like it was the most precious thing anyone had ever given you.
“Harry, I love them so much. You don’t understand. No one’s ever given me flowers before, not like this. And you remembered about the short film! And you said you’re proud, oh my god—do you know how much that means? I swear my heart is going to explode right now. And we have to see the short film together!”
You were rambling, words spilling out faster than you could control, but you didn’t care. The happiness was too much to hold in, and you wanted him to feel all of it.
Harry’s ears were pink, his lips pressed into a thin line like he was trying desperately to keep them from twitching into a smile. “You’re… you’re making a big deal out of it,” he muttered, gaze darting to the floor.
“It is a big deal!” you insisted, hugging the bouquet tighter. “It’s huge. It’s—you’re huge, in like, the nicest way possible. Do you realize how sweet this is?”
He gave a tiny huff of breath, almost a laugh, and dragged a hand down his face. “Christ, you’re loud when you’re happy.”
But you caught it—the way his voice was softer, lighter than usual, like he wasn’t actually annoyed. His hand lingered on the back of his neck, nervous, but his eyes flicked to yours and didn’t look away as quickly as they usually did.
“Sorry,” you said through a grin you couldn’t tame. “I just can’t stop smiling. You’ve basically ruined me for the rest of the night. I’ll probably go to sleep smiling, thanks to you.”
That earned you another almost-laugh, the sound breaking past his defenses before he could stop it. It was small, quick, but it was there, and your chest lit up like fireworks.
You gasped dramatically. “Oh my god, was that a laugh? Did I just make Harry laugh AGAIN?”
“Don’t push it,” he warned, but there was no edge in his voice this time.
You held the bouquet up between you both, wiggling it slightly. “New rule,” you teased, your eyes bright. “You’re not allowed to say you’re not sweet. Evidence: right here.”
Harry rolled his eyes, but you didn’t miss the way his lips curled at the edges, traitorous and soft. And you thought, maybe, just maybe, you were starting to find the cracks in his walls.
You darted off to the kitchen to rummage for a vase, humming happily under your breath, the bouquet cradled like treasure. Harry stayed rooted where he stood, watching you move around with that unstoppable glow in your smile, and something inside him shifted so sharply he almost stumbled.
The walls he had spent years stacking brick by brick—rules, silence, distance—felt flimsy now, like paper left out in the rain. All because you had looked at him with that much joy over something as simple as a bunch of flowers.
He let out a low chuckle, surprising even himself. It wasn’t the short, bitter sound he usually made. It was lighter, easier. And in that moment, he realized there wasn’t a better feeling in the world than putting that smile on your face.
Harry leaned against the doorway, arms crossed loosely but no tension in his shoulders, watching you arrange the wildflowers into a vase far too small, your tongue sticking out a little in concentration. His lips twitched upward again, the warmth curling in his chest so foreign it almost scared him.
Bloody hell, he thought, shaking his head at himself, but he couldn’t look away.
And for the first time in years, Harry didn’t feel like hiding.
The flowers were still on the counter days later, their petals unfurling lazily toward the sun that spilled through the apartment windows. You made a habit of topping up the water every morning before rushing out to run errands, humming like you always did. Harry noticed. He noticed more than he cared to admit.
Because every time he passed the vase, he felt the faintest tug in his chest—like a reminder of how your eyes had lit up when he’d handed them over. He hadn’t meant it to mean anything, hadn’t thought through the weight of the gesture. But the memory of your grin lodged itself inside him, stubborn as ever.
Harry had never been good at lingering feelings. He was used to shutting doors before they creaked open, keeping people at arm’s length with clipped words and that hardened look that usually made strangers back away. But now, somehow, his sharp edges felt dulled around you. And worse—he didn’t hate it.
Then one day he found himself outside your audition building. He hadn’t planned it, not really. He had errands to run downtown, but when his phone buzzed with your quick text—Heading in now, wish me luck!—his feet had moved on their own.
He leaned against the brick wall across the street, cap tugged low, trying to look casual even though his stomach felt oddly tight. He wasn’t even sure what he was waiting for. Maybe to make sure you didn’t walk out looking defeated. Maybe just to… see.
And sure enough, twenty minutes later you appeared, clutching your bag, your shoulders slumped just slightly. Not devastated, just tired. He almost turned back—almost let you walk home without knowing he was there. But then you spotted him.
“Harry?” you asked, surprise lifting your voice.
He shrugged, forcing a lazy smirk. “Don’t look so shocked. I was nearby.”
Your eyes softened instantly, the tiredness draining as quickly as it had come. “You came.”
“Don’t make a big deal of it.” But it was a big deal, and you knew it. The smile you gave him in return—it was softer than the one you wore when you were excited, but just as powerful. Something in him unclenched again.
It started happening in small ways after that.
He brewed an extra cup of tea in the mornings, leaving it on the counter beside your travel mug without a word. You always noticed. He began timing his grocery runs around yours, carrying the heavier bags without you asking. When you protested, he muttered something about how your arms were too scrawny for the weight, but his grin betrayed him.
Even his silences changed. Before, they had been sharp, pointed, a barrier between him and the world. Now they were softer. Sometimes he lingered in the kitchen while you cooked, leaning against the counter, just listening to you ramble about your day. He didn’t always answer, but his eyes stayed fixed on you in a way that made your cheeks burn.
And you noticed. Of course you did.
By the end of the week, the flowers on the counter had begun to wilt. Their petals curled, drooping against the glass. You went to toss them, but Harry stopped you.
“Leave ’em,” he said quietly.
You tilted your head. “They’re dying, Harry.”
His jaw flexed, like he was fighting with himself, then he let out a sigh. “Still pretty, though. Don’t need to get rid of ’em just yet.”
You blinked at him, caught off guard by the softness in his tone. Something unspoken passed between you, thick in the air.
The apartment felt quiet when you came home that night, the city noises muted behind the closed door. Your shoulders sagged with the weight of the day—another audition that hadn’t gone as planned, another reminder that the road ahead was harder than you’d imagined. You just wanted to collapse onto your bed and disappear under the covers.
But before you could even cross the threshold to your room, Harry appeared from the kitchen, eyes soft but sharp, like he could read every ounce of your fatigue and disappointment the moment you stepped inside.
“You’re home early,” he said, voice calm, but there was an edge of… concern? Anticipation? You couldn’t quite place it.
You barely managed a shrug. “Yeah… rough day.”
He tilted his head, that familiar furrow in his brow settling, and the corners of his lips twitched ever so slightly. “Sit down,” he said, almost a command. “I’m making dinner.”
You froze for a moment, unsure if you should protest, but the look in his eyes—something protective, insistent—made you sink into a chair at the counter. He moved around the kitchen with surprising ease, chopping vegetables, stirring sauces, setting the table. And all the while, your chest warmed at the way he seemed to… notice you, notice everything.
It wasn’t just dinner. It was the effort, the timing, the small attention to detail that made you feel like he wanted to take the day’s weight off your shoulders, even if he didn’t say it outright.
Finally, he plated the food with care, sliding a dish in front of you. “For sunshine,” he said, almost shyly, but with enough confidence that you felt it in your chest before your mind even processed it.
