Series Summary: You're a London-based author trying to finish edits on your debut romantasy before your publisher's deadline when a chance encounter with Harry Styles changes everything. What begins with shared coffees and conversations about dragons, magic, and fictional worlds slowly turns into something neither of you planned... just as his Wembley residency and your publishing dreams begin to collide.
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Chapter 1 | Preview
Summary: You're a London-based author racing to finish edits on your debut romantasy before your publisher's deadline collides with the Wembley residency. A rainy afternoon in your regular café turns surreal when Harry Styles—fresh off the Amsterdam leg, settling into London—takes the seat across from you and genuinely cannot stop asking about the fantasy world you've built. What starts as a chance encounter becomes coffee dates that feel like something more, and when he casually tells you he's leaving a ticket at will-call for tomorrow night, you realize your carefully structured life is about to get very, very complicated.
A/N: This is part one of a four part series 😊 I hope you like it! My Patreon giveaway is still online (go check it out!)!
Word Count: 4032
Warnings:
Lots of book talk
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The rain hits the café window in sheets. You glance up from your laptop, watch the water streak down the glass, then look back at your manuscript pages. Three colors of ink slash across the printed text. Red for character consistency, blue for world-building holes, green for prose that needs tightening. Your editor wants the final draft in three weeks. You have forty pages left to check and a looming sense that your magic system has more holes than a sieve.
Your latte sits forgotten near your elbow. It went cold an hour ago. The barista gave you a look when you ordered your third one, the kind of look that said "maybe try water next time." You ignored her. You needed the caffeine.
You highlight another paragraph on the page in front of you. Your protagonist, a cursed queen named Sable, is explaining the binding spell to her mortal soldier love interest. You read the dialogue out loud under your breath.
"I don't understand," Sable says. "The curse responds to intention, not action. If I want to break it, I have to want something more than I want my own survival."
You frown. That line landed better in the second draft. Now it feels obvious. You grab your green pen and cross it out, scrawl "too on the nose" in the margin, and keep reading.
The door chimes.
You don't look up. People come and go. This is your regular spot, a small Soho café with mismatched furniture and a dog that sleeps on a velvet chair near the register. The coffee is decent and the Wi-Fi works and nobody bothers you, which is all you need.
Footsteps approach your table. You finally glance up when someone stops right next to your chair.
A man stands there, shrugging off a vintage raincoat. Water droplets cling to his shoulders. He wears a linen shirt underneath, half the buttons undone, and his hair falls damp across his forehead. Rings glint on his fingers. He looks around the café, scanning the occupied tables, and his gaze lands on the only empty chair. It sits across from you, blocked by your spread of papers and your laptop and your three pens and your cold latte.
"Can I?" he asks.
You blink at him. Then you nod and pull your papers closer to your side of the table, clearing a path. "Yeah, go ahead."
He sits. He shrugs the raincoat off entirely and drapes it over the back of the chair. Underneath, the linen shirt is cream-colored, wrinkled from travel. He leans back and pulls out his phone, checks something, puts it away.
You go back to your manuscript.
The silence stretches. It should feel awkward, sharing a table with a stranger in a crowded café, but somehow it doesn't. He's not loud. He's not fidgeting. He just exists on the other side of the table, calm and present, while you work.
You make it through another two pages before he speaks.
"What's all that?"
You look up. He's leaning forward now, chin propped on his hand, staring at the explosion of papers in front of you. His eyes are green. You notice that first. Then you notice the stubble on his jaw and the slight smile on his mouth.
"Work," you say.
"I can see that." He reaches across the table before you can stop him and picks up one of your printed pages. His eyes scan the text. "A cursed queen and a mortal soldier walk into a war." He reads it out loud, inflecting like he's narrating a film trailer. "That's the plot?"
You snatch the page back. "That's not the plot. That's one scene. And you can't just read someone's work without asking."
"I'm asking now." He grins. It transforms his whole face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "A cursed queen though. What kind of curse?"
You stare at him. He stares back, waiting. He seems genuinely curious, not just making small talk. His posture is open, engaged.
"Are you actually interested, or are you just being polite because we're sharing a table?"
"Would I be asking about the curse if I was being polite?"
Fair point. You set down your green pen.
"Fine. She's cursed to feel every physical injury her enemies suffer. So she can't win a war without hurting herself. It's a empathy curse, basically. She has to care about the people trying to kill her."
His eyebrows lift. "That's proper. That's really good."
"You don't have to say that."
"I'm not saying it to be nice. I'm saying it because it's true." He shifts forward in his chair. "What's the magic system? Is it innate, or learned, or tied to something external?"
You blink. That's a specific question. Most people just say "oh, fantasy" and move on.
"It's tied to the land," you say slowly, watching his face. "The magic comes from the kingdom itself. If the kingdom falls, the magic dies. So the queen has to protect her borders even as her own people turn against her."
"Because of the curse."
"Because of the curse."
He nods, processing this. "And the mortal soldier. Does he have magic?"
"No. He's completely ordinary. That's the point. He's the first person who treats her like a person instead of a queen or a curse."
"He falls for her first, doesn't he."
It's not a question. You narrow your eyes at him.
"What makes you say that?"
"Because he doesn't see the crown or the curse. He just sees her. He'd fall first." He shrugs. "Is it endgame? The romance?"
"That's the plan."
"Good. I hate when authors chicken out of the romance."
You laugh, surprised. "You read a lot of romantasy, do you?"
"I read." He says it firmly, like he's defending himself. "Not as much as I'd like. Tour makes it hard. I've been on the road for—god, months now. Just wrapped Amsterdam. Ten nights."
That's when it clicks.
You look at his face again. The jaw. The green eyes. The hair, still damp, pushed back from his forehead. The rings on his fingers. The linen shirt, the casual confidence, the way he walked in like he owned the room without trying.
"Oh," you say. "You're that Harry."
He goes still for a beat. Then he laughs. It's a real laugh, unguarded and loud, and it makes the dog on the velvet chair lift its head and stare.
"That's a new one," he says. "Most people pretend they don't recognize me for at least ten minutes. You held out for fifteen."
"I was working." You gesture at your papers. "I wasn't paying attention to anything except my own head."
"Clearly." He grins. "Otherwise you would've kicked me out the second I picked up your page."
"You're right. I should've." But you're smiling now, despite yourself. "Are you always this forward with strangers?"
"Only the ones writing about cursed queens." He leans back. "What's your name?"
You tell him. He repeats it once, testing the sound of it, then nods like he's filing it away.
"And you're working on this book right now? Like, it's getting published and everything?"
"It's my debut. Romantasy. I'm supposed to deliver the final draft in three weeks and I've still got forty pages of consistency notes to work through."
"Three weeks." He winces. "That's tight."
"Tell me about it."
The barista appears at your table with a fresh latte. She sets it down in front of you without being asked and glances at Harry with zero reaction. "On the house. You looked like you needed it."
"Thanks," you say, surprised.
She nods and walks away. Harry watches her go.
"Is she always that casual about everything?"
"This is my regular spot. She's seen me cry over my manuscript at least twice."
He laughs again, quieter this time. "Cry over your manuscript. That's dedication."
"That's deadlines." You wrap your hands around the warm cup. "So. Amsterdam. Ten nights. That's a lot of shows."
"Residency format. We set up in one city and stay for a while. It's different from arena-hopping. More sustainable. More time to actually exist in a place instead of just passing through."
"That sounds nice."
"It is. I mean, it's still work. It's still a massive production with twenty musicians and a string section and pyro and all that. But having a home base for a few weeks makes you feel more human."
"You're still playing stadiums though," you point out. "That's not exactly low-key."
"The venues are big, yeah. But the vibe is different this time. We're doing extended residencies instead of bouncing between cities every night. More nights in fewer places. It lets the show breathe." He pauses, fingers drumming on the table. "And we added a string section. Horns. Proper musicians, not just backing tracks. It feels less like a spectacle and more like an actual concert."
"I saw the Amsterdam photos. The catwalk looks massive."
"It is. Four pits around it. Kiss, Disco, Circle, Square. The whole stage extends into the crowd so you're surrounded on all sides." He grins. "Very intimate for ninety thousand people."
You snort. "Intimate. Sure."
"It is! Compared to stadium runs where you're a speck on the horizon, this feels close. I can see people's faces. That changes everything."
You take a sip of your latte. It's hot and good and you needed it. Outside, the rain keeps hammering the windows, turning the street into a blur of grey and headlights.
"Can I ask you something?" he says.
"You've been asking me things for twenty minutes."
"One more." He picks up another page from your pile. You let him this time. He scans the text and finds a line near the bottom. Then he clears his throat dramatically, sits up straighter, and starts reading.
"His hands trembled as he traced the edge of her jaw," he intones, projecting like he's on stage at the National Theatre. "The weight of centuries fell away and there was nothing left but this, only this, her breath against his skin like a promise the universe had been waiting to keep."
He finishes and looks at you expectantly.
Your face is burning. "That's a rough draft."
"That's incredible." He's trying to keep a straight face and failing. "The universe waiting to keep a promise. That's the most dramatic thing I've ever read and I've read my own lyric notes."
"It's supposed to be dramatic. It's a romantasy. The genre is literally about big feelings and heightened emotion."
"Big feelings," he repeats, delighted. "I'm going to use that. Big feelings."
"Please don't."
"Big feelings!" He says it louder this time, grinning. A couple at the next table glances over.
"Shh." You reach across and put your hand over his mouth before you think about it. His lips curve into a smile under your palm. You pull your hand back fast. "Sorry. That was weird."
"That was great." He's laughing now, quiet and bright. "I've been shushed in cafés before but never literally muffled."
"You were being loud."
"I'm always loud. Ask anyone."
The barista appears behind the counter and shoots you a look that says "keep it down." You raise your hands in surrender. Harry turns around, catches her eye, and gives her a little wave. She just shakes her head and goes back to wiping down the espresso machine.
"She loves me," he whispers.
"She's tolerating you. There's a difference."
"Same thing in my experience."
You shake your head, but you're fighting a smile. He settles back in his chair, still holding your page. He reads it again, slower this time, without the theatrical voice.
"Is the soldier based on anyone?" he asks. "Real person? Ex-boyfriend? That bloke you fancied at uni?"
You raise your eyebrows at him. "That's a personal question."
"I'm a personal kind of guy."
You consider the question. The truth is complicated. The soldier started as a collection of traits you found compelling, loyalty and steadiness and the willingness to stay when things get hard. He's not based on one person. He's based on a feeling you wanted to believe existed.
"He wishes," you say finally.
Harry's head tilts. "What?"
"The soldier. If he's based on anyone, he wishes he was based on someone worth writing about."
He considers that for a moment. Then he leans forward, elbows on the table, voice lower.
"I think he might be."
You meet his eyes. He holds your gaze steadily, no irony, no joke. The café noise fades. The rain keeps hitting the glass. Your pulse kicks up.
"You don't even know me," you say.
"I know you write about cursed queens who feel their enemies' pain. I know you care enough about your work to cry over it in public. I know you let a stranger sit at your table and read your rough drafts." He shrugs. "That's a start."
Your phone buzzes on the table. The spell breaks. You glance down at the screen. Your editor, emailing to remind you about the deadline. Again.
"I should probably get back to this," you say, gesturing at the papers.
"Yeah. Of course." He doesn't move though. He just watches you for another beat, then slides the page back across the table. "This one's good. The bit about the promise. Don't cut it."
"I wasn't going to."
"Good."
He stands, pulls on his raincoat, buttons it up. The fabric is damp against his shoulders. He looks at the window, at the rain still coming down, and sighs.
"London weather," he mutters. "Forgot about this bit."
"It's not always like this."
"No, sometimes it's worse."
You laugh, surprising yourself. He grins at the sound.
"Listen," he says, pulling out his phone. "What's your Instagram? I want to know when this book comes out. Proper release date, all that."
You hesitate for only a second. Then you tell him your handle. He types it in, follows you, and slides his phone back into his pocket.
"I'll DM you," he says. "If that's alright."
"That's alright."
He nods once, adjusts his collar, and heads for the door. He pauses with his hand on the glass, turns back to look at you.
"Keep writing. The world needs more cursed queens."
And then he's gone, out into the rain, disappearing into the grey Soho afternoon like he was never there at all.
You sit there for a long moment, staring at the closed door. Then you look down at your manuscript. The page he read is still sitting on top, slightly crooked from when he moved it. You straighten it with your fingertips.
Your phone buzzes again. Not your editor this time. An Instagram notification.
harrystyles started following you.
You stare at it. Then you watch as a DM appears.
harrystyles: Found your competition.
There's a photo attached. A bookshop window somewhere in Amsterdam, you think, based to the architecture in the background. The display features a stack of romantasy novels with similar cover art to what you've been imagining for yours. Dragons and swords and women in flowing gowns.
You laugh out loud. The dog on the velvet chair lifts its head again, unimpressed.
You type back: That's not competition. Those are mass market paperbacks. I'm going hardback.
harrystyles: Hardback. Very fancy.
harrystyles: What time do you usually write?
you: Afternoons. Mornings if I'm desperate.
harrystyles: Are you desperate right now?
you: Always.
harrystyles: Good to know.
You put the phone down and try to focus on your manuscript. You really do. You pick up your green pen, reread the paragraph about the binding spell, and realize you've absorbed exactly nothing since he left. The words sit on the page but your brain keeps replaying the conversation instead.
His voice reading your line. The way he said "big feelings." His fingers on your manuscript page like he had every right to touch it.
You groan and drop your head onto the table. The couple next to you looks over again. You don't care.
This is ridiculous. You're a grown woman with a book deal and a deadline and a perfectly functional life. You don't get distracted by random men in cafés, even if those random men happen to be global pop stars with green eyes and annoyingly genuine questions about magic systems.
You lift your head, grab your pen, and force yourself through another three pages of notes. Sable's curse makes more sense now. You've clarified the rules around intention versus action and how the empathy threshold works. Small victories. You underline a line of dialogue that still feels wrong and make a note to rewrite it tomorrow.
Your phone buzzes again. You glance at it.
harrystyles: How's the desperate writing going?
You look at the clock on the wall. It's past six. You've been here for hours and the rain has finally slowed to a drizzle.
you: Less desperate now. More tired.
harrystyles: Tired enough to stop?
you: Probably should. I'm just rereading the same paragraph over and over.
harrystyles: Sign of a good stopping point.
you: Sign of a fried brain.
harrystyles: Same thing at this hour.
You pack up your things. Manuscript pages go in your bag in no particular order, which you'll regret tomorrow. Laptop gets shut without proper closing tabs, which you'll also regret. The cold latte stays on the table for the barista to collect.
You wave at her on your way out. She gives you a small nod and then glances at your phone, which you're already looking at again.
You walk home through the wet Soho streets, dodging umbrellas and puddles, phone in hand.
you: Thanks for the bookshop photo btw. Made me laugh.
harrystyles: That was the point.
harrystyles: What's your book called?
you: The Copper Crown. At least for now. Publisher might change it.
harrystyles: The Copper Crown. I like it. Sounds like a pub.
you: A pub.
harrystyles: A very distinguished pub. With ale.
you: You're giving notes on my title now?
harrystyles: Free of charge.
You're smiling at your phone like an idiot. A man walking past you on the pavement does a double take, probably thinking you're smiling at him. You look away fast.
At home, you throw your bag on the couch, kick off your shoes, and put the kettle on. Your flat is small but it's yours, a one-bedroom in Bloomsbury that you can barely afford because advances for debut novelists don't go very far in London. But the rent is paid and the bookshelves are full and there's a window that looks out at the roof of the building next door. It's not a view, but it's home.
Your phone buzzes on the counter.
harrystyles: Question.
you: Another one?
harrystyles: Different category this time.
you: What category?
harrystyles: The are-you-going-to-the-show category.
You look at the screen. Then you look at the fridge, where your Wembley ticket is stuck under a magnet. You bought it back in February, the day they went on sale. You sat on the website for forty minutes in the queue and ended up with a seat in the upper tier, back row, section 312. Not ideal, but you were just grateful to get in.
you: I'm going to Wembley, yeah.
harrystyles: Which night?
you: Opening night. June 12.
harrystyles: Where's your seat?
You hesitate. You could lie. You could be cool about this.
you: Upper tier. Back row. 312.
harrystyles: You're joking.
you: I am not joking. The queue was brutal. I was lucky to get anything.
harrystyles: Back row.
you: It's still a seat.
harrystyles: It's practically a different postcode.
You snort out loud in your empty kitchen.
you: It's FINE. I'll see the stage. The screens exist for a reason.
harrystyles: The screens.
you: The big glowing rectangles that show your face when you're far away? Very useful technology.
harrystyles: I'm not having you watch me on a screen from the back row of section 312.
you: You don't get a say in this.
harrystyles: I'm making it my say.
you: What does that mean?
harrystyles: It means I'm upgrading you.
You stare at your phone. The kettle boils. You don't move.
you: You're what?
harrystyles: Upgrading. Kiss pit. East side. You'll be close enough to see my guitar picks. Close enough to catch a plectrum if I throw one.
you: Harry.
harrystyles: That's my name.
you: You can't just upgrade my ticket.
harrystyles: Already did. Will-call. Your name. Just bring ID.
you: I'm serious. That's too much. I paid for my ticket. I can sit in 312. It's fine.
harrystyles: It's really not.
you: It IS. I've sat in worse seats at gigs. I saw Beyoncé from behind a pillar once. This is nothing.
harrystyles: You saw Beyoncé from behind a PILLAR?
you: See? I have perspective. Section 312 is a luxury compared to the pillar.
harrystyles: This is tragic. I'm fixing it.
you: You're being ridiculous.
harrystyles: I'm being generous. There's a difference.
you: Is there?
harrystyles: Rhetorical question won't work on me. I went to a café today and sat with a stranger for two hours asking about her cursed queen. I'm clearly not operating on normal logic.
You sit down on your kitchen floor. You don't know why. Your legs just decided. The tile is cold through your jeans. The kettle clicks off behind you.
you: I don't know what to say.
harrystyles: Say you'll come.
you: Of course I'll come. I had a ticket already.
harrystyles: Say you'll come to the Kiss pit.
you: Fine. I'll come to the Kiss pit.
harrystyles: Good.
harrystyles: Wear something you can dance in.
you: Is that a note?
harrystyles: It's a suggestion.
harrystyles: From someone who will be watching you watch him.
You lean your head back against the cabinet doors. Your ceiling has a crack running across it that your landlord keeps saying he'll fix. You've lived here for three years. The crack is still there. You focus on it because focusing on your phone screen feels like too much right now.
you: You're going to watch me?
harrystyles: I watched you today. Watching you work. That wasn't nothing.
you: Harry.
harrystyles: That's still my name.
you: This is weird.
harrystyles: A bit.
harrystyles: Good weird though.
You type and delete three different responses. Then you type another one and delete that too. Finally you just send the only thing that feels honest.
you: Yeah. Good weird.
harrystyles: Get some sleep. You've got edits tomorrow.
you: You've got a show in two days.
harrystyles: Details.
you: Important details.
harrystyles: I'll worry about that later. Right now I'm just thinking about the girl with the red pen.
You look at your hands. There's still ink on your fingertips from the pens. Green and blue smudged across your knuckles. You didn't notice until now.
you: Goodnight, Harry.
harrystyles: Goodnight.
A pause. Then one more message.
harrystyles: See you June 12.
You put the phone down on the counter. The screen goes dark. You sit on your kitchen floor for another long moment, staring at nothing, feeling everything. Then you get up, make your tea, and go to bed. You fall asleep with your phone on your chest, still smiling.
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Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖
Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader, established long-term relationship
POV: Harry, third person / Reader, second person
Setting: May 2026, London, Harry’s house in Hampstead
Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, emotional vulnerability, anxiety/self-doubt, public scrutiny, online hate, mentions of body/image commentary, fear of failure, soft reassurance
Summary: Harry has spent sixteen years being looked at, loved, interpreted, categorized, praised, mocked, desired, and turned into eras. Now, when he finally feels closer to himself than he maybe ever has, the public reaction makes him feel like the realest version of him is the one people want the least.
Morning comes into the room without asking for much. It doesn't arrive in a clean blade of sunlight or a sudden wash of gold, only in the slow grey spill of London through the curtains, softening the edges of furniture, turning the sheets the colour of milk, making the whole bedroom feel like it has been lifted out of time and set down somewhere quieter.
Outside, the world is beginning to stir in pieces. A car rolls over wet pavement somewhere beyond the garden wall. A bird starts up, stops, then starts again with more confidence. The house itself remains still, just you and the faint, familiar scent of him in the pillow beneath your head.
Harry is half on top of you. Not enough to be uncomfortable, never that. Just enough that his weight keeps you in place, one of his legs hooked lazily between yours, his arm folded around your middle beneath the duvet. His palm has found its way under the hem of your sleeping shirt during the night and rests flat against your stomach, warm and heavy, his fingers loose in deep sleep. He is facing you, though his face is mostly hidden. His forehead brushes your collarbone. His nose is tucked near the base of your throat. His hair, shorter now than your hands still sometimes expect, lies soft and mussed against the pillow. There are no curls falling wildly across his face, no long pieces for you to twist around your fingers, no rings pressing cold shapes into your skin when he holds you. Only him. Quiet, bare and unarranged.
You blink into the pale room and let yourself lie there for a while, not moving because he has not moved either, because mornings like this always feel borrowed once you remember what his life looks like outside the bedroom door. There is a suitcase open in the other room. You can’t see it from here, but you know it is there. Half-packed, half-ignored, full of white socks and folded shirts and the faint sense of another life waiting to begin. There are tour documents on the kitchen counter, a printed schedule on the desk downstairs, emails he keeps pretending not to check. His phone is on the nightstand, facedown and silent, as if the two of you have punished it into obedience.
For now, there is only this. The rise and fall of his breathing, the brush of his lips against your skin when he shifts, the lazy sweep of his thumb, barely awake, along the soft place just above your navel. You bring one hand up and touch his hair. Harry makes a small sound, not quite a hum, not quite a complaint either, and presses his face closer into you. “Morning,” you whisper. He answers with another sound that might be language if you loved him less. You smile into the dimness and scratch gently at the back of his head. His hand flexes against your stomach, then settles again.
“Very articulate.”
“Mm.” His voice is rough from sleep, low and warm where it meets your neck. “S’early.”
“You don’t even know what time it is.”
“Can feel it.”
“Can you?”
“Yeah.” His mouth curves against your skin. “Feels offensive.”
A laugh leaves you before you can stop it, soft enough not to disturb him. Harry shifts, one eye opening just enough to look up at you through his lashes. He looks younger like this, though you have always thought sleep takes something public away from his face. Not age exactly, not fame, but the alertness that fame has trained into him. In the morning, before the world gets a hand on him, he looks only like a man in your bed, warm and stubborn and unwilling to begin the day. You trace the shell of his ear with your fingertip. “Poor baby.”
“Don’t mock me,” he murmurs, but there is no force in it. “I’m very fragile before eight.”
“You’re fragile after eight too.”
That earns you the smallest bite to your collarbone, blunt and lazy, more affection than warning.
“Ow.”
“Deserved.”
You smile again and rest your hand against the side of his head, holding him there. For a few quiet minutes, neither of you speaks. The air gathers itself around your silence. The duvet is tangled around your legs. His skin is warm against yours, his breath slow again, and you let your eyes drift towards the curtains, where the morning light is brightening by degrees.
A week. The thought comes uninvited, slipping in softly because the suitcase is there and because the calendar has been moving too quickly and because mornings like this become more precious when you can already see the shape of their ending. You say it without thinking too much. “This time next week, you’ll be waking up in a hotel room.”
Harry’s thumb stops moving. The pause is so small that anyone else might miss it. Just a tiny interruption. A skipped note. But you feel it against your skin before your mind makes sense of it. His body remains close, but the quality of the closeness changes. He is no longer simply resting on you, he is holding on. You glance down and find his face still hidden. The room is still grey, nothing has moved except the air between you. “After your first show,” you add gently, hoping perhaps the first sentence landed strangely only because he is half asleep. “That’s wild, innit? It came around so fast.”
“Mm.”
The sound is careful. Not sleepy, not amused, absolutely not like him. You wait a second and his arm tightens around you. Your hand stills in his hair when you ask. “H?”
He doesn't answer right away, he shifts closer instead, tucking his face more securely into the warm dip between your neck and shoulder. It is such a familiar gesture that it almost slips past you as sweetness, but there is too much intention in it now, too much hiding. “You alright?” you ask further.
“Yeah.”
It comes too quickly. You look down at the crown of his head, at the softened line of his bare shoulder above the duvet. The word sits in the room, small and unconvincing. “You sure?”
“Yeah, love.” His voice has more shape this time, because he's actually trying. “Just waking up.”