You blinked, a laugh escaping your lips before you could stop it. “Did you just?...”
He shifted, cheeks coloring faintly, but he didn’t address the nickname. Instead, he placed a plate in front of himself, muttering under his breath, “For me,” though his eyes kept flicking to yours, trying not to betray the fluster creeping across his face.
Your fingers itched to reach across the table and touch his hand, just to confirm he was real, and that he had called you that. You smiled so wide it felt like your cheeks would hurt later.
He rolled his eyes, pretending to check the pasta on his plate, though the corner of his mouth betrayed a tiny, victorious grin. “Don’t make it weird,” he murmured, voice low, but there was no sharpness in it this time.
Your heart thudded. Weird? That’s exactly what it was—but the best kind of weird. The kind that made your chest feel light, like you could laugh and cry and grin all at once.
You reached for your fork, but couldn’t resist sneaking a glance at him every few seconds, catching the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw flexed as if holding back words or feelings. You didn’t have to say anything—he’d made himself clear in the softest way possible.
And as you ate, you realized something: Weeks of slow, careful pacing had allowed this moment to exist, allowed him to start showing his feelings in the smallest, most intimate ways. You hadn’t pushed, hadn’t demanded, and in return, he was giving pieces of himself that no one else had ever gotten.
The two of you ate in quiet companionship, the kind that didn’t need constant chatter, the kind where glances and half-smiles said more than words could. You felt warmth in your chest, a smile tugging at your lips, because this—this effort, this subtle affection—was far more meaningful than any grand gesture.
When the last bite was gone, he finally looked up at you, eyes soft but alive. “You like it?” he asked quietly, almost as if asking for permission to care this much.
You nodded, heart swelling. “I love it. Thank you… for everything,” you said, voice catching slightly.
Harry’s lips twitched, and for the first time, you heard the sound of him laughing—a low, easy chuckle that felt like it belonged only to you. You blinked, surprised and elated, and that laughter wrapped around you, lifting away the tension of the day.
🍒
The nickname had started to settle into your days, quiet and teasing, but every time you saw it, your chest did that little flutter.
One afternoon, your phone buzzed while you were curled up on the couch reading. You picked it up and grinned.
Harry: “Sunshine, I’m at the Chinese place. Do you want spicy or not spicy?”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile didn’t leave your face.
“Spicy please!”
.
A few days later, you were doing laundry together in the cramped laundry room of the apartment building. You were folding your clothes into neat piles when Harry appeared behind you, holding a shirt in his hands.
“Sunshine,” he said, voice calm but eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “Is this shirt yours?”
You froze for a second, caught off guard. “Oh yes! unless you want to wear a pink shirt i can lend it to you”
.
Over the next week, it became harder to keep track of how often he used it.
“Sunshine, can you grab some coffee with me later or do I need to bribe you?”
“Sunshine, your favorite yogurt is on the counter. Don’t eat it all in one sitting.”
.
You weren’t in the room, but Harry’s thoughts were tangled with you so tightly that even the familiar clatter of his bandmates backstage couldn’t shake it. He leaned against the counter, guitar case propped nearby, as Sam pulled up a stool beside him, arms crossed.
“You’re an idiot,” Sam said bluntly, shaking his head. “Seriously, Harry. Sunshine? Really? You’re calling her Sunshine and doing… what? Nothing?”
Harry snorted, but it came out tight, defensive. “It’s… not that simple.”
“Oh, come on,” Sam continued, leaning closer, voice dropping. “You’ve been staring at her like she’s the only person in the world since day one. You call her Sunshine, you text her like she’s the most important person in your life, and then you… don’t move. Don’t ask her out, don’t kiss her, don’t—”
Harry rubbed the back of his neck, jaw tight. “I don’t know if she… I mean… I’m not sure she—”
Sam barked a short laugh, cutting him off. “She’s not going to push. She’s too smart for that. You’ve got a girl who’s clearly fallen for you without you even asking, and you’re just… sitting there, letting her wait. For what? For you to figure out how to be brave?”
“I—she doesn’t even know…” Harry muttered, then trailed off, shaking his head.
Sam slammed a hand on the counter. “She doesn’t know because you’re not acting like someone who wants to be with her! She’s giving you space, Harry, because she can read you. She’s not stupid—she knows you’re figuring yourself out. But that doesn’t mean she’s going to wait forever. And you? You’re losing your chance because you can’t admit you want her as much as she clearly wants you.”
Harry stared down at the counter, chest tight. “It’s not that I don’t want her. I… I just—”
“Just what?” Sam pressed, eyebrow raised. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”
Harry let out a breath, the sound almost inaudible over the low hum of the bar. “I… maybe I am,” he admitted, voice low, almost a whisper. “But what if she… what if she deserves more than… me? What if I’m not ready?”
Sam laughed—harsh, incredulous, but full of exasperation. “Harry, she’s giving you everything she’s got without asking for anything in return. And you’re going to let your stupid fears get in the way of that? She’s already letting you in, Harry. She’s already letting you see her, trust her. And you’re over here pretending you’re not just as messed up as she is.”
Harry closed his eyes, jaw flexing. “It’s not just fear. I… I don’t want to screw it up. I’ve never—never let anyone in like this.”
Sam leaned back, hands on his hips, voice softer now but still firm. “Then stop overthinking. Be honest. Stop hiding behind your grumpy wall. She’s waiting, yeah, but she’s also not going to wait forever. You need to act. And right now, while she’s still smiling at your stupid little jokes and calling her ‘Sunshine’ without a clue that you’re a mess for her—you need to do something. Or you’ll regret it.”
Harry let out a long breath, leaning back against the counter. His mind was spinning, a mix of panic and longing. Do something. That simple phrase echoed, hitting him harder than he expected.
🍒
The bar was buzzing that night, louder than usual, packed with bodies swaying to the music and laughter spilling into every corner. You slipped inside, excitement practically vibrating through your chest. Even in the crowd, you found your usual spot in the first row, close enough to see the faint sheen of sweat on Harry’s forehead as he tuned his guitar.
Your heart was racing for more than just the music. You’d told yourself to keep it casual, just congratulating him, letting him know you were proud. But now, standing here in the thrumming energy of the crowd, you felt every nerve in your body tingle.
The lights dimmed, the chatter quieted, and Harry and his band launched into their first song. The sound hit you like a wave, the guitar warm and alive under his fingers, the drums steady and grounding. You sang along quietly under your breath, a little off-key, a little breathless, but entirely immersed.
Harry’s eyes caught yours during the second chorus. That flicker, that subtle acknowledgment, made your chest tighten. His lips quirked up in a small, almost shy smile—sweat glistening on his forehead, his hair sticking slightly to the side of his face—and it made your heart thump faster.
The songs flew by, each one tighter, sharper, more electric than the last. You cheered, clapped, and swayed with the crowd, but your focus never wavered. You were there for him, for the music, but also for the man behind it—the one who had somehow worked his way into the corners of your thoughts, the one who called you Sunshine in a way that made your stomach flip.