You don't believe him. But you also know better than to reach into him too abruptly. Harry can be open with you in ways that still surprise him afterwards, but the first door is rarely the one he walks through. He circles, he jokes, he smooths things over with the easy, practiced grace of someone who learned very young that people prefer him charming to complicated. So you keep your hand moving. Slowly, you stroke over his hair, down to the nape of his neck, then back again. The silence stretches. Harry breathes in, long and quiet. His fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt. That's what does it for you. Not the hum or the word he did not mean. His hand. You know his hands. You know them animated in conversation, graceful around a mug, restless when he is thinking, gentle when he touches you. You know how he reaches for you when he wants comfort and how he reaches when he needs an anchor. This is the latter. There is a difference in the pressure, in the way his fingers make a small fist and release, as if he is reminding himself you are there. You turn your head and press a kiss to his hair. “Talk to me.”
He lets out a breath that moves over your collarbone. “Nothing to talk about.”
“That’s a lie.”
A faint, reluctant smile touches his mouth. You feel it more than see it. “Bit rude.”
“Bit true.”
He doesn't deny it and that worries you more than if he had. You slide your hand from his hair to the side of his neck, your thumb resting just beneath his jaw. “You went quiet.”
“M’allowed to be quiet.”
“You are.” You keep your voice soft. “But you went far away.”
Harry says nothing. You can feel the resistance in him, not against you, but against his own words. He has never liked being caught at the very beginning of hurt. Later, once he has named it, once it has been made manageable by language, he can talk. He can be thoughtful, honest, even painfully direct sometimes. But the first moments are always fragile. He treats them like they might embarrass him if he turns on the light too soon. You let the silence hold him for a little while. Then you ask, “Are you thinking about tour?”
His answer is barely audible. “Mm.”
“Are you worried?”
Another pause. Then, quieter: “A bit.”
The words are simple, but they change the atmosphere anyway. The room seems to draw closer around you, the bed turning into a small island in the centre of a life that too often belongs to everyone else. You roll carefully onto your side so you can face him better. He resists only for a second, then lets you move, though he refuses to give up the closeness. His hand stays under your shirt. His knee remains between yours. His face lowers again, this time near your chest. You look at him, at the line of his brow, at the closed eyes he is not sleeping behind. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
He swallows, you see that, see the motion travel through him while he decides. “Dunno.”
“That’s okay.”
“It’s not—” He stops, then shakes his head against the pillow. “It’s stupid.”
“No.”
“You don’t know what it is.”
“I know it’s yours.” Your fingers move lightly along his temple. “So it isn’t stupid.”
His mouth presses together. For a moment, he looks irritated, but not with you. With kindness, maybe. With how little room it gives him to be cruel to himself. “I should be better at it by now,” he eventually says.
“At what?”
He opens his eyes then. They are still heavy with sleep, but not soft anymore. There is a guardedness in them that does not belong in this bed. “Not listening.”
You say nothing, because he has found the beginning now, and you know the beginning needs somewhere to land. Harry looks away from you, past your shoulder towards the curtained window. “I know I shouldn’t look,” he says. “And I don’t, most of the time. Not properly. I’m not sat there scrolling my name at midnight like an idiot.”
Your mouth softens. He notices. “Well,” he mutters, “not often.”
That almost makes you smile, but there is too much hurt beneath it. He drags one hand out from under the duvet and rubs at his face. Without rings, without polish, without anything to distract from the nervousness in the gesture, his hand looks almost unfamiliar for a second. Plain, human, tired. “It gets back to me anyway,” he continues. “You know? Doesn’t matter if I don’t go looking. Someone mentions an article. Someone makes a joke. Team has to talk about ticket stuff. There’s always a headline, or a comment, or some clever little post with thousands of people agreeing.” He gives a short laugh. It has no humour in it. “And then suddenly I know.”
You watch him carefully now. “Know what?”
“What they’ve decided.” His eyes return to yours. There is a sharp kind of shame there, the sort that comes from admitting an injury you wish you were above. “That I’m washed. That nobody cares. That I look wrong now. That the album’s not what they wanted, that I’ve lost it, that I’m charging too much, that I’m not selling enough, that this is…” He pauses, jaw working once. “That this is my flop era.”
The phrase sounds ugly in his voice. Smaller than him, but still able to bruise. You've seen it, of course you have. Not because you seek it out for pleasure, but because the cruelty of strangers has a way of traveling. It arrives on screens, in group chats, beneath announcements, dressed up as concern or comedy or analysis. It becomes background noise until someone you love flinches and you remember noise can still wound.
Harry looks down between you. “God, saying that out loud is embarrassing.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
“It is, though.” His brows draw together. “I’m thirty-two, and I’m lying here upset because people don’t like my haircut.”
“No.” Your reply is immediate, firm enough that his eyes lift. “That’s not what this is.”
He looks like he wants to argue, but you don't let him. “You’re upset because people keep treating your body like public property and your growth like bad marketing.”
He goes very quiet, then blinks once, slowly, and some of the defensiveness leaves his face so quickly it hurts to watch. You soften your voice. “That’s different.”
For a while, he only looks at you. Then his gaze drops again, and the breath he lets out seems to empty him more than it should. “It’s all of it,” he says. “The hair, the clothes, the rings, the record, the shows. Every choice becomes evidence for someone’s argument. If I do one thing, it means I’m trying too hard. If I do another, it means I don’t care. If tickets don’t disappear in ten seconds, it’s a failure. If a song doesn’t do what people think it should, it’s proof. If I’m quieter, I’m miserable. If I’m not smiling the way they remember, I’ve changed too much.” He rubs his thumb against the sheet, catching at a loose thread. “And maybe I have.”
You let those words sit, because they aren't the problem, they are the truth. “Maybe you have,” you say.
His eyes flicker to yours. You lift one shoulder slightly against the pillow. “You’re allowed to.”
He looks away again, and the faintest crease appears between his brows. He's listening, but he's not ready to be comforted yet. “I feel like I’m failing people,” he admits.
The confession comes so quietly that the room almost keeps it. Your hand pauses against his cheek. It would be easy to rush in then, to tell him he's not failing, that everyone loves him, that the noise is wrong and cruel and temporary. All of that may be true in parts, but none of it would reach the place he is speaking from. So you don't argue with the wound. You move closer, until your forehead is near his. “I understand why it feels like that from where you’re standing.”
Harry looks at you, surprised. Hurt has made him younger again, but not in the soft morning way anymore. In the way a person looks when they've been bracing for a blow and receive gentleness instead. “You do?”
“I do.” Your thumb moves over his cheekbone, slow enough to give him time. “When the last thing was that big, anything after it probably feels like it’s being measured with the wrong instrument.”
His eyes remain fixed on yours. “You’re not agreeing with me,” he says, almost cautiously.
“No.”
“But you understand.”
“I’m trying to.”
He looks down, and you feel the shift in him again. Not relief exactly, but permission, the first loosening. Harry has always been wary of comfort that arrives too quickly. He can smile for it, thank people for it, let it pass over the surface. But he rarely believes reassurance that refuses to look directly at the fear first. You are looking, and so he keeps going. “Love On Tour was…” He exhales through his nose, searching for words. “It was mad. It was beautiful, obviously. I loved it. I loved all of it, even when I was exhausted and didn’t know what city I was in.” A small fondness crosses his face, then fades again. “It just kept getting bigger. Every leg. Every show. The signs, the boas, the noise. People made it into this whole world, and I got to live in the middle of it. I’m not ungrateful for that.”
“I know you’re not.”
“I don’t want it to sound like I am.”
“It doesn’t.”
His fingers find your wrist beneath the duvet, holding it loosely. “But it got so big that I think people forgot it was allowed to end.”
The sentence lands with a quiet force. You feel it in the space between you. The truth of it, and the grief behind it. Harry stares at your now joined hands. “Maybe I forgot too, a bit. Not really, but…” He shakes his head. “It’s hard when something becomes that loved. You start feeling responsible for keeping it alive, even after you’ve left it. And now this is different. The record’s different. I’m different. Or I feel different, anyway. I’m not trying to be difficult. I’m not trying to prove I’ve matured or whatever everyone wants to call it. I just—” He stops, and his voice lowers. “I made what I wanted to make.”
“I know.”
“I look how I want to look.”
“Yes.”
“I feel more myself than I have in years.” You watch the next thought arrive before he says it. It changes his face, opens it and wounds it all at once. “And it’s like that’s the problem.”
You can't answer immediately. Not because you don't have an answer, but because the words deserve the dignity of silence. He hasn't said he is afraid of criticism. He has said he is afraid the truest version of himself is the least wanted. You move your hand into his hair again, letting your fingers pass through the strands near his ear. He closes his eyes at the touch, but not in peace. More in the effort of holding himself together. “That must hurt so much,” you whisper.
His mouth trembles once before he presses it into a line. He laughs under his breath, quick and embarrassed. “Yeah,” he says. “It does.”
The admission breaks your heart more than any tears could have. He turns his face slightly into your palm. “I keep thinking about the people who say they miss me. Not just the shows or the old songs or the hair, but me. They say it like I’ve gone somewhere. Like I’ve ruined something they loved.” His voice is steady, but the steadiness is hard work. “And I know it’s not everyone. I know that. I’m not stupid. There are people excited. There are people who love the album. There are people coming to the shows, and I don’t want to make it sound like they don’t matter, because they do. They matter more than all the rest of it.” He takes a breath. “But the loudest voices make you feel like you’ve walked into a room and everyone’s disappointed before you’ve even opened your mouth.”
You slide your hand down to his jaw. “Harry.”
He gives you a faint look, tender and miserable. “What if I did this wrong?” he asks. “What if I was meant to understand something everyone else understood before me?”
“What?”
“That there are versions of me people like more.” He says it carefully, with an honesty that seems to cost him. “And maybe I was supposed to stay closer to those.”
Your eyes burn, but you keep your voice steady. He doesn't need your panic, he needs your presence. You reach for his hand and bring it between you, folding your fingers through his. His hand is warm. His nails catch faintly against your palm. No rings, no armor, no symbol for people to read more into it than it actually is. Just skin. “I think,” you begin slowly, “some people have gotten used to thinking of you in eras instead of as a person.”
Harry goes still. His eyes search your face. You continue before he can retreat into defending people from the truth of what they do. “And I understand why people attach memories to versions of you. I do. You’ve been in people’s lives for a long time. They grew up with you. They were teenagers with you, or they found you later when they needed a song or a show or a version of joy they could hold onto. That part is real, and it can be beautiful.” His gaze lowers, but he is still listening intently when you speak. “But it becomes unfair when they start treating those versions like things they’re entitled to keep.” You pause. “Long hair Harry,” you then say softly. “Frat boy Harry. Love On Tour Harry. The one with the rings, the one with the curls, the one in the glitter, the one waving pride flags. The one who made them feel a certain way at a certain time.” His face changes with every phrase, not dramatically, but enough. Recognition, discomfort, and a sadness too old for the morning.
“As if those weren’t moments you lived through,” you say. “As if you were a collectible and not a person changing because life kept happening to you too.”
He looks away. “I know they don’t mean it like that.”
“Maybe not.” You lean closer, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand. “But not meaning harm doesn’t mean it never hurts.”
That quiets him. Outside, the world continues without permission. Another car passes, pipes click faintly somewhere in the house. Ordinary sounds, indifferent to the fact that Harry is lying beside you with his hurt exposed. You hate that there are people who will never see him like this and still speak as if they know the full measure of him. You hate that his humanity has so often had to compete with his image. You hate, most of all, that some part of him still wonders whether being loved is something he can lose by changing too honestly.
“You’re allowed to grow out of shapes people loved you in,” you say, and his eyelids lower. You give him the words slowly, making sure they reach him. “You’re allowed to have life experiences. You’re allowed to change your mind. You’re allowed to make music that sounds different because you feel different. You’re allowed to cut your hair and take off your rings and be quieter in public and not explain every choice like your body and your art are a group project.” His lips twitch faintly at that, and you are grateful for the tiny break in the ache before you continue. “You don’t have to please anyone else more than you can live with yourself.”
“That’s hard,” he says.
“I know.”
“I’m not good at that.”
“You’re better than you think.”
He gives you a look, you correct yourself. “You’re learning.”
That, he accepts. His thumb moves once over yours. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful,” he says again, but this time the words are smaller, closer to the true fear beneath them. “People have given me everything.”
“They have loved you,” you say. “That isn’t the same as owning you.”
His face folds then, not fully, not into tears yet, but into a tiredness that looks almost like surrender. “I know,” he whispers.
“Do you?”
He doesn't answer. You move closer until his forehead touches yours. “H.”
His breath stutters once and you brush beneath his eye with your thumb before any tear has the chance to fall, not wiping anything away so much as telling him you won't look away if it does. Harry turns into you then, not with the sleepy affection from earlier and not with the anxious clutching either. He folds forward, carefully at first, as if asking permission without words, and you give it before he can doubt. You draw him against your chest, one arm around his shoulders, the other hand returning to his hair. His face presses into the soft cotton of your shirt, his hand finds your waist again, but this time there is less performance in the grip, less apology, he simply holds.
He breathes in unsteadily. “What if I grow into someone they don’t love?” he asks. He looks ashamed of the question the moment it leaves him, but you are glad it is out, glad it is no longer living alone in his body, feeding on silence.
Your hand cups the side of his face. “Then the people who only loved you when you were easy for them to recognize were loving a picture,” you claim. “Not you.” He closes his eyes at that. “And I’m not saying that doesn’t hurt. It does. Of course it does. But it doesn’t mean you go back and make yourself smaller inside an old frame.”
For a while, he says nothing. You feel the effort he makes to stay composed. Not because he thinks you will judge him, but because composure is an old habit in him, older than your relationship, older than this version of his life. He has been watched since he was sixteen. He learned early that feelings could become headlines, that exhaustion could be called arrogance, that every public crack might be photographed and given a meaning he never chose. Even here, in bed, loved and unobserved, some part of him still tries to be neat with pain. You press your lips to his hair. “You don’t have to make it pretty for me,” you whisper, and that is enough for him. Not dramatically, he doesn't sob, he doesn't fall apart in the way films like to make people fall apart. He simply lets go of one careful breath, and then another, and then his body trembles once against yours as if something long-held has finally been set down. Your hand keeps moving through his hair. “I’ve got you,” you mumble softly.
“The album?”
He nods against you, but the motion is barely there. You stare at the ceiling above him, at the pale morning light that has strengthened while the two of you have been speaking. The room is clearer now. You can make out the chair in the corner with yesterday’s jumper thrown over it, the book on your side of the bed, the dark square of his phone still lying facedown. A whole world inside that little rectangle. A world that gets to be loud but not present. A world that doesn't know the warmth of his cheek through your shirt or the way his hand has twisted into the duvet because he doesn't want to ask for more comfort than you're already giving. You hold him tighter anyway.
After a while, he speaks into your shirt, voice muffled. “It would be easier if I hated it.”
He nods. You wait. “All of it,” he says. “The record, the look, the way things feel now. It would be easier if I could say everyone was right and I’d made some awful mistake. Then at least I could fix it.” His fingers relax and tighten again at your waist. “But I don’t feel that. I love the record. I wanted it to sound like that. I wanted it to feel a bit odd and different and not polished in the way people expected. I wanted the shows to feel different. I wanted…” He stops, and when he speaks again, his voice is thinner. “I wanted to stop chasing the last version of myself.”
Your eyes close for a second. “And now?”
“Now I’m scared people preferred him.”
You let your cheek rest against the top of his head. “Maybe some did.”
He becomes very still. You continue, knowing he needs truth more than comfort dressed as denial. “Some people probably did prefer a version of you that lived at a distance from whatever they didn’t want to understand. Some people prefer memories to people. Memories don’t ask anything of them. Memories don’t change.” Harry’s breath warms the fabric over your ribs. “But you’re not a memory,” you say. “You’re here.” His hand spreads over your side, as if testing the fact of himself still in the bed. “You’re here,” you repeat, “and you don’t have to paint yourself back into old lines because people liked the colours better before.”
Harry lifts his head slowly. His eyes are wet now, still not in a dramatic way. Just enough to make the green of them clearer, enough that the sight reaches into you and twists the knife. He looks embarrassed, but you don't let him apologize. Instead, you reach up and touch the corner of his eye with your thumb, gentle and matter-of-fact. He leans into it despite himself. “Don’t,” he says, but there is no real protest in it.
“Don’t what?”
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you love me.”
You smile faintly. “Terrible thing for your girlfriend to do.”
His mouth moves into the smallest answering smile, but it doesn't last. The sadness is still there, resting under his features. “I don’t know how to be above it,” he whispers.
“You don’t have to be above it.”
“I should.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve been doing this long enough.”
He looks down. “Bit dramatic.”
“That’s not how being human works.”
He looks at you for a long moment, and you can almost see him resisting the sentence because it is too simple and too true.
“You can get used to the machine,” you continue. “That doesn’t mean you stop bleeding when it catches you.”
“It’s accurate.”
“Mm.” A weak smile. “Still a little dramatic.”
“Fine. You can get used to bad weather. Doesn’t mean you never get cold.”
“That’s better.”
“Thank you for approving my metaphor.”
“Anytime.”
He exhales. “Love.”
The humour is small, but it changes the atmosphere. Not enough to lift the weight, but enough to remind both of you there is still ordinary love beneath it. The kind that can tease while holding a wound. The kind that lets pain exist without making the whole room bow to it. Harry settles back down, not fully hiding this time. His cheek rests against your upper chest, his eyes open and unfocused. You continue touching his hair, the movement steady and slow. After a minute, you ask him, “Do you remember after the band, when you chose to play smaller venues?”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are.” His voice carries a hint of warning, but a fond one. “That was different.”
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it, and you wait. His brows knit together. “Because I was starting over.”
“And now?”
He says nothing. You let the question stay. The first solo tour has always meant something to you too, maybe because of what it revealed about him before you knew him well enough to have mornings like this. The choice not to leap immediately into the biggest spaces available. The willingness to stand in rooms where faces were visible, where the exchange between him and the audience could breathe. It had never looked like fear to you, it had looked like instinct. Like a man returning to the point before letting the world make it complicated.
“You could have tried to prove something then,” you say. “You could have chased the biggest venues straight away just to show everyone you could. But you didn’t. You chose rooms where you could see people.” He listens, quiet. “You chose connection. And I know this isn’t the same. I know the pressure is different now, and the world is louder, and everything gets compared to everything now. But the part that matters hasn’t changed.” Harry’s hand finds yours again, “You don’t perform to a headline,” you say. “You don’t perform to a chart position. You don’t perform to some person online who decided they could measure your worth by how quickly a seat disappears from a map. You perform to people.” A faint breath leaves him at that.
The words seem to reach him physically. You see it in the way his face changes, in the small release of his jaw, in the way his shoulders settle by a fraction against the mattress. “They’re not numbers, H,” you add, softer now. “They’re people. And they deserve you present. Not apologizing.”
“The ones who come,” you continue. “The ones who bought tickets because they wanted to be there. The ones who saved up, who booked trains, who planned outfits, who are probably already nervous about what song you’ll open with. The ones who will stand in those venues and look at you like the night matters because it does.” He looks at you now, really looks. Your voice grows firmer, though you keep it gentle. “If there are a thousand people, sing to the thousand. If there are ten thousand, sing to the ten thousand. If there are a hundred thousand, sing to the hundred thousand. But don’t stand in front of people who came to love you and spend the whole night grieving the people who didn’t.”
He is quiet for so long that you wonder if you have said too much. Then he whispers, “I know.”
This time, it sounds as though he might. You stroke your thumb over his knuckles. “You love performing.”
He nods once.
“You love connecting with them.”
Another nod.
“You love taking a room and making it feel less lonely.” His gaze drops, not from shame this time, but from being seen too directly. “That’s what you do,” you tell him. “Not because every seat is full. Not because everyone agrees you’re successful. Because you mean it when you’re there.”
Harry breathes in, slower than before. “What if it isn’t enough?”
You know what he means. Enough to silence the noise, enough to prove the era is not a failure, enough to make everyone understand that he's not lost, only changed. But you answer the question he needs answered, not the one fame has taught him to ask. “Then make it honest. Honest is enough.”
A quiet line forms between his brows. “Doesn’t always feel like it.”
“No,” you agree. “It probably won’t. Not every night. There’ll be days where you check too much or hear too much or wonder if they’re right. And then you’ll go onstage anyway. You’ll go onstage, and you’ll remember the people in front of you are real. You’ll remember you’re real too.”
The words settle. Harry looks towards the window, where the grey has brightened into morning proper. The day is beginning now, whether either of you wants it or not. But he doesn't seem as far away as before. After a moment, you ask, “Do you remember what you said to Zane once?”
A pained little groan leaves him. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Don’t quote me at me.”
“I’m going to quote you at you.”
“That’s cruel.”
“It’s necessary.”
He turns his face partly into the pillow, but you can see the reluctant warmth at the edge of his expression. “Go on, then.”
“You said that if you love what you’re doing, nobody can tell you you’re not successful.”
He keeps his face hidden for another second. Then, muffled, “Very annoying of me.”
“Deeply.”
“Bit smug.”
“Wise, unfortunately.”
He huffs, almost a laugh. You nudge him gently until he looks back at you. “Do you love the record?”
His humour fades, but not all the way. He holds your gaze. “Yes.” No hesitation.
“Do you love being on stage?”
His answer comes softer. “You know I do.”
“I want you to say it.”
He looks at you for a long moment. Then, with more steadiness, “I love being on stage.”
You nod. “Do you want to sing these songs?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe in them?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want the people in those venues to feel like you’re giving them the truth?”
His eyes don't leave yours. “Yeah,” he nods. “I do.”
You let the answer rest between you. “Then that’s what you hold onto.”
“I know.”
Harry is quiet. His thumb moves over the inside of your wrist, slow and absent, as if he is soothing himself through the contact. “What I said then,” he murmurs eventually. “I meant it.”
“I think I forgot how hard it is to live by.”
“That doesn’t make it less true.”
His mouth presses into a thoughtful line. You watch him take it in, not all at once, not as a miraculous cure, but in the slow way truth sometimes enters a person who has been too hurt to welcome it. He's still tired, still tender in the places the world has touched too roughly. But he's no longer speaking from the very bottom of the fear. You can feel the shift. It's not confidence, exactly, but return.
“Tell me one thing you know.”
He looks wary. “What?”
“One thing you know. Not what they’re saying. Not what you’re afraid of. Just something true.”
He considers you with suspicion. “Is this one of those grounding things?”
“Maybe.”
“Mm. Sneaky.”
“Answer.”
He looks away, towards the window, then back at you and his eyes soften. He looks down at your hand in his, at the way your fingers are tangled beneath the duvet. When he speaks again, the words come slowly, chosen with care. “The people who come deserve all of me,” he says. “Not the scared version trying to apologize before I’ve even walked on.”
He swallows, then nods once. His eyes close when you kiss his forehead. You let your mouth linger there, against warm skin and sleep. When you pull back, his hand comes up to your face, palm resting gently against your cheek. “Thank you,” he says.
You don't speak for a second. Because there he is. Not fixed and not invulnerable and not above the noise, but there. You smile, and this time he doesn't tell you to stop looking at him like you love him. “That’s the one,” you whisper.
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
He gives you a look. “I want to.”
That quiets you. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, though you are not sure whether he is wiping away anything or simply returning the tenderness because he doesn't know where else to put it. “Sorry,” he murmurs.
This time you give him a look. “Don’t.”
“Didn’t mean to make the morning heavy.”
“Still heavy.”
“You didn’t.”
He raises his brow slightly at that.
“You didn’t,” you insist. “You made it honest.”
“A bit,” you allow.
His mouth curves faintly. “Bit much for half seven.”
“You’re very fragile before eight, remember?”
A real smile flickers then, tired but present. “Was hoping you’d forgotten that.”
“Never.”
“Cruel woman.”
“Devoted woman.”
“Mm.” His eyes move over your face, and the softness there is almost too much. “That too.”
For a moment, you stay exactly where you are. The sun warms the air around you by slow degrees. His phone remains facedown, stripped of power by neglect. The suitcase in the other room still waits. The tour still waits. The first city, the first hotel room, the first stage, the first wave of noise after silence — all of it is still coming. None of what you've said has changed that. People will still talk, they will still compare, they will still mourn versions of him that were never theirs to keep. There will still be headlines written by people who know his numbers better than his hands, strangers who can turn a haircut into evidence and an album into a verdict, fans who love him beautifully and fans who forget he is human when the screen makes him small enough to hold.
But for now, he's not out there. He's in bed in Hampstead, bare and warm, his leg tangled with yours, his hand beneath the duvet, his breath finally evening out again. For now, the world does not get a vote.
You shift to get up, because morning cannot be held off forever and coffee is beginning to feel less like a luxury than a requirement, but Harry reacts immediately and his arm tightens around your waist. “Where are you going?”
“To make coffee.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Compelling argument.”
“Stay.”
The word is simple. Not desperate now, soft. You look down at him. “For how long?”
He considers this with exaggerated seriousness, then pulls you closer until your body meets his fully beneath the sheets. “Until tour.”
You laugh, and the sound seems to please him. He tucks his face back into your neck, but this time he's not hiding. His mouth brushes your skin in a slow, absent kiss.
“That might cause some logistical issues.”
“They’ll manage.”
“You have rehearsals.”
“Cancelled.”
“You have fittings.”
“Cancelled.”