Finally, the set ended. The crowd roared, hands clapping, whistles and cheers echoing through the small bar. Harry’s chest heaved slightly as he nodded to the band, brushing his hair back and taking in the applause. And you—well, you couldn’t wait for him to come to you. Waiting felt unbearable.
So, without thinking too much, you ducked through the side door that led backstage, weaving between cables, guitar cases, and scattered sheets of music. The air smelled of sweat and wood polish, still warm from the energy of the show. And then you saw him.
He was leaning against a table, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, guitar strap slipping slightly off one shoulder, chest still rising and falling rapidly from adrenaline. You couldn’t help but grin, practically bouncing in place.
“Harry! That was—oh my gosh—you guys were amazing! Seriously, I’ve never seen anything like it—your energy, the sound, the—” You babbled, words tumbling over each other, cheeks flushed from excitement and heat.
He lifted his hand, gently but firmly holding it against your shoulder, stopping you mid-rant. “Whoa, hey,” he said, voice low but warm, eyes searching yours. “I—I heard you from the crowd… what are you doing here?”
You nodded vigorously, cheeks still burning. “I had to! I just—I had to tell you… You were incredible! The whole band, the new songs, everything! I can’t even—”
And then, almost before you could catch the breath in your chest, his hands found your face, quick but steady.
Your words froze in your throat as his lips clashed against yours, soft but urgent, shutting down everything you were about to say. You felt his heartbeat thump against your own, a rapid, uncontainable rhythm that made your chest ache in the best way possible.
It was over in seconds, but those seconds were infinite. When he finally pulled back slightly, forehead resting against yours, eyes dark and luminous, you could barely breathe. His hands lingered, fingers lightly tracing your jaw, and he exhaled, almost a sigh of relief.
“I couldn’t… I couldn’t wait anymore,” he muttered, voice hoarse but steady, eyes locked on yours. “You… you make me—everything else doesn’t matter when you’re here.”
You blinked, still catching your breath, and then the grin spread across your face, unstoppable. “You really mean that?” you whispered, voice trembling with joy and disbelief.
He nodded, leaning in again for a soft brush of lips, more tentative this time, like he was testing the water before diving in. “Every word,” he said, and you could feel the sincerity wrapping around you like a warm blanket.
You laughed softly, a sound of pure delight, and your fingers curled around his wrists, grounding yourself to him, to the moment. “I think… I think I’ve wanted this for forever,” you admitted, heart pounding in your chest. “Seeing you up there, doing what you love, and… and knowing I’m here with you—it’s too much happiness for one person.”
Harry’s grin was slow and deliberate, the kind that crumbled walls and set everything on fire at once. “Well… guess I’m selfish then,” he murmured, pressing another quick kiss to your forehead, “because I want all of it. You. Me. Right here. Right now.”
You felt yourself melt into him, laughing softly at his words, at his seriousness, at the way this moment, this utterly chaotic, perfect, heart-thumping moment, felt like it had always been meant to happen.
He pulled back just slightly, forehead resting against yours again, hands still cradling your face. “I don’t know how I kept quiet for so long,” he admitted, voice almost a whisper. “Seeing you… being here, cheering me on… it just—it made it impossible. You’re everything, Sunshine.”
You shivered, caught between disbelief and pure happiness, heart racing so fast it was almost painful. “I’m so glad… you didn’t,” you said softly, brushing your fingers against his jaw.
His laugh, that soft, almost nervous chuckle you’d come to adore, broke through. “Yeah,” he said, voice still trembling slightly, “because I… I think I’m in trouble now.”
You laughed too, breathless and giddy, pressing your lips to his once more, slower this time, savoring the sweetness and heat of it, letting yourself sink fully into the moment. The music from the stage faded behind you, the world outside blurred into insignificance.
Here, in this warm, sticky backstage room, amidst sweat and cables, the two of you existed entirely for each other. And for the first time, you both let go of every hesitation, every wall, every unspoken fear, surrendering to what had been building quietly between you for weeks.
When you finally pulled back, both of you breathing heavily, Harry rested his forehead against yours again, eyes soft but sparkling. “You’re really… something else, Sunshine,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion and amusement.
You grinned, heart soaring. “I could say the same about you,” you whispered. “But I think… I think I already know.”
And as he leaned in for one more kiss, just soft and lingering this time, you realized that nothing—no awkwardness, no grumpy walls, no slow-burn tension—had ever felt so perfectly, completely right.
The ride home was quiet, both of you lost in the aftermath of what had just happened, the city lights streaking past the windows like sparks against the dark. Your fingers brushed once, then again, and neither of you pulled away.
Once inside the apartment, the silence felt different—warmer, charged with something that wasn’t there before. You set your bag down by the door, glancing at him. He looked… vulnerable. A little unsure. That rough, grumpy facade softened into something else entirely, something open, something that made your chest flutter.
“Uh…” he started, scratching the back of his neck, gaze darting around like he was trying to find the words in the air. “So… uh… you—want something to drink? Or… or do you want—”
You tilted your head, noticing the hesitation. “I… uh… I’m okay,” you said softly, voice tentative, but there was a small smile on your lips. “You?”
He exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath. “Yeah. I’m… good,” he said, trying to sound casual, but the slight hitch in his tone betrayed him. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his shirt.
You could see it in the way he shifted from foot to foot, in the way his eyes kept flicking to your face. He wanted—needed—you to be close, but didn’t know how to bridge that gap between the living room and the sanctuary of his bedroom.
“I—uh…” He took a step forward, then stopped. “You… you can… um… if you want, you can sleep in my room tonight. Or… I mean…” His voice trailed off “If that’s okay. I… I just…”
You blinked, heart leaping at his words. “I’d like that,” you said softly, the excitement and warmth pooling in your chest making your words sound breathless.
His eyes widened just slightly, a mixture of relief and surprise. “Right. Okay. Yeah. Sure. Uh… come on then,” he said, stepping aside to gesture toward the hallway, hands still slightly trembling at his sides.
You walked beside him, careful not to step too fast, letting the quiet tension settle around you. The apartment felt different now—not just a space where you coexisted, but somewhere charged with new possibilities, charged with this strange, electric intimacy neither of you had dared to explore fully until now.
Once inside his room, you paused at the doorway, taking it all in. The soft lighting, the scattered music sheets, the guitar resting against the wall—it all felt like a glimpse into him, into the parts of Harry he rarely showed anyone. And now, here you were, allowed to be in it.
He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh… bed’s, uh… big enough. I… I mean, you can—”
You grinned, stepping in closer. “I know.” chuckling
He gave a short, almost nervous laugh, cheeks coloring faintly. “Yeah.” he muttered. “You… you make yourself comfortable. I… I’ll… uh… get ready.”
You watched as he shuffled toward his dresser, awkwardly fumbling with the sheets, avoiding your gaze, and you felt this strange, sweet tension settle between you. Neither of you wanted to make the first move too obvious, yet every small glance, every slight smile, every hesitant word carried meaning.
You slipped under the covers, hugging your knees, trying not to fidget too much, heart racing from both the adrenaline of the evening and the warmth of being this close to him. You could hear him moving, quietly, deliberately, preparing his side. Each creak of the floorboard, each soft shuffle made your chest flutter.
Finally, he settled beside you, a careful distance away, but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. The silence stretched, comfortable yet charged, until he finally whispered, voice low and careful, “You… okay?”
You nodded, smiling softly in the dim light. “Yeah. I’m… perfect,” you said. “With you.”
His lips curved into the tiniest grin, almost imperceptible, but it made your heart leap. He let out a small, almost relieved chuckle. “Good,” he murmured. “Because… I… yeah. Me too.”
You let out a quiet sigh, staring at the ceiling for a moment, then, before you could stop yourself, you burst out laughing. A full, uninhibited laugh that made Harry blink at you in surprise.
“You know,” you said between giggles, turning slightly to face him, “we’re acting completely ridiculous. Both of us. Here, lying like a couple of teenagers, and we’re… I don’t know…” You shrugged, still laughing, the tension in your chest finally breaking.
Harry’s jaw loosened, and a small, relieved chuckle escaped him. “Yeah…” he said softly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
You couldn’t help yourself—you scooted closer, brushing against him in a casual, playful way. “Ridiculous together,” you added, grinning.
For a second, he froze, as if weighing the consequences of what to do next. And then, with a quiet determination that surprised even you, he shifted closer, letting his arm snake around your waist, pulling you gently into his chest. His head tucked just under your chin, careful but firm, as if anchoring himself to you while still testing the waters.
“I… uh…” he mumbled against your hair, voice low and flustered, “I think I’m good here”
You laughed again, letting your fingers trace lazy patterns over his arm. “Looks like you’re just finally admitting you want to cuddle.”
His cheeks colored faintly, and he gave a small, sheepish laugh. “Maybe. Just… maybe,” he admitted.
You snuggled against him, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours. “Good,” you whispered, smiling against the curve of his shoulder. “Because I think this is exactly where we’re supposed to be.”
He chuckled, quiet but full of contentment, pulling you closer without a second thought. “Yeah… yeah, you’re right,” he echoed, the words soft but loaded with everything he hadn’t said yet—everything he was feeling but still figuring out how to name.
Now, neither of you felt the need to overthink, to hesitate, to pretend to be brave. You were simply here, together, letting the closeness, the warmth, and the quiet joy of being with each other speak louder than any words ever could.
Over the next few weeks, a rhythm began to settle between you. It started small—an arm brushing your waist as he settled in, a leg draping over yours almost absentmindedly. There was something comforting about letting him be needy, letting him rest his head against you like he had nowhere else in the world to be.
“Sunshine…” he’d murmur in the half-light, voice hoarse from just waking or from some unspoken longing. “Stay… just five more minutes.” And you’d laugh, letting him curl tighter against you, heart thudding in a way that left you dizzy with affection.
One night you’d had a long day, auditions that went nowhere, and you’d come home frustrated and exhausted. Harry was still at the bar, and you found yourself curling up under his blankets
When he came back, he paused in the doorway, watching you curled against his pillow, and a slow, genuine smile spread across his face. “You’re… making yourself at home, huh?” he teased softly, but the heat in his eyes told you he didn’t mean it as a joke.
You grinned sleepily. “It’s your fault for having such comfy sheets.”
He walked over, climbing onto the bed carefully, like he didn’t want to crush the tiny bubble of space you’d claimed. And then—without thinking, without hesitation—he curled up behind you, chest pressing lightly against your back, one arm thrown over your waist. “You… you smell like happiness,” he whispered, voice low and husky. “And… I like it.”
You giggled, squeezing his hand, heart fluttering at how unguarded he suddenly was. “You’re ridiculous,” you murmured.
He hummed, pressing his nose to the nape of your neck. “Yeah… but I’m yours,” he said softly, and you could feel the honesty in the words, the vulnerability that had been buried under weeks of grumpy, sarcastic walls. That night, he didn’t just take up space in your bed—he let you take up space in his heart, too.
Over time, these small habits became a flow. One night in your bed, one night in his. Sometimes he was clingy and needy; sometimes you were the one clinging, wrapping your arms around him while he hummed softly against your hair. The nickname “Sunshine” slipped into conversation naturally now, soft, teasing, and intimate.
One evening, after a long day where auditions had worn you thin, you found yourself on the sofa, sprawled out with a mug of tea, Harry settling beside you. You were laughing about some absurdity from the day, and his fingers found yours, entwining lazily. The warmth of his hand sent a shiver up your spine.
“I can’t believe you actually said that,” he murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.
You leaned in closer, and without warning, he kissed you. Soft at first, testing, like he was still measuring the line between comfort and desire. You responded instinctively, lips parting, fingers tangling in his hair.
The kiss deepened, growing more urgent, more insistent. Your body pressed against his, heat pooling in your chest, in your stomach, in ways that made your breath hitch. And then, as his hands moved, you hesitated—pulling back just slightly, heart thudding, eyes wide.
“Hey…” he murmured, still close, his forehead resting against yours. “What is it?”
You swallowed hard, cheeks flushing bright pink. “I… I’ve never… with anyone,” you admitted, voice trembling, embarrassed. “I… I don’t know…”
Harry’s eyes softened instantly, full of care and warmth, his hand cupping your cheek. “Hey, hey,” he said gently, brushing his thumb across your jaw. “It’s okay. I… I’m not here to rush you. Never.”
You breathed out, relief washing over you in a warm wave. “Really?”
“Really,” he said, voice steady but husky. “… I’ll want to make you feel good. In all ways. From now on.”
Your heart soared, and a shy, happy smile spread across your face. You nodded, pressing your lips to his in a gentle, lingering kiss, letting yourself trust him fully. He responded with a mixture of tenderness and desire, careful yet confident, guiding, attentive, letting you take the lead when you wanted, and holding you close when you needed it.
The heat built slowly, tenderly, as you explored the intimacy between you. His hands were gentle but purposeful, tracing lines along your body with a reverence that made you feel both safe and wanted. Every movement, every sigh, every whispered word from him was measured to comfort, to excite, to reassure.
By the time you finally pulled back, hearts racing and foreheads pressed together, the air around you felt electric. You laughed softly, breathless, and he mirrored you, chuckling low and warm.
“Sunshine…” he murmured, his voice thick with both amusement and desire. You smiled, curling against him, letting the weight of his arms hold you close.
“We can try,” you whispered, heart pounding.
“Only if you want,” he said softly, brushing his lips against yours.
“I want,” you replied, certainty in your voice.
That was all he needed. Slowly, deliberately, his hand slid up your shirt, moving with care and patience, waiting for your signal to go further. His lips never left yours, the kiss open, intimate, tongues beginning to meet in a gentle dance. When he felt your shoulders relax, he cupped your bra, squeezing just slightly, getting a small, breathy moan from you.
He smiled into the kiss, reading every reaction, every little sound, knowing you were not only enjoying this but trusting him completely.
“Have you… touched yourself before?” he murmured between breathy kisses, his other hand sliding your shirt upwards with deliberate gentleness.
“Yes,” you admitted, a little embarrassed, but you knew it was natural.
“Good,” he whispered, voice low and warm. “Tell me what you like, okay, Sunshine?” His lips trailed to your neck, pressing soft, teasing kisses, gently sucking without leaving marks… not yet.