“You have an entire tour starting in a week.”
He groans. “Why are you so committed to reality?”
“Someone has to be.”
“Overrated.”
You smile into his hair and let him keep you. Your hand slides over his back, feeling the warm line of him beneath your palm. He relaxes step by step, no longer braced against an invisible audience, no longer trying to prove he has earned the comfort he is receiving. Minutes pass, maybe more than minutes, you lose count. Eventually, he says, “You really think it’ll be alright?”
You don't answer too quickly. “I think some of it will be hard,” you reply honestly. “I think some of it will hurt when it shouldn’t. I think some nights will be better than others. I think you’ll forget everything we said at least twice and need me to remind you.”
He lifts his head just enough to look at you. “You’re very sure.”
A faint huff of laughter warms your neck.
“And I think,” you continue, softer now, “that when you walk out there and sing what you actually wanted to make, the people who are meant to understand will understand. And the people who don’t will still not get to decide whether it mattered.”
“Of you?”
“Yeah.”
You cup his face. “Always.”
His eyes close for a second, and he lets the word enter him without trying to make a joke of it. When he opens them again, they are calmer, not untouched, not free of everything waiting beyond the bed, but calmer. “You are not an era,” you say quietly. “You’re a person,” you add. “A very annoying person before eight in the morning, but a person.”
His lips part, and for a moment you think he might cry again. Instead, he laughs once, soft and disbelieving, and leans forward until his forehead rests against yours again. “Love you,” he whispers.
“I love you too.”
He kisses you then, not with heat or urgency, but with the slow gratitude of someone returning from a long distance. His mouth is warm and his hand moves to the back of your neck. The kiss tastes faintly of sleep and salt and morning, and when he pulls away, he doesn't go far.
A week from now, he will wake in another bed, in another city, with a stage waiting somewhere beyond the curtains and a world full of people ready to decide what it means. There will be lights and noise and empty spaces people will count if they can find them. Full spaces people will forget to honour because criticism travels faster than gratitude. There will be songs he made because they felt true, and people who came because truth still matters, even when the world tries to turn it into a number. A week from now, he will have to remember.
But this morning, he is here. Warm and quiet and human in your arms.
He is not an era.
He is not a number.
He is not a version of himself someone else gets to keep unchanged so loving him stays easy.
after your bf harry has been away on tour, picking him up from the airport is nothing short of ridiculously emotional and even more ridiculously needed.
based on -> this request. happy bday!
CW: none, fluff! wrote this with an age gap in mind, but doesn’t explicitly mention a gap.
likes/reblogs sooo appreciated!
WC: 3.7k
The arrivals terminal was too bright for midnight.
Everything in the airport felt over polished and sterile under the fluorescent lights, from the glossy tile floors to the giant digital screens flickering with delayed flights and gate changes.
People dragged suitcases past you in exhausted waves while overhead announcements echoed every thirty seconds, but none of it really registered anymore.
Not after the text Harry had sent an hour ago.
Landed. Customs is taking forever. Need to see you.
You’d read it so many times the words practically glowed into the back of your eyelids.
Your fingers curled tighter around the sleeve of your hoodie as you stood near the barrier outside international arrivals, bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet despite how late it was.
The sweatshirt you were wearing technically belonged to Harry, soft gray fabric with worn cuffs and a faded logo across the chest, but it was basically yours at this point. You can't even remember the last time it was in his closet.
It’s been two and a half months.
Two and a half entire months of tour dates scattered across cities. Months of FaceTimes with terrible hotel lighting. Months of waking up in your apartment and instinctively reaching for him before remembering he was somewhere twelve time zones away.
You’d survived it, barely, but the loneliness had settled into strange places while he was gone. Into grocery shopping alone, cold sheets, brushing your teeth at night without someone standing beside you making stupid comments just to annoy you. Into silence.
And now he was finally home.
For a bit anyway, before he would be back off on another plane.
You checked the arrivals doors for what had to be the hundredth time, your stomach twisting harder every few seconds. You’d spent nearly the entire drive to the airport convincing yourself not to cry when you saw him, because Harry already teases you relentlessly for being so emotional. But the closer it got to him actually walking through those doors, the more impossible that promise felt.
You were always an overly emotional girl. One of those people who cried at intense songs or at the view of a large gathering of people. A wedding or a graduation hates to see you coming, but he found it endearing.
A family near you erupted into cheers when someone appeared from customs.
Not him.
You exhaled slowly, desperately trying to calm the nerves in your chest and appear somewhat normal from the outside.
Then your phone buzzed again.
Took more than five decades. See you in literally 30 seconds.
Your heart nearly stopped.
You looked up immediately, eyes darting across the crowd moving through the sliding doors, and then—
There he was.
Everything inside you went soft all at once. He looked exhausted in the most beautiful way possible, curls shoved beneath a navy beanie and headphones hanging around his neck. He wore loose gray sweats and a black hoodie beneath a long coat, one hand dragging a suitcase behind him while the other adjusted the strap of a duffel bag on his shoulder. Even from across the terminal, you could see the tiredness sitting beneath his eyes.
But you could also see the second he spotted you.
His entire face changed. It happened instantly, like something warm cracked through the exhaustion. His shoulders loosened. His mouth spread into that devastating smile you’d spent months missing through a phone screen.
“There she is,” he said, already laughing softly because you were halfway to him before he even finished the sentence.
You collided with him hard enough to make him stumble back a step. He barely had time to let go of his suitcase before your arms wrapped around his neck and he immediately circled your waist, pulling you flush against him with a noise that could only be recognized as relief.
“Harry,” you breathed into his shoulder.
“Hi, baby.”
His voice came out rough and sleepy and smiling all at once.
You buried your face deeper into his neck instantly, inhaling him like you hadn’t breathed properly in months. And really, with your nose soaking in his scent, you feel like you really haven’t.
Cologne. Vanilla. Woods. His laundry detergent. That natural musk that rose off of his skin. Airplane air. Harry. The familiar weight of him surrounding you had your knees weak.
He laughed quietly when you refused to let go, rubbing the palm of his hand up and down your back in soft soothing motions.
“Missed me a little?” he murmured against your hair.
You pulled back just enough to bask up at him through watery eyes, “You’ve been gone for a geological era.”
“A geological era,” he repeated solemnly, pressing his lips together in an amused grin and a slow nod of his head.
“Yes.”
“That sounds serious.”
“It was serious. I had to like…actually get up and make myself breakfasts.”
His grin widened and his dimple pressed inward, “Poor thing.”
You smacked his chest lightly before immediately clinging to him again, and he let out this warm, tired sound that almost melted you into the airport floor.
Like you were anywhere else to begin with.
As ridiculous as it sounded, life without Harry really was an impossible task. You’d gotten used to his luxuries. The way he’d bring you breakfast and tea every morning. In bed. The way he’d buy you a top if it made him think of you, so you’d never really have to think too hard about your outfits. Even down to to the way he’d run your showers for you to make sure it was the perfect temperature.
You stayed mid-embrace for longer than you probably should have, tangled together in the middle of the terminal while strangers pushed carts around you, but neither of you seemed capable of caring.
Harry eventually pulled back just enough to hold your face in both hands.
“You’re so pretty,” he said immediately, smiling wide and squeezing your left cheek softly.
You huffed out a laugh, “You just got off of a fourteen hour flight.”
“And?”
You gesture down to your overworn sweat set and the lack of makeup on your face.
“You’re hallucinating.”
“Nope,” His thumbs brushed beneath your eyes gently. “Definitely my girlfriend. Pretty.”
You leaned up to kiss him before you could think too hard about it, and Harry sighed into it instantly like he’d been waiting months for exactly that.
The kiss was slow and sleepy and a little desperate around the edges. But not too the point of disturbing others. More in the way of the sort of passionate reunion kiss that has strangers awwing as they pass.
When you pulled apart, he rested his forehead against yours with a small groan.
“I missed this so bad.”
Your chest physically ached.
“I know.”
“No, genuinely,” He blinked at you lazily, “Started thinking I was entering psychological warfare by that last week.”
You laughed, brushing your thumb along the stubble lining his jaw, “Tour that horrible?”
“Tour was lovely,” His eyes stayed fixed on your mouth. “Being away from you was more than horrible.”
That did absolutely nothing to help the tears threatening again.
Harry noticed immediately. The teasing laugh that slipped through is what let you know.
“Don’t start,” he warned affectionately, pinching your cheek again lightly, “No crying in customs.”
“I’m not crying.”
“You’re doing the face.”
“What face?”
“The face where your eyes go all shiny and you pretend you’re fine.”
You sniffed once.
Harry burst out laughing, his throat bobbing in that peaceful way where he didn’t have to think too much about his laughter. Like he just let it flow in the way it needed to, and didn’t feel like it had to sound a certain way to the person receiving it.
Then he kissed your forehead and tucked you back against his chest before you could become genuinely emotional about it.
“Alright,” he murmured, “Need you to help me survive the next hour.”
“What next hour?”
You genuinely did forget that you couldn’t just teleport home after this. To the comfort of your bed and to the embrace of his big arms around you.
“Need my luggage. Need to get home. Need to shower because I currently feel and smell like recycled airplane pretzels.”
“You smell so good.”
“Baby, I’ve crossed six time zones.”
“You still smell like something I wish I could swallow.”
Harry looked down at you, amused already. A tired grin spread across his face then, softer this time. The kind that made him look almost boyish despite the exhaustion sitting beneath his eyes.
“Missed you,” he murmured.
Before you could respond, he grabbed your face and started pressing kisses everywhere he could reach. Your forehead. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth. The bridge of your nose. The space beneath your earlobe. Another against your other cheek while you immediately broke into laughter, squirming in his grip.
“Harry—”
“Hm?”
He kissed the tip of your nose.
You laughed harder, trying weakly to push him away while he only tightened his hold on your waist.
“Harry,” you start through your giggling, “C’mon, TMZ’s gonna get us for harassing innocent airport guests with excessive PDA.”
Harry snorted softly against your cheek.
“Yeah,” he said, nodding seriously, “Couple spotted being deeply annoying in terminal three.”
“A real public disturbance.”
“Tragic stuff.”
You were still smiling when he finally let you breathe again. Staring up at him with flushed cheeks and a gleam in your eye that only sparks from one thing. Him. Here. Real and in front of you.
“C’mon,” he said, reaching for his suitcase.
You nodded, taking a deep breath to calm the remains of your giggling fit before walking towards the exits.
Then, as he stepped behind you, his hand landed once against your butt in a quick playful smack.
You gasped dramatically, turning around to hit his arm as a loud laugh snuck its way up his stomach and through his throat.
“Hey!”
“What?” he asked, far too innocent, shrugging as looks around playfully.
“Now we’re definitely knee deep in another scandal.”
“For what?”
“Public misconduct. Maybe workplace harassment.”
Harry laughed harder at that, shoulders shaking with it and his tired eyes crinkling into a soft smile.
“You’re insane,” he said.
“You really can’t even act like it might not happen.”
“Mhm.”
Still smiling, he slid an arm around your shoulders and tugged you into his side as the two of you headed toward the parking garage. Your feet took calm strides through the bright airport, chatting quietly as you walked in unity.
The drive home felt long in the nicest way.
Harry insisted on driving despite looking completely exhausted, waving you off every time you offered with a sleepy little Missed my car, like that explained everything.
By the time you reached the highway, one hand was loose on the wheel while the other stayed tangled with yours in your lap, like he couldn’t quite stop touching you now that he finally could again.
And once you started talking, you pretty much didn’t stop.
You spent the entire ride catching him up on everything he missed while he was gone—the neighbor downstairs learning guitar after a breakup, the café near your apartment changing their menu for the worse, the plant you accidentally killed despite ‘doing literally everything right.’
Harry just listened quietly beside you, smiling every few minutes when your voice got animated.
“You burned pasta?” he asked at one point, glancing over at you in disbelief.
“It was one time. And it was a bunch of bullshit too. I followed all of the directions and the whole building evacuated because of the alarm.”
“Pasta barely requires effort, baby.”
“I was distracted.”
“By what?”
You looked at him flatly, “The unbearable grief of missing my boyfriend.”
That earned you a tired laugh.
“Ah, an important detail,” he murmured, bringing your joined hands up to kiss your knuckles at a red light.
And despite how exhausted he clearly was, he still kept reaching for you constantly without even thinking about it. A hand settling on your thigh for a few minutes before returning to the wheel. His thumb rubbing over your knuckles while you talked.
Little glances in your direction every so often, like he was still reassuring himself you were actually there beside him again instead of halfway across the world.
After about an hour drive, the apartment door clicked shut behind you with a finality that didn’t feel real yet.
Harry stood there for a second with his suitcase still in hand, shoulders slightly hunched from travel fatigue, like his body had completely forgotten what it felt like to not move.
Then he exhaled, long and drawn out as if it was the first breath he’d taken all day.
“Home,” he said quietly.
You just went straight to him, wrapping your arms around his middle and pressing your face into his hoodie without a second thought. Harry let out a soft laugh at your quick return and held you back just as easily, one hand sliding up into your hair.
“I missed you,” you said simply, “Missed you in here. With me.”
“I know,” he replied, voice softer now, “Me too.”
You stayed there for a moment, just breathing him in, like your body was trying to make up for lost time all at once.
Then, inevitably, your brain caught up.
“So,” you said into his chest, “when I made the fire alarm go off from the pasta, everyone had to stand outside in pajamas and someone brought a folding chair.”
Harry paused.
“…a folding chair?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
He let out a quiet laugh, head tipping back slightly. “That's an impressive commitment to comfort.”
“I thought it was insane.”
“That’s just efficiency,” he corrected.
You pulled back just enough to look up at him, “You’re taking their side?”
“I’m appreciating innovation,” he said, completely serious.
You squinted at him, “I don’t like that you’re already defending the random strangers in my life.”
Harry smiled, tired and lazy, “I’ve been gone too long. I’ve gone soft.”
“Clearly.”
He squeezed your waist once before letting you go just enough to step away, “I’m gonna shower.”
“Okay,” you said immediately, nodding softly and letting a yawn escape through you. You were way more tired than you realized.
And then, just as immediately, you followed him down the hallway. Not leaving too much space between the two of you, because how could you?
Harry glanced back over his shoulder, “You coming in?”
“I have more stories.”
He huffed a quiet laugh and opened the bathroom door. The steam started building almost instantly when he turned the water on, too hot for his own good but you knew he needed it to decompress.
You perched yourself on the bathroom counter like it was your designated spot, swinging your feet slightly while he stripped the clothes on his back.
“So,” you continued, “there’s a guy at my gym who brings a full speaker and plays motivational speeches at max volume.”
Harry froze for half a second, “No.”
“Yes.”
He turned the water hotter and stepped under it, letting it run over his shoulders as he shook his head slowly. “That’s…too aggressive to count as self improvement.”
“I know.”
You watched him through the slit of the curtain as he tilted his head back under the spray, eyes closing for a second like he was trying to reset his entire nervous system.
And still, he was listening. Always listening.
“So anyway,” you added, “my coworker tried to ‘optimize’ the break room schedule like it was a life changing decision. Shit has gone off the rails.”
Harry lifted his head slightly under the water.
“What does that even mean?” he called out, voice slightly muffled through the patter of water but still loud enough for you to hear.
“She made a chart.”
“A chart.”
“Yes. Like who can use the microwave and when.”
Harry laughed, the sound low and tired, “That’s insane. I like her.”
“You would.”
He leaned forward, grabbing shampoo, and you kept talking like there wasn’t a shower curtain between you at all.
“And then—”
Harry suddenly leaned out from behind the curtain, just his head appearing, curls dripping water onto his forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he said, blinking at you, “A microwave schedule?”
“Yes.”
He stared at you for a second longer, like he was processing if this was something he wanted to agree with or not.
Then shook his head slowly, “No, she did not do that.”
“She did.”
“That’s actually sort of impressive. Maybe she just needs the structure. One of you had to have tipped her over the edge.”
You pointed at him, “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Taking their side.”
Harry grinned and disappeared back under the water. You huffed, kicking your feet lightly against the cabinet, but you were smiling too.
A few minutes later, he poked his head out again.
“Did you eat properly while I was gone?” he asked suddenly.
You blinked. “Yes?”
He narrowed his eyes like he didn’t believe you, “That was too quick.”
“I did.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not!”
He slipped his head back inside of the shower, shaking it slightly as he pressed body wash into his arms, “You survived on snacks and fun drinks, didn’t you.”
“I did not survive on drinks.”
Harry’s laugh came softer this time, every passing minute exhausting him further, “sure.”
You kept talking anyway. Because of course you did. Because he could never complain, and really had nothing to complain about. This is right where he wanted to be. You. Him. Talking about nothing but everything all at once.
By the time he finally turned the water off, your legs were swinging a little slower. The bathroom filled with steam and quiet for a moment before the curtain moved again.
Harry stepped out barefoot, towel slung loosely around his waist, hair dark and messy, water still clinging to his collarbone.
He looked at you instantly. Like he always did.
“Food?” he announced, careful like he was worried you wouldn’t agree.
“Obviously,” you shrug and hop down from the counter.
He wandered into the kitchen while you followed, still talking without pause. His yawns were long and his eyes hung low, a hand coming to run through his wet curls every now and then just to bring him back to life.
“You’ve missed a lot,” you said.
“I can tell,” he replied, opening the fridge and immediately sighing at its contents.
You laughed and climbed back onto the counter while he started making something simple—toast, something easy, so he didn’t have to think about it. He moved around the kitchen slowly, still tired, but more present now since food was in the picture.
You kept talking while he worked.
About the elevator in your building that now made a different noise on every floor. You told him you thought it was a secret code that signaled something to the employees. About how your phone’s autocorrect had started replacing normal words with completely unrelated ones. About how you’d accidentally joined a group chat that had nothing to do with you and now you were too scared to leave it.
Harry listened to all of it like it mattered. Every so often, he’d glance up at you with this quiet expression like he still couldn’t fully believe you were there in front of him and not somewhere far away.
At one point, he paused mid-bite.
“You’re in a random group chat?”
“Yes.”
“How do you even manage that?”
“I tapped one wrong thing.”
He shook his head, smiling into his food, “That sounds about right.”
He was sat low on a chair, staring up at you as you sat on the counter high above him.
You nudged his shoulder lightly with your foot. “You’re not even surprised anymore.”
“I am,” he said honestly, “Just not shocked.”
That made you smile down at your hands. Eventually, he finished eating and set everything in the sink, then immediately stepped back toward you like it was instinct.
One hand rested lightly on your calf as he sat between your swinging legs, still talking, voice softer now. The apartment felt quieter in general. More like calm.
Harry leaned his head briefly against your knee like he was stealing a second of rest, eyes half lidded and his breath long.
“You done?” you asked gently, not wanting to overexhaust him further than he was already.
“No,” he said without thinking.
You smiled, threading a hand through his hair as it rested against your hanging legs, “You look done.”
“I’m getting there.” He straightened slightly, then just stayed there, close enough that you could still reach him easily.
And you did.
Your fingers slid into his damp curls again and again, slow and absent in the way you always touched him when things were quiet.
Harry exhaled softly at the feeling.
“Missed that,” he murmured.
“This?” you asked, referring to your hand rubbing against his scalp.
“Everything.”
Your chest swarmed in a warmth that really only made itself known when he was there. You felt full. Like a piece of you had been missing for ages too long and it’s finally been replaced in something greater.
He finally nudged your leg lightly, “C’mon.”
You slid off the counter without protest this time and waited for him to start to move. He guided you down the hall with an easy hand at your waist, passing by the dirty dish which you both silently agreed to take care of tomorrow.
And when you finally reached the bed, neither of you spoke much at all. Just climbed in. Cozied up. Harry on his back, you immediately curling into his side like you’d never left it. His arm wrapped around you without hesitation, fingers tracing slow patterns against your shoulder.
The city outside kept moving. But inside, everything finally slowed down.
“You’re real,” you said quietly after a while.
Harry huffed a soft laugh into your hair, “Unfortunately, yeah.”
You smiled, “Good.”
His arm tightened slightly around you as his lips came to press a soft kiss against your forehead, firm and gentle all at once.
And it was the best sleep both of you had gotten in a long, long time.
hope u enjoyed day anon!!
this just reminded me of when i had a bf and now im just like depressed ugh
Scrub in Masterlist | Masterlist | WC: 5.2K | Angsty
a/n: The epilogue mentions Y/N being there for harry when his mom had surgery. Thought I’d show that :)
Y/N stands in front of her closet, clothes strewn across her bed in a state of disarray that perfectly matches her internal panic. She's been dating Harry for a year and while it's been a wonderful, challenging, sometimes frustrating, but always passionate year, today is the day she's finally meeting his mother. Under normal circumstances, this would already be a nerve-wracking experience. But Anne isn't coming for a casual visit. She's flying in because she's been experiencing concerning cardiac symptoms, and Harry after weeks of long-distance worry and medical consultations over the phone has finally convinced her to come get properly evaluated. Which means Y/N isn't just meeting her boyfriend's mother, she's meeting her boyfriend's potentially ill mother. Who also happens to be the mother of her boss. Who also happens to be the Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery. No pressure at all. Her phone buzzes with a text from Harry:
Just picked Mum up from the airport. Heading to my place now. Meet us there in an hour? x
Y/N stares at the message, her heart rate accelerating. "An hour?!" she exclaims to her empty apartment. "I thought I had at least two!" She frantically dials Niall, putting the phone on speaker as she continues ransacking her closet. "What's the emergency this time?" Niall answers, sounding amused.
"Harry's mother is here. Now. An hour early!" Y/N pulls out a navy blue dress, examines it, then tosses it aside. "I'm meeting her in an hour and I have nothing to wear and I haven't practiced what to say and—"
"Whoa, slow down," Niall interrupts. "Take a breath before you hyperventilate.” Y/N inhales deeply, then exhales slowly.
"Better?"
"No." She sinks onto her bed, pushing aside a pile of rejected outfits. "Niall, what if she hates me?"
"Why would she hate you? You're amazing. And Harry adores you."
"Because I'm his subordinate? Because I'm too young for him? Because I challenged her son's diagnosis in front of an entire team my first week as an intern?"
"To be fair, you were right about that diagnosis."
"Not the point!" Y/N jumps up, pacing the room. "This is Anne Styles we're talking about. Harry talks about her like she's a combination of Mother Teresa and Michelle Obama."
"With a touch of Gordon Ramsay, from what I've heard," Niall adds unhelpfully.
"Not helping!"
Niall sighs. "Honey, listen to me. You're overthinking this. Just be yourself. The brilliant, kind, occasionally stubborn woman her son is crazy about," Niall says. "The one who makes her son happier than anyone's seen him in years."
She glances at the disaster zone that is her bedroom. "That's the problem. I've tried everything I own. Nothing feels right."
"What about that emerald sweater? Harry always says it brings out your eyes."
Y/N rummages through the pile, finding the cashmere sweater in question. "Maybe...with those black pants?"
"Perfect. Professional but not too formal. You look like you're meeting your boyfriend's mom, not performing a coronary bypass."
She laughs despite herself. "Okay. Sweater, black pants. What about jewelry?"
"The simple gold necklace your dad gave you. It's elegant without being showy."
Y/N nods, already feeling more centered. "Right. Good call."
"Oh and bring flowers. Not a big bouquet though. Those are too formal. Just something small and thoughtful."
"Flowers. Okay." She checks the time. "I've got forty minutes. I can do this."
"You can absolutely do this. You cut people open for a living. Meeting a boyfriend's mother is nothing."
"She's not just any mother, though," Y/N says, voice softening with concern. "She might be really sick, Niall. Harry's trying to play it cool, but I can tell he's worried."
"All the more reason for her to meet the amazing doctor her son is in love with. Because you're not just Harry's girlfriend. You're a damn good physician. If she is sick, having you there will be a comfort to both of them."
Y/N takes another deep breath, feeling her panic subside into something more manageable. "You're right. You're absolutely right."
"I usually am. It's my curse."
"Thank you, Niall. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Probably show up in scrubs with a stethoscope around your neck. Now go get dressed. And text me later. I want all the details."
After hanging up, Y/N dresses carefully in the emerald sweater and black pants, adds the gold necklace, and applies minimal makeup. Her hair she leaves down, knowing Harry prefers it that way. On the way to Harry's apartment, she stops at a small florist and selects a modest arrangement of peonies. Standing outside Harry's door, flowers in one hand, she takes a final steadying breath before knocking.
The door swings open almost immediately, revealing Harry in jeans and a soft gray sweater. His face lights up at the sight of her.
"You're here," he says, relief evident in his voice. He leans in, pressing a quick kiss to her lips. "Thank you for coming."
"Of course I came," she says, suddenly shy. "How is she?"
Harry's expression clouds slightly. "Tired from the flight, but putting on a brave face. You know how mothers are." He steps back, allowing her to enter.
"Mum's in the living room. She's been asking about you non-stop since she landed."
Y/N's eyes widen. "She has?"
"Don't look so terrified," Harry says with a soft laugh, taking her hand. "It's all good things, I promise."