“M’kay,” you breathed, your heart racing, your body tingling at the careful attention he gave you, the slow, patient way he explored, always making sure you felt safe and desired.
Your shirt slid up easily, and he paused for a moment, taking in the sight of you in that delicate beige tulle bra. He could already see your nipples through the sheer fabric, perked and inviting, silently begging for attention.
He lifted his gaze to your face, just for a moment—cheeks flushed, strands of hair sticking to your forehead—every detail of you was breathtaking, a true work of art. His fingers twitched lightly, wanting to trace every curve, every line, but he held back, savoring the view, letting the tension build, knowing how much you were trusting him.
He leaned in again, lips brushing the sensitive skin just above your bra, breathing warm against you. His fingers hovered for a moment at the edge of the tulle, teasingly light, waiting for you to shift, to give him permission to go further. Every little sigh, every subtle arch of your body told him exactly what you wanted, and he followed, patient, attentive.
“Relax, Sunshine,” he whispered, voice low and husky, pressing a gentle kiss to your collarbone. “Just… let me take care of you.”
You shivered, leaning into him instinctively, trusting him completely. His hands moved carefully, tracing the curve of your waist, sliding beneath the sheer fabric of your bra. He cupped you lightly, fingers pressing just enough to make you gasp softly, and he smiled against your skin, savoring your reaction.
“You feel… amazing,” he murmured, thumbs brushing over your nipples. “So soft… so perfect.”
Your hands found his shoulders, fingers gripping lightly as you closed your eyes, letting yourself melt under his touch. There was no rush, no pressure—just him, you, and the quiet rhythm of your shared breaths.
He pulled back slightly, tilting your chin with a gentle finger, his eyes searching yours. “Tell me if it’s too much… or if you want more.”
“I… I like it,” you breathed, cheeks still flushed, voice soft but full of trust. “I like… this. You.”
His smile was slow, a mixture of pride, desire, and pure awe. "Good," he whispered, pressing another feather-light kiss to your lips. His fingers drifted to the hem of your biker shorts, his touch both a question and a promise as his hands slid slowly to the curve of your ass. "Can I take these off?"
"Yeah, but... can you take something off too?" you asked, the words feeling like a shy favor.
"Of course," he said, a soft apology in his tone. He pulled his shirt over his head with a smooth, easy motion. You had seen his naked torso before, his tattoos like a map across his skin, but in this moment, it felt so different—so vulnerable and real. With your eyes closed, your hands shyly found his abs, tracing the lines as if you were trying to memorize them.
When he tugged at your shorts, you pushed your hips up to give him easy access. The sight of you had him in a state of awe; a pair of beige tulle thongs were all that remained, their sheer fabric making his brain feel like mush. He could see the faint outline of your pussy lips and the darkening wet patch blooming against the material. He felt his own dick twitch inside his briefs, now fully hard, and unzipped his jeans to get them off and get comfortable.
You snuck a peek at him too, the hard shape of his cock so clearly defined in his briefs. A mix of nerves and desire swirled inside you, even as your own muscles clenched in anticipation.
"Has anyone tried to eat you out, sunshine?" he asked, his voice low.
"No," you whispered.
"Would you let me?" he asked, his voice breathy with need as he looked at that wet patch like a starving man.
"Yes," you whispered, the word barely audible. A flicker of self-consciousness crossed your mind; you had shaved a few days ago, but a light stubble had already returned. He didn't seem to notice, and if he did, he didn't care. He simply knelt before you. You parted your legs on the sofa, and he began to press open-mouthed kisses against the thin fabric of your thong. His tongue found you, tasting your sweet juices through the sheer material. Your hands, seemingly on their own, found their way into his hair, gripping it softly. Your hips instinctively bucked just the slightest. The scene was gloriously messy, your slick wetness and his eager kisses, while his hand moved in a soft, steady caress along your thighs and waist.
"Harry..." you moaned, the sound catching in your throat. "Uh..."
A wave of sensation washed over you as he moved the thin, damp fabric to the side, his tongue making direct, intoxicating contact. You let out a soft cry, a sound that was half gasp, half moan. Your hips pushed downward, a small, involuntary push that he met with a low groan against your skin. The sound was so deep, so full of his own pleasure, that it made you feel powerful.
His hand left your thigh, sliding between your folds as a single finger circled your clitoris. You tangled your fingers deeper into his hair, holding on tight as the world began to shrink to just the feel of his mouth, his touch, and the consuming heat building deep within you.
He slurped, kissed, and lapped with his tongue, a low, satisfied sound rumbling in his throat. "Sunshine... your taste... is addictive," he managed to say, his voice thick and low. Hearing your next moan, he went faster with his tongue against your clit, your own moans growing louder in response.
"Harry," you cried, your eyes squeezed shut, feeling how incredibly close you were.
"It's okay... just do what you want," he breathed between his deep kisses. "You look so pretty from here, sunshine. A perfect pussy, all for me."
"Uh... fuck," you said, the raw word escaping you. Hearing you swear for the first time in that state stirred something new in him. And without warning, you felt it—that intense heat consuming your body. You came with a loud moan, a wave of pleasure washing through you. It was a dizzying surprise to look down and realize, in your blissful haze, that he had slipped two fingers inside you. His tongue was still on your clit, his fingers deep inside, and your body was clenching around him, a perfect, unspoken agreement.
He pushed himself up and leaned in, capturing your mouth in a soft kiss. You could taste yourself on him, a sweet and carnal flavor that only sent another jolt of desire through you. You were still coming down from the high, your body humming, your breath coming in deep, uneven gasps.
"You're perfect, sunshine," he murmured against your lips. "You look so good like this." He groaned the words into the kiss, pulling you closer. His right hand slid from your thigh to your hip, his thumb tracing the curve of your bone. The look in his eyes held a new promise—that this was just the beginning.
He kissed you, and with a hand still inside his briefs, he began to pump his dick. You noticed immediately, your gaze dropping to the visible movement.
"Teach me," you breathed, the words escaping you as you looked at the glistening tip peeking out. He pulled his head back, his eyes searching yours for a moment.
"You sure? We don't have to go all the way today," he said, his voice gentle but thick with desire.
"But I want to try," you insisted, the words a mix of curiosity and need.
"Fuck, sunshine," he moaned softly, a blend of surrender and excitement. Without another thought, he took your hand and placed it on his. His briefs were discarded, and now it was both of you, your hand guided by his, pumping his hard cock. The heat of him was a shock against your skin, a warm, pulsing weight that felt both foreign and thrillingly right.
He leaned in, his forehead pressed against yours. "Keep going," he groaned. "Just... like that. Your hands feel so fucking good."
The praise made you bolder. Your movements became more deliberate, your grip just a little tighter. He kissed you, messy and urgent, his free hand tangled in your hair. Your heart raced, the feeling of his skin on yours, the raw, unspoken want was overwhelming.
He pulled back with a small groan, his eyes dark and unfocused. He slowly brushed his cock through your slick folds, the sensation making you gasp. "Do you want to feel it raw first?" he said, his breath ragged. "Just the tip, and then I'll put a condom on."