As they walk toward the living room, he leans in close, whispering: "Just be warned, she brought photo albums. Apparently, you're going to see every embarrassing stage of my childhood."
Despite her nerves, Y/N smiles. "Now that I'm looking forward to."
They enter the living room, where Anne Styles sits on the couch, looking through her phone. She's an elegant woman with striking blue eyes and dark hair. She looks up as they enter, and Y/N is relieved to see genuine warmth in her smile.
"Mum," Harry says, his voice gentle in a way Y/N rarely hears at the hospital, "this is Y/N."
Y/N steps forward, offering the flowers and her hand. "It's so nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Styles. Harry talks about you all the time." Anne takes the flowers with a pleased expression, but ignores Y/N's extended hand. Instead, she stands and pulls her into a warm hug.
"It's Anne, dear. And the pleasure is all mine." She pulls back, keeping her hands on Y/N's shoulders as she studies her face. "Well, my son certainly wasn't exaggerating about how beautiful you are."
Y/N blushes, casting a glance at Harry, who looks both embarrassed and pleased.
"Mum," he protests half-heartedly.
"Oh, hush," Anne says, guiding Y/N to sit beside her on the couch. "If you didn't want me to embarrass you, you shouldn't have waited a year to introduce me to the woman you're always going on about."
She turns back to Y/N. "He calls me every Sunday, you know. And for the past year, it's been 'Y/N this' and 'Y/N that.' I feel like I know you already."
Y/N's nervousness begins to fade, replaced by genuine curiosity.
"Really? What exactly has he been saying?"
Anne's eyes twinkle mischievously. "Well, first it was complaints. 'This new intern questioned my diagnosis, Mum. Can you believe the nerve?' Then it was reluctant admiration. 'She was right, though. Brilliant, actually.' And then..."
She pats Y/N's hand. "Well, then it became obvious he was falling for you, even if he was too stubborn to admit it."
"Mum," Harry interrupts, his cheeks flushed. "Maybe we could save the detailed analysis of my emotional journey for another time?"
Anne laughs, a warm sound that immediately reminds Y/N of Harry.
"Fine, fine. I'll behave." She turns back to Y/N. "But I did bring photos, and he can't stop me from showing you those."
Harry groans, but there's no real displeasure in it. He moves to sit in the armchair across from them, watching the interaction with obvious relief.
"Now," Anne says, her tone shifting slightly, "Harry tells me you're a cardiothoracic resident. In your third year?"
"That's right," Y/N confirms, automatically straightening her posture. "I'm specializing in minimally invasive valve repair."
"Fascinating field." Anne nods approvingly. "My late husband, Harry's father, had mitral valve issues. If the techniques had been more advanced then..." She trails off, a shadow crossing her face. Y/N reaches out, gently touching Anne's hand.
"I'm so sorry about your husband. Harry's told me what an amazing man he was."
Anne smiles sadly. "He was. And I see so much of him in Harry. The dedication and the brilliance." She glances at her son with unmistakable pride. "The stubbornness."
Harry clears his throat, clearly emotional but trying to hide it. "Speaking of stubbornness," he says, his professional tone slipping back into place, "we should talk about your appointment tomorrow, Mum."
Anne waves a dismissive hand. "Plenty of time for that later. Right now, I want to get to know Y/N properly." She turns back to Y/N with a conspiratorial smile. "Without my son hovering like I'm one of his patients."
Y/N can't help but smile in return, feeling a genuine connection forming.
"I'd like that too," she says honestly.
Harry looks between them, a mix of concern and happiness on his face. "Fine," he says, standing. "I'll go put these flowers in water and start dinner. But Mum, no stories about my awkward teenage years."
"I make no promises," Anne calls after him as he disappears into the kitchen.
Once he's gone, Anne's expression grows more serious. "He's worried about me," she says quietly. "More than he's letting on."
Y/N nods, deciding honesty is the best approach. "He is. He cares about you very much."
"And you? What do you think? Off the record, doctor to patient."
Y/N considers her words carefully. "I think getting thoroughly checked out is the right move. Cardiac symptoms should never be ignored, especially with your family history."
Anne studies her face. "You're not sugar-coating it. I appreciate that."
"I've found that sugar-coating rarely helps anyone in medicine," Y/N says. "Especially the people you care about."
A slow smile spreads across Anne's face. "No wonder my son fell for you," she says softly. "You're exactly what he needs. Someone who won't let him hide behind that brilliant mind of his."
Before Y/N can respond, Harry calls from the kitchen: "If you two are done analyzing me, dinner's almost ready!"
Anne laughs, patting Y/N's hand once more. "We should join him before he burns down the kitchen. But Y/N?" Her voice grows serious again. "I'm glad he has you."
Y/N feels a lump form in her throat, touched by the acceptance in Anne's words. "I'm glad I have him too," she says simply.
As they rise to join Harry in the kitchen, Y/N realizes her earlier panic has completely vanished.
The day had started with routine post-op rounds and a stack of charts. It ended with Anne Styles coding in the middle of a cardiology consultation.
The call came through the hospital intercom with clinical detachment. "Code Blue, Cardiology Suite 3" and Y/N had felt her blood run cold before she even knew it was Anne. Harry had been in the middle of a department meeting. She'd heard later that he'd knocked his chair back so hard it hit the wall.
The stabilization team had bought them time. Not much, but enough. The echocardiogram showed what they'd feared: a dissecting aortic aneurysm and it was progressing fast. The kind that didn't wait for anyone to be ready. The kind that needed immediate surgery.
Twenty minutes later, Y/N stands outside the scrub room, having confirmed everything is in order. The surgical team is assembling, the OR is prepared and Anne's latest vitals reviewed. Only one thing is missing. The surgeon himself. Frowning, she pushes open the door to the scrub room. Harry stands at the sink, hands submerged in soapy water up to his elbows. But he isn't moving. He's just standing there, staring at the wall, completely still. His eyes are fixed on nothing. The water keeps running, the soap keeps lathering but his hands aren't scrubbing anymore. They're just...suspended.
"Harry."
He doesn't respond, doesn't even blink. Y/N approaches slowly, concern mounting. "Harry, they're almost ready for you in there." She steps closer, lowering her voice. "Hey. Look at me."
He then blinks slowly like someone surfacing from deep water. "I need to scrub in," he says. His voice is mechanical and all too wrong. "She's in pre-op. They're prepping the OR. I need to—"
"Harry." Y/N steps directly in front of him, blocking his eyeline. "Stop."
His jaw tightens. "I'm fine."
"You haven't moved in ten minutes. Dr. Patel’s looking for you. I told him I'd get you." She searches his face noting the pallor beneath his complexion and the slight tremor in his jaw he's trying to control. "You're not fine."
The mask holds for another three seconds until it suddenly doesn't and his breath comes out in a shudder. One sharp, involuntary exhale that breaks something open. He turns away from her, bracing both soapy hands on the edge of the sink, head dropping.
"I can't do it." he says in a quit, defeated tone. "I—" He stops then tries again. "I got in there. I looked at her chart, I reviewed the imaging, I started to scrub in and I—" His voice fractures. "I can't see the anatomy. I look at the scans and all I see is her. I close my eyes and I'm trying to visualize the field and I just see her face."
Y/N doesn't say anything, just steps closer.
"I can't... operate on her." His voice breaks on the last word. "My hands...they won't stop shaking."
Y/N glances down and sure enough, beneath the soap suds, his normally rock-steady surgeon's hands are trembling visibly.
"Harry," she says gently, moving closer. "This is normal. The emotional connection—"
"It's not normal for me!" he snaps, then immediately looks contrite. "I'm sorry. I just...I've never...not once in my entire career..." He stared at his hands as if they've betrayed him.
"Fifteen years," he says, his voice dropping to something raw and ugly. "Ten years of training. Chief of surgery at thirty-one. I have a waiting list of patients from four different countries." He laughs, and it's terrible, hollow and self-lacerating. "I have performed three hundred and forty-seven aortic procedures. Three hundred and forty-seven. And I am standing here—" his voice breaks completely "—I am standing here like a first-year medical student who's never held a scalpel, because it's her." His shoulders are shaking now, barely perceptibly, but Y/N sees it.
"What is the point?" he asks, and the question sounds like it's been festering for years. "What is the point of any of it—the training, the hours, the sacrifices—if I can't operate on my own mother? If I'm completely useless when it actually matters?"
He slams one palm on the sink, hard enough that the soap dispenser rattles. "She needs the best surgeon in this hospital and I—" He can't finish it.
Y/N reaches out and puts her hand on his back. "Harry, " but he doesn't turn around. "Harry, look at me. Please."
Slowly, he straightens and turns. The expression on his face…Y/N has seen Harry Styles frustrated, exhausted, coldly furious, professionally devastated but she has never seen him look like this. Like something has been gutted out of him. She keeps her voice steady and calm. The way he sounds when he talks patients down from panic.
"Loving someone doesn't make you useless," she says. "It makes you human. And it disqualifies you from operating on them. Those are two entirely different things and you know it."
"Don't." His voice is sharp. "Don't give me the textbook answer. I know the textbook answer. I have the textbook memorized."
"I know you do." She doesn't flinch. "So you also know that the most dangerous surgeon in that room would be one who is emotionally compromised. You know that. You know it better than anyone in this hospital."
He stares at her. His jaw works. "She's my mother, Y/N."
"I know." Her voice softens. "I know she is." A single tear escapes, trailing down his cheek. Y/N reaches up to brush it away. A long silence stretches between them. The water is still running. Somewhere down the corridor, a monitor beeps steadily.
"So." Y/N takes a breath. "Tell me who you trust."
Harry frowns slightly.
"In this hospital," she continues carefully. "Right now, for this procedure. Who do you trust to go in there and bring her out?"
He's quiet for a moment. She watches him move through the grief of the situation, the pride of not being able to do it, and the clinical mind that never fully shuts off regardless of what's happening to the rest of him. Then, she sees him look at her.
"You."
The word comes out without hesitation. Without a single beat of uncertainty. Y/N stares at him.
"Harry—"
"You." He says it again, quieter but no less certain. "No hesitation. You."
"I'm a third-year resident." The words come out before she can stop them, her voice pitching slightly higher than she intends. "Harry, I'm a resident. You want me to—your mother is on that table and you want me to—"
"You've scrubbed in on forty-three aortic procedures," he says, and his voice has shifted, the surgeon in him is surfacing despite the fractured voice. "Eleven as primary operator under supervision. Your spatial reasoning is the best I've seen in a trainee in my entire career. Your hands don't shake. Your decision-making under pressure is—"
"Stop." She holds up a hand, her own heart hammering. "Stop evaluating me like I'm a candidate. This is your mother, Harry."
"I know who it is." His eyes don't leave hers. "That's why I'm telling you. Because I know who you are. Please, Y/N. I'm asking you not as your boss, not as your boyfriend, but as a son who needs someone he trusts completely to save his mother."
Y/N takes a deep breath, centering herself. She thinks of Anne. Warm, kind, Anne who welcomed her with open arms. She thinks of Harry, who has taught her everything she knows about cardiothoracic surgery. Who believes in her more than she sometimes believes in herself. She exhales shakily. "You'd be there," she says. It's not quite a question.
"Every second. I'll be in that room. I'll talk you through anything you need. But my hands—" He looks down at them, still lathered, still trembling almost imperceptibly. "My hands can't be the ones today."
Y/N looks at him for a long moment. At this man who has never once, not in the two years of working beside him, admitted to a limitation. Who has built his entire identity around being the person others defer to in a crisis. Who is standing in front of her, asking her to carry the most important thing in his world.
She takes a slow breath. "Okay," she says quietly, her voice steady despite the fear coursing through her. "I'll do it. But you get Morrison to agree, and I want Peters as my first assist."
Relief floods Harry's face. "Thank you," he whispers, pulling her into a tight embrace. "Thank you." Harry's eyes close briefly.
"Okay," she says again, steadier this time. "Then go be with her in pre-op. Talk to her. Let her see your face before she goes under." She steps toward the sink beside him and turns on the water. "I'll scrub in."
He watches her for a moment. Watches woman he loves as she reached for the surgical brush with steady hands.
"Y/N."
She looks up. He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't have to. Everything he can't articulate right now is written plainly across his face.
"Go," she says softly. "Go see your mom."
He holds her gaze for one more second before turning and walking toward pre-op. Left alone, Y/N turns to the sink, plunging her hands into the warm soapy water. She focuses on the familiar ritual. The methodical cleaning of each finger, each nail, up to the elbows. With each motion, she feels her surgical mindset settling into place. By the time Morrison appears at the door, his expression a mix of concern and reluctant acceptance, she is ready.
"Dr. Styles has requested that you lead this procedure," he says without preamble. "With me supervising and Peters assisting."
"Yes, Ma’am," Y/N replies, her voice calm and professional.
Morrison studies her face. "Are you certain you're prepared for this, Dr. Y/L/N? This isn't just any patient."
Y/N meets her gaze steadily. "I'm aware of that, Ma’am. But with all due respect, that's precisely why I need to do this. Because she isn't just any patient to me either."
A hint of approval flickers across Morrison's face.
"Very well. OR 1 is ready. Let's not keep Mrs. Styles waiting any longer."
As Y/N follows her toward the operating room, she catches sight of Harry in the hallway. Their eyes meet across the corridor. In his gaze, she finds not just trust, but absolute faith in her skills, in her judgment, and most definitely in her. It steadies her more than anything else could have. With a small nod to him, she turns and walks through the doors, ready to hold Anne Styles' heart in her hands, and by extension, Harry's as well. At this moment, she is not Harry's girlfriend or his resident. She is simply a surgeon, about to do what she was trained to do. Save a life.
The surgery takes nearly six hours. Every moment is meticulously executed and every decision carefully weighed. Throughout it all, Harry stands in the corner of the OR silent and watchful, his eyes never leaving the table where his mother lies with her chest open to the world. Dr. Morrison supervises closely, but as the procedure progresses, her interventions become fewer and further between.
Y/N works with a focus that surprises even herself. Her hands remain steady, her voice clear as she directs Peters and the surgical team. The bypass grafts take beautifully. The heart, once restarted beats strong and regular.
"Closing now," Y/N announces, her voice betraying none of the emotional weight of the moment. As she places the final sutures, she allows herself a quick glance at Harry. He hasn't moved or spoken, but the tension in his shoulders has eased slightly.
"BP stable at 110/70. Rhythm regular. O2 sats at 98%," the anesthesiologist reports.
Y/N steps back from the table, letting out a long breath. "Surgery complete. Time, 11:47 AM."
Dr. Morrison nods approvingly. "Excellent work, Dr. Y/L/N. Let's get Mrs. Styles to recovery."
The team moves efficiently, transferring Anne from the operating table to a gurney. As they wheel her out, Y/N remains behind, removing her gown and gloves, disposing of them properly. Her body feels weightless with relief, yet somehow heavy with exhaustion. She doesn't notice Harry approaching until he's right beside her.
"She's stable," Y/N says softly, meeting his eyes. "The grafts look good. Her heart accepted them beautifully."
Harry doesn't respond with words, takes her by the elbow instead and guides her out of the OR, through the scrub room, and into the small private consultation room adjacent to the surgical floor. The moment the door closes behind them, he pulls her into his arms. The embrace is fierce, almost desperate. Harry's arms wrap around her completely, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other pressed firmly against her lower back. He holds her as if she might disappear if he loosens his grip even slightly.
"Thank you," he whispers against her hair, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you."
Y/N feels the dampness against her neck before she realizes he's crying. Silent tears of relief and gratitude, his body trembling slightly with the release of hours of pent-up fear. She says nothing, just holds him tighter, one hand moving in slow, soothing circles between his shoulder blades. Her other hand threads through his hair, cradling his head as he buries his face deeper into the curve of her neck.
"She's going to be okay," Y/N murmurs, her voice soft but certain. "She's strong. Just like her son."
Harry pulls back just enough to look at her, his green eyes rimmed with red, cheeks damp with tears. The vulnerability in his expression steals her breath away. "I couldn't have done it," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not like you did. So calm, so sure."
Y/N reaches up to brush a tear from his cheek. "I wasn't calm inside. I was terrified the entire time."
"But your hands never shook," he says, taking her hands in his, studying them with a kind of reverence before bringing them to his lips for a kiss. "Not once."
"Because they were holding something precious to you," she replies simply. "And that made them steady."
Harry's expression crumbles slightly at her words. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against hers, eyes closed. "I love you," he says, the words coming out raw and unfiltered. "I love you so much it hurts"
Y/N feels her own eyes fill with tears, the emotional weight of the morning finally catching up to her. "I love you too," she whispers back. "And your mom is going to be just fine."
Harry nods against her forehead, then pulls back slightly to press a gentle kiss to her lips. It's brief but filled with everything he can't put into words.
"You should go see her," Y/N says softly when they part. "She'll be waking up soon, and your face should be the first thing she sees."
Harry hesitates, clearly torn between staying with Y/N and going to his mother.
"Go," she insists gently. "I'll be right behind you. I just need a minute."
He studies her face, then nods, pressing one more kiss to her forehead before reluctantly releasing her from his embrace. "Don't take too long," he says, his hand lingering on hers. "She'll want to thank you herself."
Y/N smiles tiredly. "I'll be there. Now go."
As Harry leaves the room, Y/N sinks down onto one of the chairs, finally allowing her legs the reprieve they've been silently begging for. The enormity of what just happened washes over her: she operated on her boyfriend's mother. She held Anne Styles' heart in her hands, and succeeded. She takes a deep breath, centering herself. In a few minutes, she'll join Harry in recovery, stand beside him as his mother wakes. But for now, she allows herself this brief moment of solitude, to process not just the surgery, but the profound trust Harry placed in her.
The recovery room is quiet except for the steady beep of the cardiac monitor. Harry sits beside his mother's bed, his hand gently holding hers. Y/N had stepped out to give them privacy, heading to the nurse's station to update Anne's chart and check on her post-op medications. Anne's eyelids flutter then slowly open. She blinks a few times, adjusting to the light before her gaze settles on her son.
"Harry," she whispers, her voice rough from the intubation.
Harry leans forward, relief washing over his features. "Hi, Mum. How are you feeling?"
"Like I've been hit by a truck," Anne manages a weak smile. "But I'm here."
"Yes, you are," Harry says softly, squeezing her hand. "You gave us quite a scare."
Anne's eyes drift to the bandages visible beneath her hospital gown. "Triple bypass, they said?"
Harry nods. "Three vessels. But the surgery went perfectly."
Anne reaches up with her free hand, weakly patting his cheek. "My brilliant boy. Always knew those hands of yours were meant to save lives."
Harry lets out a self-deprecating chuckle, looking down. "Actually, Mum...I didn't do your surgery."
Anne's brow furrows slightly in confusion. "You didn't?"
"I couldn't," he admits, his voice quiet but steady. "When it came down to it, I...my hands wouldn't stop shaking. I couldn't be your surgeon."
Anne's expression softens with understanding. "Oh, love."
"It was Y/N," Harry continues, his voice warming at the mention of her name. "She performed the entire procedure. Flawlessly, might I add"
"Your Y/N?" Anne asks, a small smile forming despite her weakened state.
Harry nods, a hint of color rising to his cheeks. "She was extraordinary, Mum. You should have seen her. Completely in control, never hesitated once."
"And where is she now?" Anne asks, trying to look around the room.
"She stepped out to give us some time together," Harry explains. "She'll be back soon. She wanted to check your post-op medications personally."
Anne studies her son's face, noting the soft expression that comes over him when he speaks of Y/N and the gentle pride in his voice.
"Well," Anne says with a knowing smile, "in that case, Harry Edward Styles, you'd better marry that girl."
Harry's eyes widen, and a deep flush immediately spreads across his cheeks. He ducks his head, running a hand through his hair as he stares at the hospital floor tiles. The confident surgeon is nowhere to be seen at this moment. He's just a flustered son being teased by his mother about a girl.
"Mum," he mumbles, the blush reaching the tips of his ears now. "We haven't even...I mean, we only just..."
Anne reaches out to pat his hand weakly. "The way you talk about her says everything, love."
Harry glances up, a sheepish smile playing on his lips. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to your mother," Anne says with a knowing look.
Harry fiddles with the edge of the blanket, still blushing. "I do...I mean, I think I..." He lets out a soft laugh. "Yeah. I agree with you. Wholeheartedly."
Anne's eyes begin to drift closed again, the medication and exhaustion pulling her back toward sleep. "Don't wait too long," she mumbles. "Life's too short...as I've recently been reminded..."
"Get some rest, Mum," Harry says gently, adjusting her blanket. "We'll be right here when you wake up."
As Anne slips back into sleep, the door to the recovery room opens quietly. Y/N steps in, clipboard in hand, her expression softening when she sees Harry sitting beside his sleeping mother.
"How is she?" Y/N asks in a hushed voice, moving to stand beside Harry, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Harry looks up, the blush still lingering on his cheeks as he takes her hand. For once, he's not Dr. Styles, the brilliant surgeon with an ego to match. He's just a son grateful for the woman who saved his mother
"She's going to be just fine," he says softly, his thumb tracing circles on her palm before pulling it in for another kiss. "Thanks to you.”
Summary: Harry thinks cold plunges are fun. You think cold plunges are a human rights violation. What follows is a dramatic, flirty tug-of-war, a lot of “absolutely not,” a very persuasive boyfriend, and sixty freezing seconds you only agree to because you love him. Luckily, there’s a warm towel, a big bear hug, and a lot of kisses waiting for you when it’s over.
Warnings: No warnings... just a little something filled with fluff, playful banter, kissing and light suggestive content.
Author's Note: Just a little something... I was inspired by the new video!
Masterlist: Here
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“No.”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes.”
“I’m not doing it.”
“But you are doing it.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re standing in front of it.”
I looked down at the giant metal tub full of ice water and then back at Harry, who was standing there in swim trunks and the kind of pleased-with-himself grin that usually meant I was about to suffer in some completely avoidable way.
“That,” I said, pointing at the tub, “is not standing in front of it. This is witnessing a crime scene.”
Harry laughed, bright and warm and entirely too unbothered for someone trying to lure me into hypothermia.
“It’s good for you, baby.”
“So is sleep. So is minding your business. So is not climbing willingly into a steel vat of misery.”
He stepped closer, hands sliding around my waist from behind as he pressed a kiss to my cheek.
“It’s not misery.”
“It is literally ice.”
“It’s invigorating.”
“It’s freezing.”
He rested his chin on my shoulder and looked over it toward the tub like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“That’s dramatic.”
I turned my head just enough to glare at him. “You know what’s dramatic? Me dying on this rooftop because my boyfriend read one article about recovery and decided he’s suddenly some sort of wellness prophet.”
Harry’s grin widened. “First of all, rude. Second of all, it was several articles.”
“Oh, well, that changes everything. By all means, let me fling myself into the liquid apocalypse.”
He laughed again, the sound low and lovely and annoyingly persuasive.
“You’re cute when you’re grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy,” I said. “I’m right.”
He spun me gently in his arms until I was facing him, his hands settling on my hips. His hair was still a little damp at the temples from his own plunge, cheeks pink, eyes bright, looking so unfairly pretty in the afternoon sun that I had to actively remind myself not to be charmed.
This was how he got me.
Not through logic. Not through reason.
Through dimples.
“Come on,” he said softly, nudging his nose against mine. “Do it with me.”
“I notice,” I said, “that you’ve already done it.”
“I can do it again.”
“That is deeply concerning.”
“It’ll be fun.”
“I think you and I have very different understandings of that word.”
He kissed me once, quick and sweet.
“Please?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t ‘please’ me.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re using the face.”
“What face?”
“The face that says, ‘I’m very charming and also slightly ridiculous, and now you have to give me what I want because I asked nicely.’”
He looked delighted. “Does it work?”
“Unfortunately.”
Harry beamed. “Brilliant.”
I tried not to smile. I failed a little.
He noticed, obviously.
“There she is,” he said, squeezing my hips. “Knew you were in there.”
“I’m still not doing it.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I hate this game.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” I admitted, “I hate losing this game.”
He tipped his head. “That’s fair.”
I glanced back at the tub. The surface of the water glittered innocently in the sun, which only made it worse somehow. Ice cubes floated along the top like smug little threats.
“I can’t believe you got into that willingly.”
“It’s all about breathing.”
“It’s all about poor choices.”
“See? That attitude right there is why you need it.”
I gasped. “Excuse me?”
He held up both hands. “Lovingly. I mean that lovingly.”
“You just told me I need to be corrected by an ice bath.”
“I said no such thing.”
“You implied it.”
“I implied,” he said, taking one of my hands and kissing my knuckles, “that you might secretly enjoy it.”
“I won’t.”
“You might.”
“I definitely won’t.”
“You definitely might.”
I stared at him. “Are you always this impossible, or is this a special performance just for me?”
“Special performance,” he said promptly. “Tailored to my favorite girl.”
The nerve of him. The absolute nerve.
I tried to keep my expression stern, but he was looking at me with that gleaming, playful affection that always made it hard to stay committed to being difficult.
“You’re not above bribery, are you?” I asked.
His eyebrows lifted. “Depends. What are we bribing you with?”
“So you admit that’s what this is.”
“I admit nothing. I’m simply open to negotiation.”
I put a hand to my chest. “Harry Styles. Trying to manipulate me.”
He leaned closer. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You are literally trying to get me into a bucket of ice.”
“A tub,” he corrected. “A very nice tub.”
“It looks like something a cowboy would wash a horse in.”
“That feels classist toward tubs.”
I snorted despite myself, and he smiled like he’d won a small battle.
“There it is,” he murmured. “That little laugh means we’re getting somewhere.”
“No, it means you’re annoying.”
“Mm. Adorable when you lie, too.”
I looked him up and down slowly. “You know what I think?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you just want me in there so I suffer with you.”
His mouth fell open in mock offense. “Suffer? I was thriving.”
“You came out of it making sounds no human being should make.”
“That was controlled breathing.”
“That was a near-death experience.”
He laughed and reached for both my hands, tugging me one small step closer to the tub. I immediately planted my feet.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Harry.”
“Baby.”
“Don’t ‘baby’ me toward the ice.”
“It’s one step.”
“It’s one step too close.”
“It’s not even touching you.”
“It’s touching me spiritually.”
He bent forward, laughing hard enough that he had to let go of one of my hands and brace the other on his knee.
“You are so dramatic.”
“And you,” I said primly, “are deeply unwell.”
He straightened and brushed his thumb over the back of my hand. “Come on. You trust me, don’t you?”
I squinted at him. “That feels like emotional warfare.”
His grin turned soft around the edges. “Do you?”
“Of course I trust you.”
“Then let me help.”
“That’s exactly how people end up in documentaries.”
He stepped in close again, voice dropping a little. “You’re not going to end up in a documentary. I’m right here.”
I hate when he did that.
When he went from teasing to gentle in the span of a heartbeat and made me feel ridiculous for even pretending I could say no to him for long.
Not because he pushed. He didn’t.
Because he looked at me like I was precious, like he’d catch me before I slipped, warm my hands after, kiss the complaint right out of my mouth.
Which was manipulative in a completely different and much more effective way.
“I don’t like that look,” I muttered.
“What look?”
“The sincere one.”
His smile was small and knowing. “Ah.”
“It’s unfair.”
“I’m a fair man, actually.”
“No, you’re pretty, which is worse.”
He barked out a laugh. “Worse?”
“For me, yes.”
He tugged me another inch closer. I let him this time, mostly because I was distracted by how sun-warmed his skin still felt under my fingers.
The tub loomed at my side.
I eyed it like it might lunge.
Harry followed my gaze. “You don’t have to jump in all at once.”
“That’s your solution? A slower death?”
“You just ease in.”
“I would rather ease out. Like fully leave.”
He slid one arm around my waist and pointed at the water with the other. “Look, I’ll get in first.”
“You’ve already been in.”
“I’ll go again, then.”
“Why are you like this?”
“Disciplined.”
“Psychotic.”
“Healthy.”
“Suspicious.”
He laughed into my hair.
“Watch,” he said.
Before I could stop him, he kissed my forehead and stepped away, climbing into the tub with entirely too much confidence. He lowered himself in with a sharp inhale, shoulders tightening for a second before he relaxed, bracing his arms on either side.
“See?” he said through slightly gritted teeth.
I stared. “You are shaking.”
“I am breathing.”
“You are suffering elegantly.”
“Come here.”
I folded my arms. “No.”
He tipped his head back against the rim and looked at me with damp lashes and pink cheeks and that insufferable smile.
“Come hold my hand.”
“That is the most suspicious sentence you’ve ever said to me.”
“It’s romantic.”
“It’s a trap.”
“It can be both.”
I walked over on sheer reflex, because despite everything, if he asked for my hand, I gave it to him.
He took it immediately, his wet fingers freezing against mine.
I yelped. “Harry!”
He laughed, squeezing gently. “Cold?”
“You think?”
“A little preview.”
“A preview of betrayal.”
He tugged lightly until I was standing right at the edge of the tub. “Just put one foot in.”
I looked down. “Are you insane?”
“Debatable. One foot.”
“No.”
“One toe.”
“No.”
“An ankle?”
“No.”
He looked up at me from the water, hair mussed, expression hopeful and mischievous all at once. “For me?”
I stared at him.
“There it is,” I said accusingly. “There’s the line.”
“What line?”
“The one you use when you know exactly what you’re doing.”
He pressed his lips together to hide a smile. “Do I?”
“Yes. ‘For me?’ Harry, that is criminal behavior.”
“It’s effective behavior.”
I leaned down, putting my free hand on the rim of the tub. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he said, inching his fingers up my wrist, “you adore me.”
I did. That was the problem.
He knew I did, too, which was somehow both rude and deserved.
I exhaled dramatically. “If I lose a toe, I’m blaming you.”
“You won’t lose a toe.”
“If I lose my will to live, I’m blaming you.”
“I’ll accept that.”
“If I become mean to you later, I’m calling it a trauma response.”
He smiled. “I’ll still kiss you.”
I pointed at him. “See, that. That’s how you win arguments without actually winning them.”
He shrugged as much as one could shrug while submerged in ice water. “Kissing is a valid conflict-resolution method.”
“It is not.”
“It is in our house.”
“That is because you’ve made it impossible to stay mad at you.”
“Sounds like a you problem.”
I laughed helplessly and shook my head.
He softened again. “Come on, baby. Sit on the edge first. You don’t even have to get all the way in.”
“That sounds like the opening chapter of a disaster.”
“Sit. Breathe. I’ll talk you through it.”
I looked from him to the tub and back.
He held my gaze, steady and warm in spite of the fact that he was, for reasons I still couldn’t comprehend, marinating in ice.
“You won’t let me freak out?”
“I’ll let you freak out a little.”
“Harry.”
“But I won’t let you drown in the drama of it, no.”
I gave him a long look.
He lifted our joined hands and kissed my knuckles again, water cold against my skin.
“Trust me.”
I sighed the sigh of a woman moments away from making a terrible decision for love.
“This is how it always happens,” I muttered. “You smile at me, and suddenly I’m doing nonsense.”
“Nonsense with support.”
“Nonsense with a witness.”
“Nonsense with your very handsome boyfriend encouraging you.”
I rolled my eyes. “You really said that like it was a selling point.”
“It is a selling point.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
“But it is.”
I should have walked away then.
I should have turned around, grabbed my towel, gone downstairs, and lived the rest of my life as a person who had never voluntarily climbed into an ice bath because her boyfriend had dimples and a persuasive mouth.
Instead, I sat carefully on the edge of the tub.
The metal was hot from the sun.
The water was not.
Harry’s face lit up like I’d just agreed to marry him again, which felt excessive but also weirdly sweet.
“Oh, my brave girl.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m admiring you.”
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Maybe.”
I peered down into the water. “It looks worse from here.”
“That’s because you’re overthinking it.”
“I’m underthinking it, actually. If I were thinking clearly, I would be elsewhere.”
Harry moved one hand from the rim and rested it lightly on my calf, his palm cool now from the water.
“Okay,” he said, all soft focus and encouragement. “Just your feet.”
I made a face.
He rubbed his thumb over my skin. “Breathe in.”
I glared at him.
“Breathe out.”
“You sound smug.”
“I sound supportive.”
“You sound smug supportively.”
He laughed. “That’s fair.”
I braced both hands behind me on the rim. “I hate you.”
His eyes crinkled. “No, you don’t.”
“No,” I said, already smiling despite myself, “I really don’t.”
“Good. Feet.”
I sucked in a breath and lowered one foot toward the water.
The second my toes touched it, I recoiled with a shriek.
“Oh my God!”
Harry burst out laughing. “It’s not that bad.”
“It is exactly that bad! Are you numb? Have you lost all feeling? Is this what happened?”
He was laughing too hard to answer properly.
I swatted at his shoulder. “You’re evil.”
He caught my wrist and kissed my palm. “Again.”
“No.”
“Again.”
“No.”
“Again, baby.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re enjoying my pain.”
“I’m enjoying your dramatics.”
“Same difference.”
But I tried again.
This time I got both feet in for approximately half a second before jerking them back out and making a sound so offended it barely qualified as language.
Harry was nearly useless with laughter now, ducking his head.
“This is not funny!”
“It’s a little funny.”
“It’s deeply unfunny!”
He took a steadying breath and looked up at me, still grinning. “Okay. Okay. I’m sorry.”
“You’re not.”
“I’m a tiny bit sorry.”
“I can tell by how delighted you look.”
He reached for me again, palms open. “C’mere.”
I gave him both hands reluctantly.
“You can do it,” he said. “You just have to get past the first shock.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It’s not fake.”
“It sounds like something people say right before something terrible.”
He squeezed my hands. “Three seconds. Give me three seconds.”
I stared down at him.
“Three?”
“And then?”
“And then you decide whether you want to keep going.”
“That’s suspiciously reasonable.”
“I can be reasonable.”
“Rarely.”
“Mean.”
“Truthful.”
He kissed the inside of my wrist. “Three seconds.”
The sun was warm on my shoulders. The breeze across the rooftop was gentle. Somewhere below us, I could hear faint traffic and the distant bark of a dog.
It was a perfectly lovely afternoon.
And I was about to ruin it.
“Fine,” I said. “Three seconds.”
Harry’s smile turned slow and triumphant. “That’s my girl.”
“Do not make this sexy.”
His eyebrows shot up. “I wasn’t—”
“You were.”
“I absolutely was not.”
I gave him a look.
He grinned. “All right. Maybe a little.”
“Harry Styles.”
“What?”
“That tone.”
“What tone?”
“The one that says you know exactly how to make me flustered when I’m trying to maintain dignity.”
He leaned forward as much as the tub allowed and kissed just above my knee.
“That one?”
I sucked in a breath. “You are impossible.”
“Still sitting here, though.”
“You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“I’m more than cute.”
I laughed despite myself. “Unbelievable.”
He patted the water lightly. “Three seconds.”
I took a breath, closed my eyes, and lowered both feet in.
The cold hit so fast and so sharp that my entire body seized.
“Oh my God—”
“One,” Harry said quickly.
“I hate you!”
“Two.”
“I mean it!”
“Three.”
I yanked my feet back out, panting, staring at him in betrayal.
He looked absurdly proud. “See?”
“That was horrifying.”
“But you did it.”
“That was not doing it. That was temporary self-destruction.”
He tilted his head. “Still counts.”
I glared.
He smiled sweeter. “Again.”
I laughed once, sharp with disbelief. “You have lost your mind.”
“Probably. Again.”
“You are out of your mind.”
“Probably,” Harry said easily. “But you did three seconds. That’s basically heroic.”
“That was not heroic. That was a medical emergency.”
He laughed softly. “You’re smiling, though.”
“I smile when I’m in shock.”
“Feet again.”
I stared at the water like it had personally insulted me. Then I looked at him. He was watching me with that bright, encouraging look, like he already knew I was going to do it even if I complained the entire time.
Which, to be fair, was exactly what was happening.
“You owe me,” I said.
“I owe you.”
“Big time.”
“Big time.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t say things like ‘I’ll do that thing you like later’ because that is manipulation.”
His mouth twitched. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I might have been.”
“Harry Styles.”
“What? It’s a very effective motivational tool.”
I tried not to laugh. Failed. Again.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You love me.”
“I do, unfortunately.”
He squeezed my hands. “Feet.”
I took a deep breath and slid my feet into the water again. The cold slammed into me like a wall and I sucked in a sharp breath through my teeth.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God—”
“Breathe,” he said, instantly calmer, his voice dropping into that soft, steady tone. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth. You’re okay.”
“It’s so cold,” I gasped.
“I know. I know. I’ve got you.”
I focused on his face, on his hands holding mine, on the way he was watching me like I was doing something important instead of something incredibly stupid.
“Okay,” he said gently. “You’re already doing better. See? You didn’t pull away right away.”
“I can’t feel my toes,” I said.
“That’s normal.”
“That shouldn’t be normal.”
He laughed a little. “You want to try sitting all the way in?”
I stared at him. “You’re insane.”
“You can do it. I’ll help you. Slow.”
I looked down at the water, then back at him. He nodded once, like he believed in me way more than this situation deserved.
“You’re not allowed to laugh if I scream.”
“I’m definitely going to laugh if you scream.”
“Harry.”
“I’ll laugh supportively.”
“That is not a thing.”
“It is today.”
I took another breath, still holding his hands, and carefully shifted forward on the edge of the tub.
“Okay,” he said. “Slow. Just lower yourself a little.”
I dipped one foot deeper, then the other, then slowly, very slowly, lowered myself so the water climbed up my calves.
The cold was instant and brutal and shocking enough that I made a noise that was half gasp, half accusation.
“Harry!”
“I know, I know. Breathe. You’re okay. You’re okay.”
“This is awful.”
“You’re doing it.”
“This is so awful.”
“You’re doing it, baby.”
I lowered myself another inch, the water reaching my knees, then my thighs, and I genuinely considered every life choice that had led me to this moment.
“I fucking hate this,” I said through chattering teeth.
He lit up like I’d just won an Olympic medal. “Yessss, baby, you’re doing it!”
“I hate this,” I repeated, gripping his hands so hard my knuckles went white. “I hate this so much.”
“I’m so proud of you.”
“Do not be proud of me, help me.”
“I am helping you. You’re almost all the way in.”
“I don’t want to be almost all the way in, I want to be almost all the way out.”
He was grinning, but his thumbs were rubbing circles over my hands, grounding, warm where the rest of him was cold.
“Okay,” he said. “On three, you sit all the way down and then it’s just breathing. Ready?”
“No.”
“Ready.”
“Harry—”
“One—”
“I’m going to kill you—”
“Two—”
“You better wrap me in a towel after this—”
“Three.”
I dropped down into the water with a full-body gasp, the cold crashing over me so hard I couldn’t even speak for a second. My shoulders tensed, my back straightened, and I stared at him in pure betrayal.
He looked delighted. Absolutely delighted.
“You’re in!” he said. “You’re in, you’re in, you’re in!”
“I fucking hate this,” I said again, but I was still there, still gripping his hands, still breathing like he told me.
“Breathe,” he said softly. “In. Out. In. Out. Look at me.”
I locked onto his eyes and tried not to think about the fact that the rest of my body felt like it was made of ice and bad decisions.
“You’re okay,” he said. “You’re doing so well. Just a couple more seconds and your body calms down.”
“This is the worst idea you’ve ever had,” I said.
“Not the worst.”
“Top five.”
“Probably top five.”
I tried to laugh and it came out like a strangled noise. “How long have I been in?”
He glanced at his watch. “Twenty seconds.”
“Twenty seconds?” I stared at him. “That’s illegal. Time is moving wrong.”
“You can do sixty.”
“Sixty? Harry—”
“You can do sixty. I know you can.”
I glared at him, shivering violently. “I am only doing this because I love you.”
“I know,” he said, smiling softly now, not teasing, just looking at me like I was the bravest person alive for sitting in a metal tub full of ice.
“Thirty seconds,” he said.
“I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying.”
“I’m perishing.”
“You’re thriving.”
“I am not thriving!”
“You look very cute, though.”
I splashed him weakly. “I hate you.”
He laughed. “No, you don’t.”
“Forty seconds,” he said.
“Oh my God.”
“You’re so close.”
“You owe me everything.”
“I owe you everything.”
“You’re buying me dinner for a week.”
“Done.”
“And dessert.”
“Done.”
“And you’re carrying me inside because my legs are going to fall off.”
He grinned. “Done.”
“Fifty seconds,” he said.
“I’m never doing this again.”
“We’ll see.”
“We will not see.”
He laughed softly. “Ten more seconds. You’ve got this. Look at me. Just breathe.”
I focused on his face, on his stupidly pretty eyes and the way he was smiling at me like I was amazing instead of mildly unhinged.
“Five,” he said.
“I hate this.”
“Four.”
“I love you, but I hate this.”
“Three.”
“You better wrap me in a towel pronto, Styles.”
“Two.”
“I’m serious.”
“One.”
“Okay I’m done!” I yelped, immediately trying to climb out.
He jumped up out of the tub so fast water sloshed everywhere and grabbed the big towel off the chair behind us.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he said, helping me step out because my legs absolutely did not work.
“I can’t feel anything,” I said, teeth chattering violently. “I can’t feel my soul.”
“You did a full minute,” he said, wrapping the towel around me quickly and tightly. “I’m so impressed.”
“Wrap me more,” I demanded. “Burrito me.”
He laughed and pulled the towel tighter around my shoulders, then pulled me straight into his chest, arms wrapping all the way around me in a big, warm bear hug.
“Come here,” he murmured.
I pressed my freezing face into his neck. “I hate you.”
He kissed my temple. “You did so well.”
“I’m never doing that again.”
He kissed my cheek. “You say that now.”
“I mean it.”
He kissed the corner of my mouth. “You were very brave.”
“I was very in love and easily manipulated.”
He laughed softly and rocked us a little, still holding me tight in the towel, rubbing his hands up and down my arms to warm me up.
“You okay?” he asked.
I nodded against his shoulder. “Yeah.”
“Thank you for doing it with me.”
I pulled back just enough to look at him. “You owe me everything now.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
He smiled and leaned down, kissing me properly this time, slow and warm and worth every terrible frozen second.
“Worth it?” he asked softly when he pulled back.
I narrowed my eyes at him, then leaned in and kissed him again anyway.
“…Maybe,” I admitted.
He grinned. “Knew it.”
“Don’t push it, Styles.”
He laughed, pulled the towel tighter around me, and kissed my forehead again while I stayed tucked into his arms, still shivering, still complaining, and still very, very in love with him.
The world is trying to figure out who Harry Styles is dating, and you’re in a hotel room next to him reading the theories out loud.
There is something about hotel rooms that makes everything feel slightly unreal, like you are in between versions of your life for a little while.
Nothing is yours, but for a night or two you get to pretend it is. The big bed, the heavy curtains, the tiny bottles in the bathroom that you always end up taking even though you never use them, the room service menu sitting on the desk like you are the kind of person who casually orders twenty four dollar grilled cheese sandwiches on a random Tuesday.
You are sitting on the edge of the bed in one of those oversized white hotel robes, flipping through the room service menu like the prices might go down if you look at them enough times.
Behind you, Harry is stretched across the bed like this is the most normal place in the world for him to be, one arm behind his head, flipping through something on his phone, completely relaxed, like hotel rooms are just another version of a living room to him and not this strange, temporary little world.
“This grilled cheese is twenty four dollars,” you say, staring down at the menu. “Twenty four. For bread and cheese. That feels illegal.”
“It’s a fancy grilled cheese,” he says, not even looking up.
“No grilled cheese should be fancy,” you say. “Grilled cheese is supposed to be humbling.”
That makes him laugh, quiet and easy, and when you glance back at him he’s already looking at you like he knew you were going to say something like that.
“Just order,” he says. “You’ve read that menu like six times.”
“It’s expensive,” you say again, but you reach for the phone anyway. “I’m getting us fries.”
“Obviously,” he says. “Get dessert too.”
“We don’t need dessert.”
“We absolutely need dessert.”
You end up ordering a burger, fries, pasta for him, and two desserts, and you try to sound calm and normal on the phone like this is a reasonable amount of food for two people and not something that would feed a small family.
Now, about twenty minutes later, you are sitting cross legged on the bed, still in the robe, scrolling on your phone and trying not to think about how hungry you are, while Harry flips through hotel TV channels like he’s going to find something life changing on cable.
You are halfway through a Tumblr post when there is a knock at the door.
You look up immediately. “That has to be food.”
Harry doesn’t move at all. He’s still stretched across the bed, the TV remote balanced on his stomach.
“Well,” he says, “go on then.”
You look at him. “You go on then.”
He finally turns his head and looks at you. “Why would I go get the food when you are already closer to the door.”
“Because it’s your hotel room,” you say.
“And it’s your fries,” he says.
You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re unbelievable.”
There’s another knock, softer this time, and he sighs dramatically and swings his legs off the bed, standing up.
That’s when you look down and realize he is still just in a t shirt and his boxers.
You point at him immediately. “Absolutely not.”
He looks down at himself, then back at you. “What.”
“You are not answering the door like that.”
“They’re nice boxers,” he says.
“I don’t care if they are luxury designer boxers,” you say. “Put pants on. I have to see this woman again when we order breakfast and I don’t want her to remember us as the room where the man answered the door half naked.”
He starts laughing as he reaches for the sweatpants at the end of the bed, pulling them on slowly on purpose, like he knows you’re hungry and is doing this to be annoying.
“You’re very concerned with what room service thinks of us,” he says.
“I am,” you say. “This is a long term relationship I’m building with the hotel staff.”
He snorts at that and gestures toward the door. “Alright, go on then. Save your reputation.”
You open the door and the woman with the room service cart smiles politely.
“Good evening,” she says.
“Hi,” you say, smiling. “Thank you so much.”
She wheels the cart inside and the second the smell of fries hits you, you completely forget how to act like a normal person.
“That smells so good,” you say before you can stop yourself.
Harry, now in sweatpants, appears beside you and leans slightly toward the cart.
“Yeah, we ordered… a lot,” he says.
You glance at him. “You told me to.”
“I’m not complaining,” he says quickly. “I fully support this decision.”
The woman lifts the metal lids one by one while Harry signs the receipt, and you thank her again as she leaves the room.
As soon as the door clicks shut, you and Harry just stand there looking at the cart for a second.
Then you look at each other.
“Bed?” you say.
“Bed,” he agrees.
And the two of you start carrying plates over to the bed like this is the most normal dinner table in the world.
By the time all the plates are on the bed, it looks less like a dinner and more like you are preparing to hibernate for the winter.
There are fries, a burger, his pasta, two little desserts in glass cups, and a basket of bread that neither of you remembers ordering but are both very happy is there.
Harry sits cross legged across from you, already halfway through the pasta like he has not eaten in three days, while you immediately go for the fries because that has been the main goal since this food entered the room.
For a few minutes, the only sounds in the room are the quiet clink of forks and the TV playing something neither of you are actually watching.
You pick up your phone with your free hand, more out of habit than anything, and open Tumblr, scrolling lazily while you eat.
You are not really paying attention at first. Just pictures, text posts, people arguing about something, a video of a cat, more posts, more scrolling.
And then you see his face.
You stop.
It is a photo of him leaving some restaurant a few nights ago, baseball cap, jacket, head down, the usual. You recognize the night immediately because you had been there. You had been sitting across from him at that exact table about thirty minutes before that photo was taken.
Your thumb slows on the screen.
Under the photo is a long post.
You start reading.
About halfway through, you start smiling.
By the end of it, you are trying not to laugh.
Across from you, Harry looks up from his plate.
“What,” he says. “What is that face.”
You shake your head, still looking at your phone.
“Okay,” you say, already laughing a little. “I need to read you this.”
His eyes light up immediately and he sets his fork down like this has just become the most interesting part of his night.
“Oh no,” he says. “Is it about me.”
“It is about you,” you say. “And apparently… your secret girlfriend.”
He leans back against the headboard, very pleased with this already.
“Alright,” he says. “Let’s hear it. What are they saying?”
You clear your throat dramatically and hold your phone up like you are about to give a formal presentation.
“This is titled,” you say, trying not to laugh, ‘Why I am 99.9% sure Harry Styles is soft launching a relationship right now.’”
He actually claps once, delighted.
“A title,” he says. “I love when they commit to it.”
You start reading.
“Exhibit A,” you say. “Photo dump from September. Slide three shows a dinner table with two glasses of wine and two plates. Harry is not known to eat two meals at once. Therefore, he was not alone.”
Harry nods slowly, very serious.
“Strong opening argument,” he says. “Can’t argue with that.”
You kick his foot lightly under the blankets.
“Be serious,” you say.
“I am being serious,” he says. “This is well researched.”
You keep reading, trying not to laugh through it.
“Exhibit B. Harry photographed leaving a bakery holding two coffees, the second coffee was for someone.”
At this, he groans and drops his head back against the headboard.
“They noticed the coffees,” he says. “I thought I was subtle with the coffees.”
“You were not subtle with the coffees,” you say. “You were holding them like a man in a commercial.”
“I thought I looked casual,” he says. “Like I just really needed two.”
“You don’t even drink lattes,” you say. “That was my coffee.”
He points at you from across the bed.
“Exactly,” he says. “Evidence. You exist. The coffees were real.”
You scroll further, both of you leaning a little closer now, like you are reading something you are not supposed to see.
“Oh my god,” you say. “Okay, this one thinks I’m your assistant.”
He immediately starts laughing.
“You would be a terrible assistant,” he says.
You gasp. “I would be an amazing assistant.”
“You lose your phone six times a day,” he says. “You asked me where your sunglasses were while they were on your head.”
“That happened one time,” you say.
“That happened yesterday,” he says.
You try to look offended but you are laughing too hard to really commit to it.
You scroll again.
“Okay wait,” you say. “This one thinks I’m a celebrity and we’re hiding it so the internet doesn’t break.”
He considers that for a second.
“I kind of like that one,” he says. “Very dramatic. Very mysterious.”