"Yeah," you said, your insides clenching again.
"Fuck," he swore, his dick twitching. "You're gonna feel so good."
He pushed the head slowly inside of you and groaned low, feeling your walls tighten around him. A flicker of pain crossed your face, and he immediately kissed your jawline. "Talk to me. Does it hurt? I won't push further."
"No, it's good." He pushed in a little more, then stopped, waiting. "Okay," you said, and he pushed again, his own groan leaving his mouth.
"You're so fucking tight." Once he was halfway inside, you both stayed, getting used to each other.
"Harry," you breathed, your body adjusting to the new fullness.
"Does it hurt? Do you want me to stop?" he asked, a frown of concern on his face.
"No, I want to feel you inside, all the way," you said. His cock twitched at your words.
"I'll go for a condom. Don't move," he said. You moaned, a low, yearning sound as he slid out, the sudden emptiness making you ache. Your eyes dropped to his cock, glistening with both of your fluids.
"The sensation will be a bit dull," he warned. He came back, put the condom on, and pushed back inside you, a bit quicker this time, groaning as he felt the new sensation.
"Slow," you said, flinching slightly.
He did as told, and once he was all the way in, you were both panting, his breath hot against your ear. "Are you okay sunshine?" he asked.
"Yeah."
He began to move, the friction a delicious mix of pain and pleasure. Your hands gripped his back, scratching him lightly. "Shit, that feels good," he groaned.
"More," you pleaded, wanting him deeper.
"Fuck, sunshine," he moaned, moving faster. The sounds he made were the hottest thing you'd ever heard, and you let out your own soft "uhs" and "ahs" in his ear. The thought of being inside you was all he needed, and your small sounds pushed him to the edge.
"Harry..." you said, gripping his hair. "Fuck... I'm close again, I'm sorry."
"Don't you even dare... uh!... say sorry," he said, not hiding his own imminent climax. "Come whenever you need to."
"Ah... Harry," you moaned, and then he circled your clit with his thumb. Your legs began to shiver, and a loud moan of release escaped you.
Seeing your face, feeling your walls clench around him, he buckled his hips in sync with your spasms and came into the condom, hot cum filling it as he squeezed his eyes shut and held your waist tight.
You both breathed, your bodies still connected in a shared haze of heat and satisfaction. He pulled out slowly, taking a moment to compose himself. The raw passion was fading, replaced by a deep tenderness. He looked at you, his eyes still dark but now soft and gentle, and he reached out to gently push a stray hair from your forehead.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice low and a little rough, a stark contrast to the rough moans from moments before.
"Yeah," you said, a small, genuine smile gracing your lips. You were still humming with the aftereffects of the climax, a quiet thrumming of pleasure under your skin. "More than okay."
He looked down, his gaze traveling over your body before meeting your eyes again. "Did anything hurt? At all?" The concern in his face was so real, so disarming. It wasn’t a perfunctory question; he genuinely needed to know.
"A little at first," you admitted, the honesty feeling easy between you now, "but it was fine. You went slow, just like you said." You reached for his hand, giving it a soft squeeze. "You were so good, Harry. You took such good care of me. Thank you"
His expression softened completely, a hint of a smile touching his lips. He leaned in and kissed you, this time a slow, lingering kiss that tasted of you and of the profound intimacy you'd just shared. There was no urgency, just a deep, abiding affection in the touch of his lips, then he suddenly scooped you up into his arms, bridal style.
"Hey!" you said, a surprised laugh escaping you as your arms went around his neck.
He just looked at you, a soft, loving smile on his face. "You're coming with me"
He carried you through the apartment, your head resting against his shoulder, your body still weak with pleasure and now cradled in his strength. You could feel the warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart against your chest. He gently set you down on the edge of his bed, the plush comforter feeling soft beneath you. You watched him disappear into the bathroom, and the sound of water running soon filled the quiet space, and then came back with a damp towel, and softly wiped you, making sure it was gentle.
“Come” he said placing the towel on the bedside table and offered you a hand, now in the bathroom the bath all filled and smelling a bit like peaches, he helped you inside and crouched on the side making sure you were comfortable in the warm water, looking, no, admiring your body. “feels good?” he said softly
“Mmm yes” you said closing your eyes but then turned to look at him “Aren’t you getting in?” she asked
“I’ll go take a shower in yours and then i’ll fix you up some dinner” he said kissing your forehead “Thank you Sunshine”
You blinked and looked again at him “for what?”
“For coming into my life and changing it…thanks for making it better, thanks for bringing sunshine into me” he said softly and kissed your hand.
requested! thank you. ♡
content: fluff, comfort, anxiety, established relationship
the week has been brutal. long hours, small disappointments, little things piling up until they feel like boulders. you’ve kept it together the best you can, but tonight — it’s too much.
you’re sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, trying to breathe through the tightness in your chest. when harry walks in, hair damp from the shower, he stops instantly.
“love?” his voice is soft, careful.
you shake your head quickly, swiping at your eyes. “it’s nothing. just—” your voice cracks, betraying you.
he’s beside you in a heartbeat, long arms wrapping around your frame. “shh, hey. don’t do that, don’t say it’s nothing.” his chin rests lightly on top of your head. “talk to me. or don’t. just… let me hold you.”
and you do. you collapse against him, the dam finally breaking. hot tears streak down your face as sobs shake your chest.
harry doesn’t flinch. he only pulls you tighter into him, one hand stroking your back, the other cradling your head. “you’re alright, pet. i’ve got you. just breathe with me, yeah? slow… like this.”
you try, matching the rhythm of his chest rising and falling. it steadies you, little by little.
“m’sorry,” you mumble into his shirt, voice muffled.
he tilts his head down, kissing your damp hair. “none of that. don’t apologize for feeling, baby. not with me.”
you sniffle, finally lifting your face to look at him. his green eyes are gentle, shining, like he’s carrying the weight for you.
“there you are,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the tear tracks from your cheeks. “first time i’ve seen you cry… wish it wasn’t ‘cause of a bad week. but i’m glad you let me be here for it.”
“you don’t think i’m pathetic?”
he huffs softly, kissing your forehead. “pathetic? darling, you’re the strongest person i know. even strong people break down. especially strong people.”
you manage a watery laugh, and his smile widens, proud of pulling even the tiniest joy from you.
“better,” he says, tilting his forehead against yours. “my only job tonight is making sure you breathe easier. so, how about tea? blanket? maybe i’ll sing to you a little, hm?”
you nod, tears easing, chest lighter. “just… stay close?”
“always.” he kisses you slow, lingering. “i’ll hold you all night if you let me.”
and he does — tucked under the covers, your face against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. every time your breath hitches, his hand rubs circles on your back, his lips finding your hair.
by the time sleep finally pulls you under, the bad week feels just a little smaller. because harry’s arms make the world feel safe again.
Hi I am SO glad you’re okay! Please don’t feel guilty about not being on here!
I’m sorry you miscarried :( it doesn’t matter what decision you were going to take, it’s your body in the end and it all hurts the same.
I can understand your decision on not telling your bf rn especially given the history with your previous (very shitty) ex. Though I would say telling him would be the best in terms of long term investment. Yes technically there’s nothing to worry about in terms of pregnancy but you still experienced this! It was real, all the emotions and everything! Plus it seems you may have been through it alone :( you deserve to have someone hear you and let you say it! You do not have to go through it alone!!! Please tell me to fuck off if I’m overstepping!
not overstepping at all! i’ve been so alone in this, so i really do appreciate the support coming from here. i want to tell him, but i know it would break his heart, and if i have any part in being able to prevent that, i will. he’s lost a child before further along in a past pregnancy years ago, and i know it still hurts him. i know that i can get through it on my own, it’ll just take some time.
but the kind words mean so, so much to me. thank you so very much 🩷🩷🩷 your heart is so kind
hi everyone 🩷 i apologize for going m.i.a, it’s been a little bit of a rollercoaster on my end. i didnt really get the opportunity to 100% choose what i wanted to do with the pregnancy because i miscarried really early. it’s a really odd feeling. i had a chemical pregnancy with my ex in 2023 and he celebrated the loss while i was in this really weird limbo of grief and confusion. now there’s this, and i hadn’t gotten the chance to tell my boyfriend about the pregnancy because i was so lost. i’m unsure if i will tell him about it at all now that it’s gone. i appreciate all the love that’s been in my inbox and ask box. thank you guys, i hope i can get back into writing soon, i feel guilty for abandoning the account sometimes.
maybe i’m being dramatic and possibly its just placebo but with these hormones (possibly) and working hospital security in this big ass downtown hospital—i’m gonna lose my marbles. like why are u being mean when im trying to HELP YOU
thank u everyone for all the love for everything going on <3 it means so much! especially since i’ve been inactive for so long. i’m in this weird limbo currently, i’m hoping that writing something will help me feel better, i’m hoping to get something out even if it’s small. thank u <3
Words: 2,260
Rating: PG-13 | fluff (just a short little fluffy fluff, harry has an eventful night)
Type: Harry Styles x Reader
Taglist: @infinityxlovers @emlovesniallhoran @puzio19 @noellesarchive @pawmpkinnn @tillyshouse
❀ Masterlist ❀ Taglist ❀
Harry was nervous, maybe the most nervous he had ever been before. Which is crazy because he had performed in front of thousands of people. He had done big tours, small tours, live TV, you name it. He owned his own company. He was Harry Styles for christ’s sake but he couldn’t think about that, no, because he was holding a secret, but little did he know, there was another secret that was going to be confessed tonight. One that was going to change his life forever.
The roar of the crowd was a familiar symphony to Harry. Lights pulsed, music throbbed, and the energy of thousands of fans singing along to "As It Was" was a palpable force. Tonight, however, there was an extra layer of shimmering euphoria beneath the surface of his usual stage high. Just hours before, nestled in the quiet intimacy of their London flat, he had proposed to Y/N. Her tearful, joyous "yes" still echoed in his ears, a sweeter melody than any chart-topping hit. The ring, a vintage sapphire he’d spent months searching for, gleamed on her finger, a silent promise of forever.
He had been planning to do this for a while. He didn’t want to sound cliché, but when he met her, he knew. It was the way the sun caught her eyes, the way she smiled at him like no one else existed. It was the fact she did not care who he was. She cared about his character, something that was hard to find in this world.
The evening had started like any other, with Y/N mentally ticking off the remaining tasks on her work agenda as she commuted home. The thought of a quiet night in, perhaps a takeaway and a movie with Harry, was a comforting one. But as she unlocked the door to their familiar London flat, a subtle shift in the atmosphere immediately caught her attention. Instead of the usual gentle hum of the city filtering through, there was an unusual hush, punctuated only by the soft, melodic strains of a hidden playlist.
As she stepped further inside, her eyes widened. The living room, typically a space of comfortable clutter, had been transformed into something out of a dream. Hundreds of flickering candles, varying in height and size, cast a warm, intimate glow that danced across the walls and ceiling. Their subtle vanilla scent mingled with the sweet, delicate fragrance of scattered rose petals that dusted the floor, leading a fragrant path towards the center of the room. It was a scene of breathtaking beauty, an orchestrated moment that stole her breath.
And then she saw him. Harry, usually so composed, so effortlessly suave, stood amidst the ethereal glow, a bundle of barely contained nervous energy. His hands, usually so steady, trembled ever so slightly as he reached for hers, his eyes, usually filled with a playful glint, now held a deep, profound vulnerability. A soft gasp escaped Y/N's lips, a mix of surprise and burgeoning understanding washing over her.
He gently pulled her closer, his gaze unwavering, and then, with a grace born of anticipation and a lifetime of unspoken dreams, he knelt. The vintage sapphire ring, a family heirloom he had meticulously researched and restored, glinted in the soft candlelight, a beacon of promise. He began to speak, his voice a low, earnest murmur, pouring out his heart with a raw honesty that moved her to her core. He spoke of their first meeting, a serendipitous encounter in a bustling coffee shop; of the quiet evenings spent sharing dreams and fears; of the countless small moments that had woven their two lives inextricably together. Every word was a testament to his absolute certainty, a meticulously crafted narrative of how every single moment had led him to this very point, to this unwavering desire to spend the rest of his life by her side.
Tears, hot and shimmering, welled in Y/N's eyes, blurring the candlelight around them. Her throat tightened with emotion, her heart swelling with an indescribable joy. She couldn't speak, her voice choked with the magnitude of the moment, but she didn't need to. Her eyes, shining with unshed tears, conveyed everything. She simply nodded, a slow, deliberate movement, before finally managing to push past the lump in her throat, a joyous "Yes!" escaping her lips, a sound that resonated with every fiber of her being.
The embrace that followed was one of pure, unadulterated bliss, a silent conversation of promises whispered against each other's skin. His arms wrapped tightly around her, lifting her slightly off her feet, as if to confirm that this was real, that they were finally here. The air around them thrummed with a tangible energy, a blend of relief, elation, and the profound weight of a shared future. In that moment, surrounded by the soft glow of candles and the lingering scent of roses, their London flat felt less like a haven and more like the very beginning of their forever.
Nothing could top this night. Harry was performing like never before and the crowd was living for it. His energy was palpable, it could be felt throughout the room. All the way to the vibrations of the overwhelming instruments that were roaring the music to life.
He was mid-verse, bathed in the spotlight, when a ripple went through the crew backstage. A stagehand, usually invisible in the periphery, stepped forward hesitantly. Harry, ever the professional, subtly acknowledged the interruption with a raised eyebrow, continuing to sing as the stagehand approached and respectfully handed him a small, plain white card. It wasn't uncommon for requests or fan letters to make their way to him, but this felt different. There was an urgency in the stagehand's eyes, a knowing glint that piqued his curiosity.
He finished the chorus, letting the crowd take over the bridge. This was his moment. He unfolded the card, expecting maybe a quirky drawing or a heartfelt message from a fan. But what he saw made the world tilt on its axis.