“Should I tell them I’m actually extremely famous and just really good at hiding it,” you say.
“Yeah,” he says. “Secret global superstar. Only I know. Very exclusive.”
You shake your head, still smiling, and toss your phone down on the bed between you for a second while you reach for your drink.
This whole thing feels so ridiculous and so strange that sometimes you forget that it is actually your life they are all talking about.
You pick your phone back up and scroll again.
Then you stop.
“Oh,” you say, quieter this time. “Okay this one is… a little too accurate.”
He looks at you immediately.
“What does it say?”
You read it again, just to make sure.
“They think you met her through a mutual friend at a private party, that she’s not famous, and that she travels with you sometimes but not all the time because she still has her own job,” you say slowly.
He makes a small face, like he is impressed.
“Alright,” he says. “That’s… a bit close.”
You look up from your phone at him.
“Does that freak you out?” you ask.
He shakes his head a little. “No.”
“Not even a little?”
“Not the guessing,” he says. “The guessing is whatever. They’re bored. I get it.”
You pick at a fry, thinking about that.
“It’s just weird reading about yourself like you’re a character,” you say. “They’re like, she’s tall, she’s British, she’s a model, she’s an architect. I’m none of those things. I’m literally just sitting here eating fries.”
He smiles a little at that, but it’s a softer smile.
“I know,” he says. “That’s why I don’t say anything.”
You look up at him. “What do you mean.”
“Like,” he says, trying to explain it without making it a whole big thing, “right now it’s just people guessing. It’s like a game to them. But the second I actually say who you are, it stops being a game.”
You don’t say anything, so he keeps going, a little quieter now.
“They’ll find your Instagram. They’ll find where you work. They’ll message your friends. People get weird when they think they know you.”
You hadn’t really thought about it like that, not fully. Not past the funny posts and the timelines and the coffee cup analysis.
“I’m not trying to hide you,” he says. “I just don’t want strangers to feel like they get access to you because of me.”
That sits there for a second. Not heavy. Just honest.
You nod a little. “Okay. Yeah. That makes sense.”
He looks at you like he’s trying to make sure you actually understand what he means.
“I just like that this is normal,” he says, gesturing a little around the room. “You, me, room service, you stealing all the fries.”
“I did not steal all the fries,” you say.
He looks at the plate. “There are three left.”
“I was leaving those for you,” you say.
“How generous,” he says.
You push the plate toward him anyway and he eats one, still watching you.
On the bed between you, your phone is still open to Tumblr, to people trying to build a whole person out of blurry photos and reflections and guesses.
“They’re all trying to figure out if I have a girlfriend,” he says.
You look at him. “Yeah.”
He shrugs a little. “And I’m just sitting here having dinner with you. Feels a bit ridiculous when you think about it.”
You smile a little at that.
“It is a little ridiculous,” you say.
He nods. “But I like it like this. For now.”
You don’t answer right away, you just reach for your drink and take a sip, then glance back at your phone.
“Someone on here thinks I’m a Norwegian architect, by the way,” you say.
He laughs. “That’s my favorite one so far.”
“Yeah,” you say. “My secret life. Norwegian architect by day, eating your fries by night.”
He grins at that, and the conversation drifts back into something lighter again, the two of you leaning over your phone, reading more theories, making fun of some of them, impressed by others, sitting in a hotel bed while the internet tries to solve a mystery that, to you, just feels like a very normal night.
A few weeks later, you are in another hotel room.
Different city, different view out the window, different room service menu on the desk, but otherwise it all feels strangely the same. The same big bed, the same too bright bathroom light, the same heavy curtains that never quite close all the way.
You’re sitting at the little desk this time instead of the bed, half doing something on your laptop, half listening to Harry talk from somewhere behind you while he gets ready to film something on his phone.
“I have to post this tonight,” he says. “Management keeps texting me like I’m going to forget.”
“You would forget,” you say, not looking up from your screen.
“I would not forget,” he says.
“You forgot your passport in New York,” you say “and it was a very important time to forget your passport.”
He walks past you and lightly nudges your chair with his knee as he goes by, which is his version of admitting you’re right without actually saying it.
You can see him in the mirror across the room now, standing near the window with his phone, checking the lighting, turning slightly to one side, then the other. He does it automatically, like muscle memory at this point.
“Do I look tired,” he asks, looking at himself on the screen.
“You always look a little tired,” you say.
“Helpful,” he says.
“You look fine,” you add. “You look like you. My sweet angel.”
He glances at you through the mirror at that and smiles a little, then hits record and starts talking to the camera, something short and casual about whatever he’s promoting this time.
You turn back to your laptop, not really paying attention anymore, just listening to the sound of his voice in the background, familiar enough now that it just blends into everything else.
When he finishes, he taps at his phone for a few seconds, then tosses himself down on the bed behind you.
“Posted,” he says.
“Congratulations,” you say. “Very proud.”
“Thank you,” he says. “Huge moment for me.”
A few minutes pass before your phone buzzes on the desk next to your laptop.
Then it buzzes again.
And again.
You frown and pick it up, expecting a group chat or your mom or something completely normal.
Instead, it’s a text from your friend.
Are you with him right now?
You stare at the message for a second, confused, then another text comes in.
Check his story ;)
You slowly open Instagram, your stomach doing that weird little flip it does sometimes when his world and your world overlap a little too suddenly.
You tap on his profile picture and watch the story.
It’s just him, sitting by a hotel window, talking about something, same as always.
You’re about to exit out of it when you notice it.
On the desk, just barely in frame, out of focus but still very recognizable to you, is your hand, moving across the desk to grab your drink.
You pause the video.
Zoom in.
There is no way that is not your hand. You’re the only other person in the room with him.
You slowly turn your chair around to look at him.
He’s lying on the bed, hands behind his head, watching you like he already knows what you’re about to say.
“You can see my hand,” you say.
He smiles, slow and unapologetic.
“Yeah. Oops,” he says.
“You did that on purpose.”
He shrugs a little. “Maybe.”
You turn your phone around and hold it up. “People are going to see that.”
“They already have,” he says. “Give it ten minutes, it’ll be on Twitter with a red circle around it.”
You stare at him. “You’re insane.”
He just looks very pleased with himself.
“It’s subtle,” he says. “Blurry hand. Could be anyone.”
“It is very clearly attached to me,” you say.
He sits up a little and reaches for your phone, pulling it closer so he can look at the story again.
“That,” he says, pointing at the screen, “is what you call a soft launch.”
You shake your head, but you’re smiling.
“You’re unbelievable,” you say.
He hands your phone back to you and flops back onto the pillows.
“Soft launch,” he says again, like it’s the funniest thing in the world.
And somewhere, you’re absolutely sure, someone is already opening Tumblr and starting a new post.
A/N: Just a fun lighthearded part insired by this ask
[Louis points an accusing finger at Harry. "This is what I'm talking about! You call her 'angel' and 'sweetheart' and probably a dozen other ridiculous things, and what do I get? You called me 'Doctor Douche' just last week!"]
If you missed it Part 7 of scrub in was posted recently!
· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·
Y/N sits wedged between Harry and Niall, while Louis and Zayn occupy the opposite side, all of them finally having managed to sync their schedules for a rare afternoon off. The lunch rush at Rosie's Bistro is in full swing, but their corner booth feels like its own little world.
"I'm telling you," Zayn says, gesturing with his fork, "the patient asked if I could make her look like Kim Kardashian. I said, 'Ma'am, I'm a plastic surgeon, not a magician.'"
The table erupts in laughter, Y/N nearly choking on her water.
"You did not say that to her face," Niall protests.
"I absolutely did. Then I showed her what was actually achievable with a rhinoplasty and she was perfectly happy." Zayn grins. "Sometimes people just need realistic expectations."
"Speaking of realistic expectations," Louis says, pointing his burger at Harry, "remember when Styles here thought he could teach that intern class about humility? How'd that work out for you, mate?"
Harry's lips quirk up as he glances sideways at Y/N. "Oh, I'd say it worked out fairly well in the end."
Y/N rolls her eyes but can't suppress her smile.
"He's still insufferable, if that's what you're asking," she says to Louis. "Just slightly more tolerable than he used to be."
"Slightly?" Harry's hand finds her thigh under the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. "That's generous of you, darling."
Niall catches the exchange and smirks into his drink.
"Anyway," Zayn continues, "I heard Morrison is retiring next year. Any truth to that?"
"Just rumors for now," Harry replies, his thumb absently tracing circles on Y/N's leg. "But if it's true, there'll be quite the shake-up in administration."
Y/N reaches for her iced tea, and Harry automatically shifts it closer to her without looking, still engaged in conversation with Zayn. It's such a small gesture, so unconscious, that it almost goes unnoticed. Almost.
Louis catches it, watches as Y/N mouths a silent 'thank you' and Harry responds with the barest hint of a smile, their eyes meeting for just a fraction of a second before returning to the group discussion.
"You two know we can see you, right?" Louis says flatly.
Y/N blinks innocently. "See what?"
"That." Louis waves his hand between them. "The whole...telepathic communication thing you've got going on. It's nauseating."
"We're not doing anything," Y/N protests.
"You're absolutely doing something," Zayn agrees, though he sounds more amused than annoyed. "You've been in your own little world since we sat down."
Harry leans back in the booth, draping his arm casually along the back of the seat behind Y/N.
"Jealousy doesn't suit you, Tomlinson."
"I'm not jealous. I'm concerned for the sanctity of group lunches." Louis takes an aggressive bite of his burger. "We're supposed to be bonding as colleagues, not watching you two make heart eyes at each other."
"We're not making heart eyes," Harry says, but his fingers play with the ends of Y/N's hair, completely contradicting his words.
Niall snorts. "Mate, you literally just tucked her hair behind her ear while talking about hospital administration. That's the definition of heart eyes."
Y/N feels her cheeks warm. "Can we please talk about literally anything else?"
"Yes, let's," Zayn says. "Louis, tell them about your disastrous Tinder date."
"It wasn't disastrous," Louis defends. "It was...educational."
"She asked if you could write her fake prescriptions," Zayn deadpans.
"Educational," Louis repeats firmly.
As the conversation shifts, Harry leans in close to Y/N's ear, his voice low enough that only she can hear.
"You doing okay, sweetheart? You've barely touched your pasta."
She turns her head slightly, their faces now inches apart. "I'm fine. Just not that hungry."
His eyes search hers, concern evident. "You sure? You were up late studying last night."
"I'm sure," she murmurs, touched by his worry. "Stop fussing."
"Can't help it, love," he whispers, pressing the briefest kiss to her temple.
"Oh my god!," Louis exclaims, throwing his hands up. "This is exactly what we are talking about!!"
Harry and Y/N spring apart, both looking guilty.
"What?" Harry asks, attempting innocence and failing spectacularly.
"You two!" Louis gestures dramatically. "We're having a perfectly normal conversation about my terrible life choices, and you're over there having a private moment like the rest of us don't exist!"
Zayn chuckles. "To be fair, they do this at the hospital too. I've seen them have entire conversations with just facial expressions during rounds."
"It's actually impressive," Niall adds. "Slightly disturbing, but impressive."
Y/N covers her face with her hands. "I hate all of you."
"No you don't, angel," Harry says, gently pulling her hands away from her face. "You love us."
Louis makes a gagging sound. "Angel? ANGEL? When did the pet names get so disgustingly sweet?"
Harry shrugs unapologetically. "She likes them."
"I never said that," Y/N protests weakly.
"You smile every time I use one," Harry counters, his eyes twinkling. "That's as good as a written confession."
"What happened to calling her 'Dr. Y/L/N' in that scary boss voice?" Zayn asks, clearly entertained.
"That's reserved for when she's being particularly stubborn in the OR," Harry explains. "Which is often."
"I'm not stubborn, I'm thorough," Y/N corrects.
"You spent twenty minutes arguing about technique last week."
"Because you were wrong!"
"I was not—" Harry catches himself, realizing he's proving everyone's point. "You know what, never mind."
Louis points an accusing finger at Harry. "This is what I'm talking about! You call her 'angel' and 'sweetheart' and probably a dozen other ridiculous things, and what do I get? You called me 'Doctor Douche' just last week!"
"In my defense, you were being a douche," Harry says reasonably.
"That's not the point!" Louis looks genuinely affronted. "I've known you for what, seven years? She's been around for barely two, and she gets the premium nickname package?"
Harry considers this, taking a sip of his coffee. "Well, yes. But I'm not sleeping with you, so there's that."
Niall chokes on his drink while Zayn dissolves into laughter.
"Harry!" Y/N gasps, smacking his arm.
"What? It's a valid distinction," Harry says, completely unrepentant.
Louis shakes his head in mock disgust. "Seven years of friendship, down the drain. All because I don't have—" he waves vaguely at Y/N "—whatever she has that makes you go all soft."
"It's called being in love, you miserable git," Harry says, his tone fond despite the insult. "You should try it sometime."
The table goes quiet for a beat. It's not the first time Harry's said he loves Y/N, but there's something about the casual certainty with which he says it now, in front of their friends, that makes the moment feel significant.
Y/N's hand finds Harry's under the table, lacing their fingers together.
"That was almost romantic," Louis admits grudgingly. "If you ignore the part where you called me a git."
"I can be romantic," Harry defends.
"You brought her to a cardiology conference for your first date," Zayn points out.
"She loved it!"
"I did love it," Y/N confirms, squeezing his hand.
Louis throws his napkin on the table dramatically. "That's it. I'm finding new lunch friends. You two are too couple-y, and it's making me feel pathetically single."
"You are pathetically single," Zayn says helpfully.
"Not helping, mate."
Niall suddenly turns to Y/N, genuine curiosity on his face. "Wait, what do you call him? Is it just Harry?"
The table goes silent, all eyes turning to Y/N.
She feels her face heat up, suddenly very interested in her pasta. "I...um..."
"Oh this is good," Louis says, leaning forward with interest. "She's blushing."
"It's just Harry," Y/N admits quietly
"Just Harry?!" Louis looks absolutely delighted. "That's it? He uses 'darling' and 'sweetheart' and 'angel' and you just call him by his regular name?"
"What else would I call him?" Y/N asks defensively.
"Oh, I don't know," Zayn says, clearly enjoying this. "Babe? Honey? My insufferable attending?"
"Snookums," Niall suggests with a completely straight face.
Harry chokes on his coffee. "Absolutely not."
"Pookie bear," Louis adds, warming to the theme.
"I will leave this table," Harry warns.
"Sugar plum," Zayn continues.
"Cuddle muffin," Niall says, now fully committed to the bit.
Y/N has her head in her hands, shoulders shaking with laughter."Please stop."
"No, no, I think we're onto something here," Louis says. "What about 'my little cardiac surgeon'?"
"That's not even a pet name, that's just a descriptor," Harry points out.
"Dr. McDreamy?" Zayn offers.
"That's Derek Shepherd's thing and you know it," Harry says flatly.
"Heartbreaker?" Y/N Niall tries.
"Too on the nose for a cardiothoracic surgeon," Louis dismisses. "What about...Captain Arrogant?"
"That's not a term of endearment, that's an insult," Harry says.
"Exactly," Louis grins.
Y/N finally looks up, tears of laughter in her eyes. "If you three don't stop, I'm leaving and taking my lunch with me."
"She can't call you any of those," Zayn says reasonably. "She has to maintain some professional dignity at the hospital."
"Unlike Harry, who apparently has none," Louis adds.
"I have plenty of professional dignity," Harry defends. "I just choose when to use it."
"You called her 'darling' during rounds last week," Niall points out."Morrison was right there."
Harry has the grace to look slightly sheepish. "It slipped out."
"It always 'slips out,'" Y/N says, using air quotes. "You have no filter."
"I have a filter. It's just very selective." He turns to the group. "And for the record, I like that she calls me Harry. It's normal. Grounding."
"How romantic," Louis deadpans. "Really swept her off her feet with that one."
"Sometimes Dr. Styles when I'm annoyed with him," Y/N adds thoughtfully. "The full name thing."
"Like a parent scolding a child," Zayn observes.
"Exactly like that," Y/N confirms.
Harry looks mildly offended. "I am not a child."
"You pout when you don't get your way in the OR," she counters.
"I do not pout."
"You absolutely pout," Niall, Louis, and Zayn say in unison.
Harry looks around the table, betrayed. "I thought you were my friends."
"We are your friends," Louis says. "Which is why we're telling you the truth. You pout."
"And you get this little crinkle between your eyebrows," Y/N adds, reaching up to touch the spot on Harry's forehead.
He catches her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm without thinking.
"See!" Louis gestures wildly. "THAT! That's what I'm talking about! We're in the middle of mocking you and you're still being disgustingly cute!"
Harry and Y/N exchange a glance, both trying and failing to look innocent.
"We're not being cute," Harry says.
"You're being revolting is what you're being," Louis corrects. "But fine. Y/N gets a pass on the nickname thing because apparently she's the only one who can get away with calling you by your actual name and having you look at her like she hung the moon."
"I do not—"
"You do," all four of them say simultaneously.
Harry sighs, defeated. "Fine. I look at her like she hung the moon. Are we done psychoanalyzing my relationship now?"
Niall checks his watch. "We should probably head back soon anyway. I've got a post-op check in thirty minutes."
As they all start gathering their things, Harry helps Y/N with her jacket, his hands lingering on her shoulders for just a moment.
"Thanks for lunch, love," he murmurs.
"I barely ate anything," she points out.
"Thanks for the company then," he corrects, dropping a kiss to the top of her head.
"UGH," Louis groans. "It's happening again!"
Harry just grins, completely unbothered, as he guides Y/N out of the booth with a hand on the small of her back.
As they file out of the restaurant, Louis falls into step beside Zayn, watching Harry and Y/N walk ahead of them, still in their own little bubble despite being surrounded by people.
"You know what the worst part is?" Louis says.
"What's that?"
"They don't even realize they're doing it. It's just...natural for them."
Zayn smiles. "That's not the worst part, Lou. That's actually the best part."
Louis considers this, watching as Harry says something that makes Y/N laugh, her whole face lighting up.
"Yeah," he admits finally. "I suppose it is. Doesn't mean I'm not getting a nickname though. I'm putting in a formal request."
"Let me know how that goes," Zayn says, patting his shoulder sympathetically.
Up ahead, completely oblivious to the conversation behind them, Harry leans in to whisper something in Y/N's ear, making her shake her head with a smile that's equal parts exasperated and adoring.
And just like that, they're back in their bubble.
· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·
The drive back to Harry's place is quiet, the comfortable kind of silence that comes from spending the entire day together. Y/N kicks off her shoes the moment they cross the threshold, groaning in relief.
"Twelve-hour shifts should be illegal," she mutters, padding toward the kitchen in her socks.
Harry follows, loosening his tie as he goes. He tosses his keys on the counter and leans against it, watching as she opens his fridge like it's her own, which at this point, it basically is.
"You know what?" he says suddenly, a mischievous glint in his green eyes. "I've been thinking."
Y/N pulls out a bottle of water, raising an eyebrow. "That's never good."
"Rude," he says, but he's grinning. "I'm serious though. Louis made a valid point at lunch."
"About being pathetically single?"
"No, about the nicknames." Harry pushes off the counter, moving closer. "I give you all these terms of endearment, darling, sweetheart, angel, love, and what do I get in return? Nothing. Just 'Harry.' Sometimes 'Dr. Styles' when you're being cheeky."
Y/N takes a sip of water, trying not to smile. "Your name is perfectly fine."
"It's boring," he counters, circling around her. "Everyone calls me Harry. I want something special. Something that's just from you."
"You want a nickname?"
"I want a nickname," he confirms, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "And since you're clearly not going to come up with one on your own, I've taken the liberty of brainstorming some options."
Y/N sets her water down, crossing her arms. "Oh, this should be good."
Harry starts counting on his fingers. "First option: 'Babe.' Classic, simple, gets the job done. Though maybe a bit too pedestrian for someone of my caliber—"
"Your caliber?" she interrupts, laughing.
"Second option," he continues, ignoring her, "'Honey.' Sweet, traditional. Makes me sound like we've been married for forty years and have grandchildren. Could work if you're into that whole domestic thing."
"I'm not calling you Honey."
"Third option, and this is where it gets interesting: 'Stud Muffin.'"
He grins wider. "Option four: 'Sexy Surgeon.' Alliterative, professional yet intimate—"
"Harry—"
"Option five: 'My Lord and Master.'"
She throws a dish towel at him, which he catches easily, laughing.
"I'm just trying to help you out here, love. You're clearly struggling with this."
Y/N moves closer, poking him in the chest. "I don't need help. And I'm certainly not calling you any of those."
"Not even Stud Muffin?" He looks genuinely disappointed. "I was really warming up to that one."
"Never in a million years."
Harry catches her hand against his chest, holding it there. "Fine. How about 'Handsome Devil'? 'Cardiac King'? 'The Man of Your Dreams'?"
"How about just Harry?" she suggests, trying to sound stern but failing as a smile tugs at her lips.
"But that's so ordinary," he protests, pulling her closer. "And I am anything but ordinary, wouldn't you say?"
She tilts her head, pretending to consider. "Ordinary? No. Humble? Also no."
"See? I need a nickname that reflects my extraordinary nature." His hands settle on her waist. "What about 'Captain Cardio'? 'Heart Throb'? Oh, that one's actually quite literal—"
"You're enjoying this way too much."
"I really am," he admits, grinning down at her. "Your face is doing this thing where you're trying not to laugh but you want to, and it's adorable."
Y/N shakes her head, wrapping her arms around his neck. "You know what? Fine. I'll give you a nickname."
His eyes light up. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." She pauses for dramatic effect. "How about...Harry?"
He groans, dropping his forehead to her shoulder. "You're killing me here, angel."
"See, you get to call me angel, and I get to call you by your actual name. It's perfect."
Harry lifts his head, his expression mock-serious. "This is discrimination. Relationship inequality. I should file a complaint."
"With who, exactly?"
"Human Resources? The Boyfriend Union? I don't know, but this injustice cannot stand." He's trying so hard to keep a straight face and failing miserably. "I demand pet name reparations."
Y/N laughs, the sound bright and genuine. "You're such an idiot."
"Your idiot," he corrects, pulling her flush against him. "Though that could work as a nickname too. 'My Idiot.' Has a nice ring to it."
"It really doesn't."
"What about 'Gorgeous'? 'Hot Stuff'? 'The Best Thing That Ever Happened to You'?"
She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling so wide her cheeks hurt. "That last one's a bit long, don't you think?"
"We could abbreviate. BTTETHY. Catchy."
"That sounds like a disease."
"A disease called love," he says dramatically, making her groan.
"Oh my god, stop."
"Not until you give me a proper nickname." He's being completely absurd now, and he knows it. "I'll keep going. 'Sugar Plum'? 'Cuddle Bunny'? 'Sir Operates-a-Lot'?"
Y/N buries her face in his chest, her shoulders shaking with laughter. "Please stop talking."
"'Monsieur Heart Surgeon'? 'The Cardiac Casanova'? 'Big Papa Bypass'?"
"HARRY!" She's laughing so hard she can barely breathe.
"See, there you go again. Just 'Harry.'" He sighs dramatically. "I suppose I'll have to accept my fate as the nickname-less boyfriend. Tragic, really. Future generations will speak of this inequality—"
Y/N pulls back just enough to look up at him, her eyes bright with affection and amusement.
"You're such a dork," she says fondly.
"Your dork," he corrects again, softer this time. "Though I'm still holding out hope for Stud Muffin."
"Never happening."
"What about just 'Stud'?"
"No."
"'Muffin'?"
"Absolutely not."
He grins, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Worth a shot."
She reaches up to run her fingers through his hair, making him practically purr.
"You know I love your name, right?" she says quietly. "The way it sounds, the way it feels to say it. I don't need to call you anything else."
Harry's expression softens, some of the teasing leaving his eyes.
"Yeah?" he murmurs.
"Yeah." She kisses him gently. "Though if you keep suggesting ridiculous nicknames, I might start calling you 'Pain in My Ass.'"
He laughs against her lips. "At least that one's accurate."
"Very accurate."
"But you love me anyway," he says, not a question but a statement of fact.
"Unfortunately," she agrees, smiling. "Though I'm starting to question my judgment."
"Too late now, angel. You're stuck with me." He scoops her up suddenly, making her squeal. "Nickname or no nickname."
"Harry! Put me down!"
"See, there it is again. Just 'Harry.' My poor, neglected nickname-less heart."
She smacks his shoulder playfully as he carries her toward the living room. "You're impossible."
"And yet you're still here."
"God knows why," she mutters, but she's grinning, her arms wrapped securely around his neck.
Harry deposits her on the couch, immediately climbing on top of her.
"Admit it," he says, pressing kisses along her jaw. "You loved my suggestions. Especially Stud Muffin."
"I absolutely did not."
"Liar," he murmurs against her skin. "You're smiling."
"I'm smiling because you're an idiot, not because your suggestions were good."
"My idiot," he reminds her, and she can feel him grinning.
Y/N reaches up, cupping his face in her hands.
"Fine," she says, her eyes dancing with mischief. "How about this: I'll call you whatever you want...in private."