It was a small, grainy image, unmistakably an ultrasound. A tiny, blurry shape, barely more than a speck, was visible within a sac. His heart pounded, a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Below the image, in Y/N’s elegant script, were just five words:
"Two hearts in one home."
A reference to a song off his first album. That night, he had proposed to her thinking there was no way in the world that the night could possibly get any better. But this? This was the woman he had planned to spend the rest of his lift with. To cherish. And hearing this new only made him so much more happier to call her his.
The mic felt heavy in his hand, his voice catching in his throat. The crowd, sensing a shift, quieted slightly, their collective gaze fixed on him. His eyes burned, a mixture of disbelief and overwhelming joy welling up. He looked out at the sea of faces, then back at the tiny, perfect image on the card. A family. Their family. This wasn't just a proposal; it was a revelation, a double helix of destiny intertwining their lives even further.
A wide, uncontrollable grin spread across his face, his eyes shining. He lifted the card for the crowd to see, though he knew they wouldn't understand. But Y/N, watching from a hidden perch backstage, would. He brought the microphone to his lips, his voice thick with emotion.
"Wembly," he began, his voice a little shaky but full of newfound warmth. "Tonight has been... extraordinary." He paused, looking directly towards the back of the stage where he knew she was. "Just a few hours ago, the most incredible person in the world agreed to be my wife."
A collective gasp, then an explosion of cheers, rippled through the arena. Harry chuckled, a sound of pure happiness.
Although their relationship was not private, it was also not public. The world knew Harry and Y/N. Harry made it a point to hard launch their relationship. He didn’t want to sneak around or try and plan a fully private life again. Harry wanted to be able to go out and enjoy his time with Y/N without caring who saw what or who was taking which picture.
They still kept it private though. The ins and outs of their relationship had always been that: theirs.
Harry felt a deep, abiding sense of good fortune. His fans, a fiercely loyal and protective bunch, had always embraced Y/N with open arms, a fact that still struck him with a pleasant surprise. He’d seen the countless edits, the intricate fan art, the online debates that raged for hours, where complete strangers passionately defended their relationship against any detractors. It was a rare and beautiful thing, this collective acceptance, this outpouring of genuine affection for someone he loved so dearly. He remembered the early days, when the initial reactions had been a nervous anticipation, a fear of the unknown. But almost immediately, the warmth had begun to pour in, a steady stream of support that had only grown stronger with time. They weren't just fans; they were an extension of his chosen family, celebrating his joy as if it were their own, seeing Y/N not as an intrusion, but as an essential part of his happiness. This unwavering devotion, this willingness to fight for their contentment, made him feel lucky all around, a profound gratitude swelling within him each time he witnessed it.
"And now," he continued, holding up the ultrasound card, "she's given me another gift. A gift that means our home will have another heart in it very soon."
The crowd erupted again, this time with a confused but joyous roar. Some understood immediately, tears welling up in their eyes. Others exchanged bewildered glances, but the sheer emotion radiating from Harry was infectious. He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the thump now. It was loud and coursing through his body like never before.
"We're having a baby!" he shouted, his voice cracking with emotion. The arena exploded. Cheers, screams, applause, a symphony of shared delight. He bowed his head, tears finally escaping, rolling down his cheeks. Then? He slowly sunk into the floor. Landing on his knees as he placed his head in his hands. His body was shaking as he cried. Tears of joy poured from him at the thought of all of his dreams coming true.
Really. He had met the girl of his dreams, their relationship had been easy and simple. A pure love he never thought he would ever be able to experience. His career was also at an all time high. He was gaining new titles left and right, but he might have just received his favorite of all. He looked up, his gaze finding Y/N's. She was beaming, her face wet with tears of her own, a hand pressed to her lips.
He could have stopped the show. He thought about it, even if it was only for a brief moment. Could he be blamed though? He could have called it a night, brought her out on stage and kissed her passionately on the stage for the world to see. Just so everyone knew just how extremely excited he was for this. For them. To finally have a future he had thought so fondly of.
He blew her a kiss, a silent promise not just of forever, but of a future filled with lullabies and laughter, tiny shoes and unconditional love. The music swelled, picking up where it left off, but for Harry, the song had changed. It was no longer just about love lost or found, but about love expanding, encompassing a whole new life, a whole new adventure. He was engaged, he was going to be a father, and he was the happiest man alive. The concert, the lights, the roar of the crowd – it all faded into the background, replaced by the quiet, profound joy of a heart finally, completely, at home.
After the final encore, the roar of the crowd still echoing in his ears, Harry practically sprinted backstage. He found Y/N waiting, her arms already open. Their embrace was fierce, silent, and filled with everything they couldn't express in front of thousands. Tears streamed down both their faces, a mixture of adrenaline, relief, and profound happiness.
Later, in the quiet luxury of their hotel suite, a small, impromptu celebration unfolded. It wasn't the wild party one might expect after a stadium show; instead, it was intimate, profound. Road managers and a few close friends had arranged for a spread of their favorite comfort foods: a simple, perfectly cooked pasta dish, a bottle of fine red wine, and a ridiculously oversized, slightly lopsided cake that someone had managed to get delivered, emblazoned with "Congratulations!" in shaky icing.
They sat close, talking in hushed tones, rehashing every moment of the night. Harry kept reaching for Y/N’s hand, tracing circles on her engagement ring, then gently covering her stomach, a silent acknowledgment of the tiny life growing within. The ultrasound picture lay on the coffee table, illuminated by the soft glow of the lamps, becoming the new centerpiece of their world. There were toasts, quiet laughter, and moments of comfortable silence where the sheer magnitude of their happiness filled the room. It was a celebration not of fame or success, but of family, of dreams realized, and of two hearts, truly, becoming one home.
If can obviously take the best and safest route for not only your mental health but physical health! I’m always here for you if you need someone-🦋
thank you lovely i appreciate it so much, truly <3
my boyfriend is older and already has children, but we’ve discussed this lightly beforehand still early on into the relationship to see if we’d have a compatible future together. he luckily still wants a child in the future, as do i, but the keyword there is future.
i’ll need to look into my options for my state, but i’ll need to talk to him as well because no matter what, he has a right to know. i’m just so nervous. it’s weird. i’m not sure what to do 😬 i can’t have someone answer it for me but honestly all i really know what to say over it is: i don’t know how to move forward lol
Hey are you okay from everything that has happened?
hi 🩷 thank you for checking in!
i don’t know how i feel. i was told today that i’m pregnant but the labs show it’s most likely still very early. it’s a weird feeling. i’m unsure how to navigate it
i’m so confused rn so ive made a doctor’s appointment because i have one positive test and one negative test but ive seen everyone’s sweet anon messages and i appreciate them so much 🩷 the support feels so lovely during something like this
so… i’m pregnant. i was told that they can’t give me an exact estimate on how far along until i set up appointments, but the HCG level from the labs is not super high, so i was told it’s probably fairly early. i sort of zoned out after they told me it did come back positive. i’m just at a blank rn yall
okay hey gorgeous.
I know this can be really difficult time right now- so I want you to know that you are so so loved and it will all be okay I promise you.
I’m sending lots of hugs rn
thank you honeybug <3 i appreciate the support soso much i’m so grateful for everyone on here