Harry's eyebrows shoot up. "Whatever I want?"
"Within reason," she qualifies quickly. "And absolutely nothing you suggested today."
"Deal," he says immediately, then pauses. "Wait, what constitutes 'within reason'?"
She pats his cheek. "I guess you'll have to find out."
Harry groans, pulling her closer. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that?"
"Probably," she agrees cheerfully. "But at least you'll die happy, Stud Muffin."
His eyes widen in delight. "You said it!"
"That was a one-time thing. Never happening again."
"I'm going to hold you to that 'whatever you want in private' promise," he warns, his voice dropping lower.
"I'm counting on it," she whispers, and kisses him before he can suggest any more absurd nicknames.
Though knowing Harry, he'll have a whole new list ready by tomorrow.
A/N: For some reason my comments are disabled and I can't reply to anyone :( I really want to respond to you guys and thank you for all your love and feedback 🫶🏻
Summary: Harry Styles is a brilliant but infuriating surgeon who’s constantly butting heads with his stubborn intern. Their bickering is practically a daily surgery in itself.
A/n: Thank you SNL Harry for giving me the final push to finish this. Hope yall enjoy. I think theres just an epilouge after this 😗
Masterlist
Read Part 1 here first
Part 1.5 in his POV
Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | part 6
The shower helps marginally. Y/N stands under the hot spray until her skin turns pink, trying to wash away the panic that clings to her like a second skin. But even the steam can't clear the fog of dread in her mind.
Career over. The words loop endlessly.
She pulls on soft pajama pants and an oversized sweatshirt, one of Harry's, actually, that she'd stolen weeks ago. The fabric smells like him, which should be comforting but instead makes her chest ache.
In the kitchen, she stares at the contents of her fridge. Leftover Thai food. Some yogurt. Half a sandwich from yesterday. Her stomach churns at the thought of eating any of it.
She manages to force down a few crackers and some water before her phone rings.
Niall's name flashes on the screen.
"Hello?"
"What the actual fuck, Y/N?!" His voice is frantic. "I just heard—drug test? Positive? Please tell me this is some kind of sick joke."
She sinks onto her couch, pulling her knees to her chest. "I wish it was."
"But you don't—you've never—" He sounds genuinely distressed. "This doesn't make any sense. You're the most straight-laced person I know. You won't even take ibuprofen without reading the label three times."
"I know."
"So what happened? Lab error? Contamination?"
"I don't know, Niall. Harry's trying to figure it out." Her voice wavers. "Morrison wants to suspend me."
"Fuck. Fuck!" She hears him moving around, probably pacing. "Okay. What can I do? Do you need me to—wait, where are you? Are you home?"
"Yeah."
"Are you alone?"
The question makes her realize how quiet her apartment is. How empty.
"Yeah."
"Absolutely not. I'm coming over." Keys jingle in the background. "Have you eaten? Never mind, stupid question. I'm bringing food. Real food, not whatever sad crackers you're probably staring at."
Despite everything, a small smile tugs at her lips. "You don't have to—"
"Too late. Already grabbed my coat." His tone softens. "You shouldn't be alone right now, hun. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
Relief floods through her. "Thank you."
"That's what friends are for. And hey—" He pauses. "We're going to fix this. You're one of the best residents in this program. Everyone knows that. This is just...a bump. A really fucked up, terrifying bump, but still just a bump."
She wants to believe him.
"Twenty minutes," Niall repeats. "Lock your door until I get there. And text Styles to let him know I'm coming over so he doesn't lose his mind thinking you're alone."
"He's making calls. Trying to—"
"I know. But text him anyway. He's probably already halfway to a stress-induced heart attack." There's a knowing tone in Niall's voice. "See you soon." The line goes dead.
Y/N pulls up her messages with Harry. There are already three from him:
Called Morrison. She's agreed to the hair follicle test. Should have results in 3-4 days.
Also requested a meeting with the lab director first thing tomorrow. Going to review the chain of custody for your sample.
How are you doing? Did you eat?
She types back:
Niall heard. He's coming over. Didn't want me alone.
The response is almost immediate:
Good. I'm glad. Was about to finish up here and come to you myself.
I love you. We're going to fix this.
Her throat tightens as she stares at those three words.
I love you too. Thank you doing this.
Always, baby. Always.
She sets her phone down just as a knock sounds at her door. That was definitely not twenty minutes. Y/N peers through the peephole to see Niall standing there with two large bags of what looks like Chinese takeout.
She opens the door. "You said twenty minutes."
"I may have already been in my car when I called." He pushes past her, heading straight for the kitchen. "And I may have already ordered the food before that because I had a feeling you'd need company tonight."
"You're a terrible liar."
"And you're a terrible eater when you're stressed." He starts unpacking containers. "Sit. We're going to eat, and you're going to tell me everything. And then we're going to figure out who the hell is trying to sabotage you."
As they settled and began to unpack the food, she knitted her brows. "You think someone is trying to sabotage me?" Y/N always liked to see the good in people. Who would even want to sabotage her?
Niall pauses mid-unpacking, a container of lo mein in his hand. He gives her a look that's equal parts exasperated and fond.
"Babe. Come on. You don't just randomly test positive for opiates." He sets the container down, leaning against her counter. "Especially not you. I've seen you refuse pain meds after getting your wisdom teeth out because you were worried about getting drowsy before an exam."
She sits at the small dining table, pulling one of the containers toward her. "It could be a lab error. Harry said the initial screening can have false positives."
"Sure. Could be." But his tone suggests he doesn't believe it. "Or it could be someone who has access to controlled substances and a reason to want you gone."
Y/N frowns, absently opening the container of orange chicken. "Who would want me gone? I keep my head down, I do my work—"
"You're also dating the chief of cardiothoracic surgery." Niall grabs plates from her cabinet without asking—he's been here enough times to know where everything is. "And you're brilliant. Top of your class. You've already scrubbed in on more complex surgeries than most third-years."
"That doesn't mean—"
"It means people notice you. And some people don't like being outshined." He slides a plate in front of her, then starts loading it with food. "Plus, there's the whole Daniella situation."
Y/N's hand freezes halfway to her fork. "What about Daniella?"
"She cornered you. Told you Harry was using you. Tried to get him back." Niall ticks off on his fingers. "And she's been here for weeks with full access to the med rooms, the labs, everything."
"She left yesterday. Went back to Johns Hopkins."
"Convenient timing, don't you think?" He sits across from her. "Your test comes back positive right when she leaves?"
Y/N shakes her head. "That's...that's crazy. Why would she risk her entire career just to mess with mine?"
"Because she wants Harry back and you're in the way?" Niall shrugs. "Hell hath no fury and all that."
"But drugging someone? Planting evidence?" She can't wrap her mind around it. "That's not just petty. That's criminal."
"So is stealing controlled substances from a hospital, but people do it every day." He points his fork at her. "I'm not saying it's definitely her. But you have to admit the timing is suspicious."
Y/N picks at her food, her appetite still nonexistent despite the delicious smell. "I just…I don't want to believe someone would do that. Especially another doctor."
"You always see the best in people. It's one of your most annoying qualities." But there's affection in his voice. "Unfortunately, not everyone deserves that benefit of the doubt."
"Harry didn't mention her."
"Because he's probably thinking the same thing but doesn't want to accuse someone without proof." Niall takes a bite of his food. "But I guarantee he's considering every possibility. I heard the man looked ready to commit murder when he found out about your test."
A small warmth blooms in her chest despite everything. "He told me he loves me."
Niall nearly chokes on his fried rice. "What?!"
"Tonight. In the locker room." She can't help the tiny smile. "He said he loves me and he's going to fix this."
"Well, fuck." Niall grins. "About damn time. I was wondering how long it would take him to pull his head out of his ass."
"We also fought last night. I called him a coward."
"Oh, I heard about that too." At her surprised look, he shrugs. "Hospital gossip. Apparently you two had quite the screaming match in his office."
She groans, dropping her head into her hands. "Great. So everyone knows."
"Everyone already knew you were together, babe. You're not as subtle as you think." He reaches across to squeeze her arm. "But hey, at least now it's out in the open. No more sneaking around."
"Except now I might not have a career to worry about hiding."
"Stop." His voice turns firm. "You're going to be fine. Harry's going to figure this out, the hair test is going to come back clean, and whoever did this is going to get caught."
"You sound very confident."
"Because I am. You're innocent. The truth always comes out eventually." He pushes more food onto her plate. "Now eat. You need your strength for whatever shitstorm tomorrow brings."
She manages a few bites, the food settling heavy in her anxious stomach.
"Thank you for coming over."
"Where else would I be?" Niall's expression softens. "You're my best friend. And you're going through hell. So I'm here. For as long as you need."
Her eyes sting with fresh tears. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Probably starve, based on the contents of your fridge." He tries to lighten the mood. "Seriously, when was the last time you went grocery shopping?"
"I've been busy."
"Busy sleeping with the chief, you mean."
Despite everything, she laughs. "Shut up."
"There she is." He grins. "That's the Y/N I know. Now eat your damn orange chicken and tell me everything Harry said. I want details."
They end up on the couch, plates balanced on their laps, some mindless reality show playing on the TV. Y/N isn't really watching though. Her mind keeps circling back to the positive test and the fear that keeps clawing at her chest.
Niall keeps up a running commentary on the show, pointing out the absurdity of people fighting over roses and manufactured drama. It's familair. The kind of normal she desperately needs right now.
She's halfway through forcing down some fried rice when there's a knock at her door.
Niall glances at the time on his phone. "That'll be your boyfriend."
Y/N sets her plate aside and moves to the door, checking the peephole. Sure enough, Harry stands there, still in his work clothes, looking exhausted.
She opens the door.
"Hi."
"Hi." His eyes scan her face, taking inventory. "You okay?"
"Better now that Niall brought food and forced me to eat."
Harry steps inside, his gaze shifting to Niall on the couch. "Horan."
"Dr. Styles." Niall stands, gathering his jacket. "I was just leaving. She's eaten, she's calmer, and she knows she's not alone in this."
"Thank you for staying with her."
"That's what friends do." Niall moves toward the door, pausing to press a quick kiss to Y/N's temple. "Text me if you need anything. And I mean anything. Three in the morning, doesn't matter."
"I will. Thank you."
He shoots Harry a pointed look. "Take care of her."
"I intend to."
Niall nods, satisfied, and slips out the door.
The apartment feels suddenly smaller with just the two of them.
Harry shrugs off his coat, draping it over the back of a chair. His tie is loosened, the top button of his shirt undone. He looks like he's been running on pure adrenaline for hours.
"Have you eaten?" Y/N asks.
"Not hungry." He crosses to her, hands coming up to frame her face. "How are you really doing?"
"Scared," she admits quietly. "Trying not to spiral."
"Good. That's good." His thumbs stroke across her cheekbones. "I talked to Morrison for almost an hour. She's agreed to the hair follicle test and to hold off on any official suspension until we get the results."
"That's... that's good, right?"
"It's better than I hoped for, honestly." He guides her back to the couch, pulling her down beside him. "I also spoke with the lab director. They're going to review the entire chain of custody for your sample tomorrow morning. Every person who touched it, every step of the process."
Y/N leans into him, her head finding his shoulder. "What if the hair test comes back positive too?"
"It won't."
"But what if—"
"It won't, baby." His arm wraps around her, holding her close. "Because you haven't taken anything. The science will prove that."
She wants to believe him. Needs to believe him.
"Niall thinks someone sabotaged me."
Harry's jaw tightens against her hair. "The thought crossed my mind too."
"But who would do that?"
"I don't know yet." His voice is carefully neutral. "But if someone did, we'll find out. The chain of custody review will show if anyone had unauthorized access to your sample."
They sit in silence for a moment, the TV still playing its mindless drama in the background.
"I'm sorry about last night," Y/N whispers. "The things I said—"
"Were true." He cuts her off gently. "You were right. I should have changed your evaluator weeks ago. I was making excuses because I was scared of making us official."
"And now?"
"Now I don't give a damn who knows." He presses a kiss to her hair. "First thing tomorrow, I'm filing the paperwork. You'll be reassigned to Dr. Chen for evaluations."
"Won't that look suspicious? Right after the positive test?"
"Maybe. But it's the right thing to do." His hand finds hers, fingers lacing together. "And it means I can advocate for you without anyone questioning my motives."
Y/N tilts her head up to look at him. "You really think we can fix this?"
"I know we can." His green eyes are fierce, determined. "I'm not losing you. Not to a false positive, not to hospital politics, not to anything."
She kissed him, a soft, thankful gesture filled with all the unspoken feelings she held for him. When they break apart, Harry rests his forehead against hers.
"Stay tonight?" she asks quietly.
"I'm not going anywhere."
She manages a small smile, taking his hand and pulling him properly onto the couch. She curls into his side, deciding she's done spiraling for tonight. Her mind needs a break from the fear.
"So," she says, tilting her head to look up at him, a hint of her usual teasing creeping into her voice. "You love me, huh?"
There's something vulnerable beneath the playfulness. Like she needs to hear it again, needs the reassurance that it wasn't just said in the heat of the moment.
"That's what you want to focus on right now?" Harry's lips twitch, almost smiling.
"Well, it's better than thinking about my career imploding." She traces absent patterns on his chest. "Plus, you kind of dropped that bomb and then immediately went into crisis-management mode. Didn't really give me time to process."
Harry's expression softens completely, all the tension from the day melting away as he looks down at her. His hand comes up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, fingers lingering against her jaw.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "I love you. Completely mental about you, actually."
His thumb brushes across her cheekbone.
"Been in love with you for weeks, if I'm being honest. Maybe longer." A self-deprecating laugh escapes him. "Just took me a while to pull my head out of my arse and admit it."
Y/N's heart does something complicated in her chest.
"Weeks?"
"At least." His green eyes are warm, unguarded in a way she's rarely seen. "Especially since that night you fell asleep on my couch after that eighteen-hour surgery. Woke up to you drooling on my shoulder, looking absolutely gorgeous despite being completely knackered."
"I don't drool."
"You absolutely do." He grins. "It's adorable. Almost as adorable as the little snore you do when you're really exhausted."
"I do not snore!"
"Baby, you sound like a tiny congested kitten." His fingers trail down her neck. "It's one of my favorite sounds in the world."
She swats at his chest, but she's smiling now. Actually smiling for the first time since this nightmare started.
"You're supposed to be comforting me, not insulting me."
"I am comforting you." He pulls her closer, until she's practically in his lap. "By reminding you that I'm stupidly in love with you. Snoring, drooling, challenging me at every turn, calling me a coward when I deserve it. All of it."
His voice drops lower, more intimate.
"I love how brilliant you are. How you care so deeply about every patient that you make yourself sick with worry. How you steal my coffee and my shirts and somehow make both look better than they ever did on me." His hand slides up her back. "I love that you don't let me get away with anything. That you push back when I'm being unreasonable."
"Which is often."
"Which is often," he agrees with a slight smirk. "I love waking up next to you. Coming home to you. The way you fit perfectly against me like you were made for this."
He shifts, pulling her fully into his lap so she's straddling him, her knees on either side of his hips.
"I love you," he murmurs against her lips. "And I'm going to keep saying it until you're sick of hearing it."
"I don't think I could ever get sick of hearing it." Her hands slide up to cup his face, feeling the slight stubble there. "Say it again."
"I love you."
"Again."
"I love you, Y/N." He kisses her softly. "I love you." Another kiss. "I'm in love with you." His hands grip her hips. "Completely gone for you."
She kisses him properly then, pouring everything into it. When they break apart, both breathing harder, Harry rests his forehead against hers.
"We're going to get through this," he whispers. "Together. And then I'm going to take you on a proper date where nothing goes wrong and no one tries to destroy your career."
"Sounds perfect."
"And then I'm going to bring you back here and spend the entire night showing you exactly how much I love you." His voice turns rough, heated. "Every single way I can think of."
Heat pools low in her stomach despite everything.
"Just the night?"
"Well, I do have to sleep eventually." His lips curve against her jaw. "But I'm willing to test my limits."
She laughs, actually laughs, and it feels like breathing after being underwater.
"There she is," Harry murmurs, pulling back to look at her. "That's my girl."
His girl. The words settle warm and certain in her chest.
"I love you too," she says softly. "Even when you ignore me all day like a child."
"I really am sorry about that."
"I know." She kisses the corner of his mouth. "But you're making up for it now."
"Good." His hands slide under her, fingers splaying across her bare skin. "Because I plan on spending the rest of the night making it up to you."
The bedroom is quiet except for Harry's steady breathing. He's sprawled half on top of her, his head resting on her chest, one arm wrapped possessively around her waist even in sleep. The weight of him should be comforting, and it is, but her mind won't shut off.
She stares at the ceiling, watching shadows shift across the plaster.
Career over. Suspension. Positive test.
The words circle endlessly, a carousel of anxiety she can't seem to dismount.
Harry shifts slightly, his breath warm against her collarbone. She runs her fingers through his curls gently, careful not to wake him. He needs the rest. He's been running on pure determination and coffee for hours.
She closes her eyes and tries to force sleep. But her brain has other ideas.
Fine. If she can't sleep, she'll do what she used to do in med school when insomnia struck the night before an exam. Think through medical facts. Let the familiar rhythm of information lull her into unconsciousness.
Drug testing. Might as well start there since it's already consuming her thoughts.
Immunoassay screening. First line of defense. It’s quick and cheap, but prone to cross-reactivity. False positives happen when the antibodies bind to structurally similar compounds...
Her mind catalogs the common culprits. Poppy seeds and opiates, everyone knows that one. Ibuprofen can trigger false positives for marijuana. Certain antibiotics for cocaine.
But she hasn't taken any of those. Nothing that would explain—
Wait.
Her eyes fly open in the darkness.
Structurally similar compounds.
Her heart starts racing as pieces click together in her mind.
She'd been sick two weeks ago. Nothing serious, ust a nasty sinus infection that wouldn't quit. She'd gone to urgent care because she needed to be functional for her shifts. The doctor had prescribed...what was it?
She carefully extracts herself from under Harry, trying not to wake him. He mumbles something incoherent but doesn't fully rouse, just reaches for her pillow and buries his face in it.
Y/N pads quietly to her bathroom, flipping on the light and squinting against the brightness. She opens her medicine cabinet, scanning the bottles until she finds it. Levofloxacin. A fluoroquinolone antibiotic.
She stares at the label, her medical training kicking into high gear.
Fluoroquinolones. Structurally similar to...? She racks her brain, pulling up everything she learned in pharmacology. Not opiates. That doesn't make sense. The molecular structure is completely different.
But then what—
Wait. Not the antibiotic itself.
She sets down the levofloxacin and keeps searching. There's another bottle in the back. Something the urgent care doctor had given her for the congestion.
Pseudoephedrine.
Her breath catches. Pseudoephedrine. A decongestant. Chemically similar to amphetamines because it's literally a stereoisomer of ephedrine. The immunoassay antibodies could absolutely cross-react with—
No. Wait. That would show up as amphetamines, not opiates.
She's missing something.
Think, Y/N. Think.
What else had she taken? She'd been so miserable, barely able to breathe through her nose. The urgent care doctor had been thorough, wanting to make sure she could function for her shifts...
And then it hits her.
The cough syrup.
She tears through the cabinet, knocking over bottles until she finds it. A prescription cough suppressant the doctor had insisted on when she'd mentioned the dry cough keeping her up at night.
She reads the label with shaking hands. Promethazine with codeine.
"Oh my god," she whispers. Codeine. A morphine derivative. An opiate.
She'd taken it. Two weeks ago, maybe three times total because the cough had been brutal. Just at night, just enough to sleep. She'd stopped when the cough improved, hadn't even thought about it since.
But codeine metabolizes into morphine in the body. And morphine can be detected in urine for up to three days after use, sometimes longer depending on dosage and individual metabolism.
Except...she'd stopped taking it over a week ago. It should be out of her system by now.
Her mind races through the pharmacokinetics.
Individual variation in metabolism. CYP2D6 enzyme activity. Some people are poor metabolizers, meaning drugs stay in their system longer. And she's never been tested for her metabolic profile—why would she be?
Or—
She gasps.
The timing.
When was her drug test? Three days ago. And when had she last taken the cough syrup?
She grabs her phone, pulling up her calendar with trembling fingers. She'd marked down when she finished the antibiotic course because she needed to make sure she completed the full ten days. The antibiotic ended six days ago. Which means she'd started it...sixteen days ago. And the cough syrup? She'd taken it for the first three nights of being sick, when the cough was worst. Thirteen to fifteen days before the drug test. That should be plenty of time for it to clear her system. Codeine doesn't last that long unless...
Unless she's a poor metabolizer. Or unless there was something else affecting her metabolism.
She thinks back. What had she been doing around that time?
Working insane hours. Barely sleeping. Living on coffee and—
Grapefruit juice.
She'd been on a health kick, trying to get more vitamins. Had been drinking grapefruit juice every morning with breakfast for weeks. Grapefruit inhibits CYP3A4 enzymes. It can slow the metabolism of dozens of drugs, causing them to build up in the system or be eliminated more slowly.
Could that explain it? Could the combination of codeine, poor sleep, stress, and grapefruit juice have caused the drug to linger in her system long enough to trigger a positive test?
She stares at the cough syrup bottle, her mind still racing through possibilities.
But the timeline doesn't quite work. Even with grapefruit juice slowing metabolism, codeine doesn't stay in your system for two weeks. It's just not pharmacokinetically possible unless she has some severe metabolic disorder…which she doesn't.
She sets the bottle down, frustration building. Think. There has to be something else.
What had she consumed in the days leading up to the test? She mentally catalogs everything. Coffee. Water. The cafeteria salad that tasted like cardboard. More coffee. Nothing unusual. Nothing that would—
Wait.
The muffin.
Daniella had given her a muffin. The day before the test. Y/N had been suspicious but also exhausted and hungry. And it had seemed petty to refuse a muffin. So she'd accepted it, eaten it while reviewing charts in Harry’s office.
It had been...what? Lemon? No. Darker. With seeds throughout. Her heart starts pounding.
Seeds.
"Oh my god."
Poppy seeds.
She'd learned this in toxicology. It's one of the most well-documented causes of false positive opiate tests. Poppy seeds come from the same plant that produces opium. They can be contaminated with morphine and codeine during harvesting. Eating a single poppy seed muffin can cause a positive opiate test for up to 48 hours. Sometimes longer. And Daniella would know that. Any doctor would know that. It's basic pharmacology.
Y/N's hands shake as the full picture crystallizes. Daniella gave her the muffin the morning before the test. Plenty of time for the opiates to show up in her urine but still be present enough to trigger the immunoassay.
"Harry!"
She practically runs back to the bedroom, slamming on the light.
"Harry, wake up!"
He jolts awake, immediately alert despite the grogginess in his eyes.
"What? What's wrong?" He sits up, scanning her for signs of distress. "Baby, what—"
Harry blinks against the sudden brightness, his hair adorably mussed, confusion written across his face.
"Y/N, what—"
"The muffins!" She's breathless, words tumbling out too fast. "The muffins Daniella brought to the hospital. The ones I ate while we were going over the Ronald case. Do you remember what kind they were?"
He rubs his eyes, trying to catch up. "I...what? Muffins?"
"Harry, focus." She grabs his shoulders. "Daniella brought them as a goodbye gift. I ate two of them in your office while we were reviewing charts. What kind were they?"
His brow furrows as he tries to recall. "I don't...I didn't pay attention. I was looking at the scans—"
"They had seeds in them." Her voice cracks slightly. "Dark seeds throughout. I remember thinking they were really good, kind of nutty flavor."
She watches as understanding starts to dawn in his eyes.
"Poppy seeds," he says slowly.
"Poppy seeds." She nods frantically. "Which come from Papaver somniferum. The same plant that produces opium. They can be contaminated with morphine and codeine during harvesting. Eating even one muffin can cause a positive opiate test for 24 to 48 hours, sometimes longer depending on the concentration."
Harry's fully awake now, his mind clearly racing through the same connections.
"When did she bring them?"
"The day before the test." Y/N starts pacing. "The timeline fits perfectly. I ate them mid-morning, the test was the next afternoon. Plenty of time for the alkaloids to be absorbed and excreted in detectable amounts."
"That conniving—" Harry's jaw clenches, fury flashing across his face.
"It's documented in dozens of studies," she continues, the words spilling out. "There was a case in 1990 where a mother lost custody of her child because of a false positive from poppy seed bagels. The Air Force had to change their drug testing protocols because pilots kept testing positive after eating lemon poppy seed muffins from the base cafeteria."
She stops pacing, looking at him with wild eyes.
"She knew, Harry. She's a doctor—she would absolutely know about dietary causes of false positives. And she gave me those muffins right before my scheduled drug test."
Harry throws back the covers, standing up. "That's it then. We have her. We can prove—"
"No." The word comes out flat, defeated. "We can't."
He stops, looking at her in confusion. "What do you mean we can't? You just explained exactly how she did it."
"I explained how I got a false positive." Y/N sinks onto the edge of the bed, the adrenaline draining away as quickly as it came. "But I can't prove it was deliberate."
Understanding crashes over Harry's features. "There's no way to prove she knew about the test," Y/N continues, her voice hollow. "No way to prove she specifically chose poppy seed muffins with the intention of sabotaging me. It was a goodbye gift. A kind gesture from a visiting doctor to the staff."
She looks up at him, eyes stinging. "If I accuse her of this, it just looks like I'm trying to blame someone else for my own mistake. Like I'm paranoid and desperate." Her voice breaks. "It makes me look worse, not better."
Harry's hands clench into fists at his sides. "But we know—"
"We suspect." She cuts him off gently. "We can't know. Not for sure. And even if we could, what are we going to say? 'She gave me muffins and they happened to cause a false positive'? That's not sabotage. That's just...unfortunate timing."
The weight of it settles over her like a heavy blanket.
"She's smart," Y/N whispers. "If she did this, and god, I really think she did, she was smart about it. Plausible deniability. No fingerprints. Just a thoughtful gift that happened to ruin my career."
Harry sits down beside her, pulling her against his chest.
"This is bullshit."
"Yeah." She laughs bitterly. "It really is."
They sit in silence for a moment, the revelation hanging between them. It was both an answer and a dead end.
"The hair test will still clear you," Harry says finally. "Poppy seeds only show up in urine, not in hair follicles. When that comes back negative, it proves the urine test was a false positive."
"But it doesn't prove why." She pulls back to look at him. "And Morrison will ask. She'll want to know what caused it. And when I say poppy seed muffins, she's going to ask where I got them, and then..."
"And then you either lie or you implicate Daniella with no proof."
Y/N drops her head into her hands.
"I hate this. I hate that she might have done this and there's nothing we can do about it."
Harry's hand moves to her shoulder, rubbing slow circles that should be comforting but only make the knot in her chest tighten further.
"I'm sorry." His voice is rough, heavy with guilt. "This is my fault. Daniella is my ex, my baggage. She's getting at you because of me."
Y/N lets out a long, shaky sigh, her shoulders slumping under his touch. She shrugs, the gesture feeling heavier than it should. "Yeah, well. Can't exactly change that now, can we?"
A brittle and humorless laugh escapes her. "Guess I'll just have to be the bigger person." She stares at the wall, jaw tight. "Tell Morrison it was an honest mistake. Poppy seed muffins from a well-meaning colleague. Laugh it off like I don't want to wrap my hands around that bitch's throat and—"
She stops herself, shaking her head. "God, listen to me. I sound insane."
Harry pulls her closer, pressing a kiss to her temple. "You sound like someone who's been royally screwed over and has every right to be angry about it."
"Angry doesn't fix this." She leans into him despite herself. "Angry just makes me look unstable. Defensive. Like I'm lashing out because I got caught."
Her voice drops to barely a whisper. "She wins either way. If I accuse her, I look paranoid. If I don't, she gets away with it completely clean." She closes her eyes. "And the worst part? I'll never know for sure if she actually did it on purpose or if I'm just connecting dots that aren't there because I'm desperate for an explanation that isn't my own stupidity."
Harry's grip tightens on her. "You're not stupid. And my money's on her doing this deliberately. She cornered you in the locker room, tried to warn you off me. When that didn't work, she found another way."
"Can't prove it."
"No," he admits quietly. "We can't."
Y/N pulls away slightly, wiping at her eyes even though she's not crying. Just exhausted. Wrung out. "The hair test will come back clean. Morrison will ask what caused the false positive. I'll tell her about the muffins, leave Daniella's name out of it if I can. If pressed, I'll say a colleague brought them as a goodbye gift. Make it sound like hospital culture, people sharing food all the time."
She looks at Harry, trying for a smile that doesn't quite land. "And then I'll go back to work and pretend my hands don't shake every time I see Daniella's face in my head." Harry's expression darkens, his jaw working.
"She's gone. Left for Baltimore yesterday. You won't have to see her."
"Good." The word comes out sharper than intended. "Because I don't trust myself around her right now." She stands, needing to move, to do something with the restless energy coursing through her.
"I should try to sleep. Big day tomorrow with Morrison and the lab review and—" She waves a hand vaguely. "Everything."
Harry stands too, catching her hand. "Come here." He pulls her back into his arms, holding her tight enough that she can feel his heartbeat against her cheek.
"We'll get through this," he murmurs into her hair. "The hair test will clear you. You'll be back on the surgical floor within a week. And Daniella will be three hundred miles away, hopefully choking on her own bitterness."
Despite everything, Y/N huffs out a small laugh. "That's dark."
"I'm feeling dark." His hand runs up and down her spine. "She tried to destroy your career. I'm allowed to wish minor misfortune upon her."
"Minor?"
"Fine. Major misfortune. May all her surgeries run long and her coffee always be lukewarm."
This time Y/N's laugh is real, if still a bit watery.
"You're ridiculous."
Harry kisses the top of her head. "And you're exhausted. Come on. Back to bed."
He guides her toward the mattress, pulling back the covers. "Try to sleep, baby. Your brain's done enough work for one night."
She crawls back into bed, and Harry settles beside her, pulling her against his chest. His fingers card through her hair in slow, soothing strokes.
"For what it's worth," he says quietly into the darkness, "I believe you. About the muffins. About Daniella. All of it."
"Thanks," she whispers.
"And when this is over and you're cleared, I'm taking you somewhere far away from this hospital for a weekend. Somewhere with good food and no pagers and absolutely no poppy seeds."
Y/N closes her eyes, letting his warmth seep into her.
"Sounds perfect." She doesn't expect to sleep, but eventually, wrapped in Harry's arms with his steady breathing in her ear, exhaustion finally drags her under.
Harry wakes to the pale grey light of early morning filtering through Y/N's curtains. He blinks slowly, orienting himself to her bedroom and her warm body tucked against his side.
For a moment, he just watches her sleep. Her face is relaxed in a way it hasn't been for days, the worry lines smoothed away. One hand is curled under her chin, the other resting on his chest. She looks young like this. His heart clenches.
He extracts himself carefully from her embrace, moving slowly so he doesn't wake her. She needs the rest. God knows she won't get much peace once the day starts. He sits on the edge of the bed for a moment, just looking at her. Then he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.
"You're going to be okay," he whispers against her skin. "I promise you're going to be okay."
She stirs slightly but doesn't wake.He moves to her temple and places another gentle kiss.
"Morrison's going to see the truth. The hair test will prove everything." His lips brush her cheekbone. "And then you're going to walk back into that OR like the brilliant surgeon you are." Another kiss, this one at the corner of her mouth. "I love you," he murmurs. "So bloody much it terrifies me sometimes. But I'm not going anywhere. Not now, and not ever."
His thumb traces her jaw softly. "You're the strongest person I know. Stronger than me, that's for damn sure." A quiet huff of laughter. "You're going to face Morrison with that sharp mind of yours and she's going to realize what I've known all along. That you're exceptional."
He kisses her properly, then soft and lingering, pouring everything he can't say into it.
When he pulls back, her eyes flutter open slightly. "Harry?" Her voice is sleep-rough, confused.
"Shh. Go back to sleep, love." He smooths her hair back. "I'm just heading to my place to shower and change. I'll see you at the hospital."
"Mmm. 'Kay." She's already drifting off again, burrowing into the pillow that still smells like him. He stands, tucking the blankets around her more securely.
"Remember what I said," he whispers, even though she's already asleep again. "You've got this. And you've got me." One more kiss to her forehead, and then he forces himself to leave before he crawls back into bed with her.
He needs to shower, change into fresh clothes, and get his head in the game. Because today, he's going to make damn sure Morrison sees exactly what kind of doctor Y/N is. And if Daniella's name happens to come up in conversation with the right people…He's not above making a few strategic phone calls to Baltimore. But first, coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.
He takes one last look at Y/N sleeping peacefully, commits the image to memory, and quietly lets himself out.
Y/N stands outside Morrison's office, staring at the closed door like it might bite her. Through the frosted glass, she can make out two figures. Morrison's sharp silhouette behind her desk, and Harry's broader frame in one of the chairs facing her.
He's already in there. Probably laying groundwork, doing damage control, being the chief of surgery everyone respects.She should knock. Should get this over with. Instead, she just stands there, feeling hollowed out. Empty.
The fear from last night has burned itself out, leaving nothing but exhaustion in its wake. She's cried, panicked, spiraled, solved the mystery, and realized the solution doesn't actually help. Now there's just...nothing. A blank numbness that feels almost worse than the terror.
She's so tired of this. Tired of defending herself, of explaining, of carrying this weight. Just wants it done. Her hand rises to knock, hesitates. What if the hair test isn't back yet? What if Morrison has more questions she can't answer? What if—
No. Stop. She's not doing this again. Not spiraling. She's just going to walk in there, tell the truth about the poppy seed muffins, and let the science speak for itself. Simple. Clinical. Detached.
She can do detached. She's been doing it all morning. Going through the motions of getting ready, drinking coffee she couldn't taste, putting on professional clothes that feel like armor she's too tired to carry. Her knuckles finally connect with the door. Three sharp raps.
"Come in." Morrison's voice is neutral. Not warm, not cold. Just professional.
Y/N pushes the door open. Harry's eyes find hers immediately, and something in his expression softens. There's concern there, and love, and a fierce protectiveness that makes her chest ache.
Morrison looks up from whatever file she's been reviewing.
"Dr. Y/L/N. Please, sit."
Y/N moves on autopilot, sinking into the chair beside Harry. She doesn't look at him again. Actually can't or she'll break down completely.
"Thank you for meeting with me," Morrison begins, closing the file. "I know this has been a difficult few days."
Difficult. That's one word for it.
"I wanted to update you on the status of your case." Morrison folds her hands on her desk. "The hair follicle test results came back this morning."
Y/N's heart stutters.Morrison's expression doesn't change as she continues. "The results were negative for all tested substances, including opiates."
The relief should be overwhelming. Should wash through her like a tidal wave. Instead, it just feels like she can finally exhale after holding her breath for too long. "That's...good," she manages.
"It's more than good," Morrison says. "It confirms that the initial urine screening was a false positive, as Dr. Styles suggested."
She glances at Harry briefly before returning her attention to Y/N. "However, I do need to understand what caused the false positive. For our records, and to ensure it doesn't happen again."
Here it is. The moment of truth. Y/N straightens slightly, forcing herself to meet Morrison's gaze.
"Poppy seeds," she says, her voice steadier than she feels. "I ate two muffins containing poppy seeds approximately 30 hours before the test. I didn't think about it at the time and didn't realize they could cause a false positive."
"Yes." Y/N nods. "It's documented in the literature. Papaver somniferum seeds can be contaminated with morphine and codeine alkaloids during harvesting. Consumption can result in detectable levels in urine for 24 to 48 hours."
She's slipping into clinical mode now, reciting facts like she's presenting a case.
"There are multiple published studies. A 2003 paper in the Journal of Analytical Toxicology found that eating a single muffin could produce morphine concentrations above the standard cutoff threshold. The Defense Department had to adjust their testing protocols because of false positives from poppy seed bagels in the commissary."
Morrison listens without interrupting, her expression thoughtful. "And you consumed these muffins where?"
Y/N takes a deep breath, her fingers finding the hem of her scrub top. She grips the fabric tightly. A small tell that Harry notices immediately, even as her voice remains perfectly level.
"At the hospital. In Dr. Styles' office, actually." She keeps her tone clinical, detached. "Dr. Daniella Marx was a visiting surgeon collaborating with our department for a few weeks. On her last day, she brought baked goods as a goodbye gesture for the staff. I happened to take mine to his office be reviewing a case"
Her knuckles are white against the navy fabric.
"She offered them to both of us. I accepted and ate two of them while we worked. They were lemon poppy seed muffins from a bakery near nearby/. I didn't think anything of it at the time. Just a colleague being thoughtful before leaving."
Morrison's pen moves across her notepad.
"And this was approximately 30 hours before your scheduled drug screening?"
"Yes, ma'am. Give or take a few hours." Y/N's grip tightens further. "I realize now I should have been more aware of potential dietary causes for false positives, especially given that hospital drug testing is random but regular. It was an oversight on my part."
She's taking responsibility. Not making excuses. Just stating facts in the most neutral possible way. Harry can see the cost of that neutrality in the tension of her jaw, the careful control of her breathing.
"The timing was purely coincidental," Y/N continues. "Dr. Marx had no way of knowing I had a drug test scheduled the following day. The testing schedule is confidential and randomized."
Morrison looks up from her notes. "You're certain about the timeline? The muffins were consumed 30 hours before the test?"
"Yes. The case review was two days before my test, mid-morning. The test was conducted the following afternoon around 2 PM." Y/N's voice doesn't waver. "I can provide the exact date and time if needed."
"That won't be necessary." Morrison sets down her pen. "Dr. Marx is no longer with us, correct?"
"She returned to Johns Hopkins two days ago," Harry interjects quietly. "Her collaboration period ended as scheduled."
Morrison nods slowly, her gaze moving between them. "Dr. Y/L/N, I appreciate your transparency about the source of the contamination. However, I do have to ask—" She pauses. "Is there any reason to believe this wasn't simply an unfortunate coincidence?"
The question hangs in the air.
Y/N's fingers twist the fabric of her scrubs so tightly Harry worries she might tear it. But her face remains composed. Professional.
"No, ma'am," she says evenly. "I have no evidence to suggest otherwise. It was a kind gesture that happened to have unfortunate timing. That's all."
The lie costs her and Harry can see it in the minute tightening around her eyes, the careful control of her expression. But she holds Morrison's gaze steadily, not flinching.
Morrison leans back in her chair, studying Y/N for a long moment before nodding.
"Well. The hair follicle test clears you completely, Dr. Y/L/N. As far as I'm concerned, this matter is closed." She closes the file with a definitive snap. "You're reinstated effective immediately. You can return to your regular rotation tomorrow."
Y/N's shoulders drop slightly with relief. "Thank you, Dr. Morrison."
"Don't thank me. Just be more mindful of what you consume before scheduled testing periods." Morrison's tone softens marginally. "And Dr. Y/L/N? You're a talented surgeon. Don't let this shake your confidence."
"Yes, ma'am."
Harry stands as Y/N does. "Thank you for handling this fairly," he says to Morrison.
"Just doing my job, Dr. Styles." Morrison's eyes flick between them knowingly, but she doesn't comment. "You're both dismissed."
They walk out together, and Harry can immediately read the tension in Y/N's body. Her stride is clipped. The walk of someone barely holding it together. Her jaw is set, hands clenched at her sides.
He waits until they're in the hallway, until they've turned the corner away from Morrison's office and the administrative wing. Then he catches her hand, gently pulling her to a stop. She resists for half a second before letting him tug her back toward him.
"Baby," he whispers, low enough that only she can hear. His hands find her waist, steadying her.
"It's not fair." Her voice breaks on the words, barely above a whisper. "It's not—"
She stops, pressing her lips together hard, eyes shining with unshed tears.
"I know." Harry pulls her closer, one hand moving to cup the back of her neck. "I know it's not."
They're standing in the middle of the hallway, technically visible to anyone who might walk by, but he doesn't care. She needs this.
"She gets to just...walk away. Back to Baltimore with her perfect job and her perfect reputation." Y/N's hands come up to grip his coat. "And I had to stand there and call it a 'kind gesture' like she didn't deliberately try to ruin my career."
A tear escapes, tracking down her cheek. "I had to protect her. Had to make excuses for her. Because if I didn't, I'd look bitter and paranoid and—"
Her voice cracks completely. Harry draws her into his chest, wrapping both arms around her.
"You did what you had to do," he murmurs into her hair. "You were smart. Professional. Everything Morrison needed to see."
"I hate it." The words are muffled against his shirt. "I hate that being smart means letting her win."
"She didn't win." Harry pulls back just enough to tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. "You're cleared. You're back on the surgical floor tomorrow. Your career is intact. She failed."
"But she's not—" Y/N swallows hard. "She's not facing any consequences. She gets to go back to her life like nothing happened while I've been living in hell for three days."
Harry's thumb brushes away the tear on her cheek.
"I know. And it's bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit." His jaw tightens. "But you're still standing. You survived her worst attempt to take you down, and you came out the other side with your integrity intact."
He leans his forehead against hers. "That's not nothing, love. That's everything."
Y/N closes her eyes, breathing shakily.
"Doesn't feel like everything. Feels like I just got away with something I didn't even do."
"Because you're a good person who plays by the rules." Harry's voice drops lower. "She counted on that. Counted on you being too ethical to fight dirty."
His hands tighten on her waist. "But here's what she didn't count on. You're also brilliant and resilient and too damn stubborn to let her destroy you." A fierce edge enters his tone. "So yeah, she's not facing consequences right now. But her attempt failed. And you're still here."
Y/N opens her eyes, searching his face.
"I wanted her to pay for it. Is that terrible?"
"No." Harry shakes his head. "It's human. And justified."
He kisses her forehead gently.
"Come on. Let's get you somewhere private before you fall apart in the middle of the hallway."
They walk in silence for a moment, Harry's hand finding the small of her back as he guides her toward the elevators. Y/N rubs her eyes with her palms, trying to erase the evidence of tears before anyone sees.
"Technically I don't have work until tomorrow," she says, voice still rough. "Should I go home or do you need me here for something?"
Harry glances at his watch, then at her, really looks at her. The exhaustion written in every line of her body, the way she's holding herself together through sheer force of will.
"I've got a consult at two and post-op rounds at four," he says slowly. "But nothing that can't be handled."
The elevator arrives and he ushers her inside, hitting the button for the parking garage instead of the surgical floor.
"Go home," he tells her gently. "Take a bath. Sleep. Eat something that isn't hospital cafeteria garbage." His thumb traces circles on her lower back. "You've been running on fumes and adrenaline for three days. You need rest."
She leans against the elevator wall, looking small in a way that makes his chest ache.
"I don't know if I can sleep. My brain won't shut off."
"Then don't sleep. Just...be somewhere that isn't this building." Harry steps closer, bracketing her against the wall with his arms. "Somewhere you can fall apart if you need to without worrying about who might see."
The elevator dings, doors opening to the concrete expanse of the parking garage.
"I'll be done by seven," he continues. "I'll bring dinner. Something good. And we can just... exist. No hospitals, no drug tests, no Daniella."
He cups her face, making sure she's listening.
"You survived this, baby. You're allowed to feel like shit about it for a while."
She nods against his palm, eyes closing briefly.
"Okay. Yeah. I'll go home."
"Text me when you get there?"
"I will."
Harry leans in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. "I love you. And I'm so bloody proud of you I could burst."
That almost breaks her again and he can see it in the way her breath hitches.
"Love you too," she whispers.
He walks her to her car, opening the driver's side door for her. She slides in, looking up at him through the open window.
"Harry?"
"Yeah, baby?"
"I just…I really love you”
His heart clenches.
"I know," he says simply. "Now go. Get out of here before I cancel my afternoon and follow you home."
A ghost of a smile touches her lips.
"That would be wildly unprofessional, Dr. Styles."
"Good thing I don't give a fuck about professional right now." But he steps back anyway, giving her space. "Drive safe. Text me."
"I will."
He watches her pull out of the parking spot, watches until her car disappears up the ramp and out of sight. Then he pulls out his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he finds the name he's looking for. Dr. Richard Chen. Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery at Johns Hopkins. They'd done their fellowship together, stayed in touch over the years. Good friends. The kind who'd do each other favors.
Harry hits dial. Time to have a very casual, very collegial conversation about visiting surgeons and professional conduct. Daniella might have gotten away with it legally. But Harry's got connections. And a very long memory.
Three months later
Harry finds her in the residents' lounge at half past eight, hunched over a stack of patient files with a cold cup of coffee at her elbow. The room is empty except for her as everyone else has gone home or is in the OR. She doesn't look up when he enters, too focused on whatever she's reading.
"You know those charts are supposed to be reviewed during business hours, right?" He keeps his tone light, casual. "Not at eight-thirty at night when you've already been here since five this morning."
Y/N's pen keeps moving across the page. "Just finishing up some notes."
"Sweethart." He moves closer, leaning against the table. "You've been 'just finishing up' for three hours. I checked."
That makes her pause. She sets down her pen, finally looking at him. "Were you monitoring me?"
"I was concerned." Harry crosses his arms. "You've been working yourself into the ground for weeks. Months, actually."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You flinch every time someone questions one of your clinical decisions. You're pulling 80-hour weeks when you're only scheduled for 60." His voice softens. "Baby, you're running yourself ragged trying to prove something to people who don't matter."
Y/N stands abruptly, gathering her files. "They do matter. Every attending in this hospital matters. Every nurse, every resident, every person who looks at me and wonders if I actually earned my place or if I just—"
She stops herself, jaw clenching. "If you just what?"
"If I just slept my way into the your good graces." The words come out sharp, bitter. "If I'm getting preferential treatment. If my surgical skills are actually worth a damn or if I'm just here because Harry Styles wants to fuck me."
Harry's expression darkens. "No one thinks that."
"Don't they?" She laughs humorlessly. "You should hear the whispers in the scrub room. The way conversations stop when I walk in. Morrison paired me with Kellerman last week and he spent the entire surgery questioning every decision I made like I was a first-year medical student."
"Kellerman's an ass to everyone—"
"It's different now and you know it." Y/N sets the files down hard enough that coffee sloshes out of the forgotten cup. "Before, I was just another intern. Now I'm the intern sleeping with the chief of surgery. Every mistake gets scrutinized. Every success gets dismissed."
Harry moves around the table toward her.
"So you're working yourself to death to prove them wrong."
"What else am I supposed to do?" Her voice cracks slightly. "I can't control what they think. I can only control my work. So I work harder. Stay later. Volunteer for the difficult cases. Show them I deserve to be here."
"You already deserve to be here. You've always deserved to be here." He reaches for her hand but she pulls away.
"That's easy for you to say. You're not the one they're talking about."
The words land like a slap. Harry's jaw works for a moment before he speaks.
"You think I don't know what they're saying? That I don't hear the comments about how I'm compromising my professional judgment? How I'm showing favoritism?" His voice drops. "I recused myself from your evaluations entirely. I barely speak to you during rounds. I've bent over backwards to maintain appropriate boundaries and it's still not enough for some people."
"I know." Y/N's shoulders slump. "I know you have. And I'm grateful, I am. It's just..."
"Exhausting."
"Yeah."
Silence settles between them, heavy with everything they're both carrying. Harry takes a breath, changing tactics.
"When's the last time you took a day off?"
"I don't know. A few weeks ago?"
"Try six weeks. You haven't had a full day off in six weeks." He leans against the table beside her. "Remember that weekend away I promised you? After the Daniella situation?"
Y/N's expression shifts. Something between longing and resistance.
"Harry, I can't just—"
"You can. You have vacation days. Use them." His hand finds hers this time, and she doesn't pull away. "Two days. Somewhere far from this hospital. No pagers, no charts, no one questioning whether you earned your spot in the OR."
"People will talk."
"People are already talking." Harry's thumb traces her knuckles. "Let them. I'm tired of letting other people's opinions dictate how we live our lives."
She looks at him and he can see how bone-deep exhausted she is. How much this has been costing her.
"I don't want them to think I'm getting special treatment," she says quietly.
"Taking a weekend off isn't special treatment. It's basic self-care." He squeezes her hand. "And honestly, love, you're no good to your patients if you collapse from exhaustion in the middle of a surgery."
Y/N lets out a shaky breath. "I just...I need them to respect me. To see me as a surgeon, not as your girlfriend who happens to work here."
"They will. They do." Harry pulls her closer, wrapping his arms around her waist. "But you can't control their perceptions by destroying yourself. That's not proving anything except that you're willing to sacrifice your health for their approval."
She leans into him, forehead resting against his shoulder. "I'm so tired."
"I know, baby. I know." He kisses the top of her head. "So let me take care of you for two days. Let yourself rest. The hospital will survive without you."
She's quiet for a long moment, and he can feel her wavering. "Where would we go?" she asks, so quietly he almost doesn't hear.
Harry smiles against her hair. A small victory. He'll take it.
"Anywhere you want. The coast. The mountains. A cabin in the middle of nowhere." He squeezes her shoulders. "Just somewhere that isn't this hospital."
She takes a deep breath, then nods slowly. "Okay. This weekend."
Relief washes over Harry's face. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." She attempts a smile. "I might sleep the entire time."
"That's fine by me." He brings her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles. "I'll happily watch you sleep for 48 hours if it means you actually rest."
For the first time in weeks, her smile reaches her eyes. "That's creepy, Styles."
"That's devotion, Y/L/N." He grins back. "Now finish your charting so we can go home. I'll even cook tonight."
"You'll order takeout and plate it nicely."
"Semantics."
She laughs, and it feels like the first real laugh he's heard from her in too long.
"This weekend." He cups her face, thumb brushing her cheek. "I'll handle the scheduling. You just pack a bag and try not to work yourself into the ground between now and Friday."
A real smile touches her lips for the first time in what feels like weeks. "I'll try."
"Good." Harry leans in, kissing her softly. "Now go home. Actually go home, not back to the surgical floor to 'just check on' your post-ops."
"How do you know me so well?"
"Because I love you. And because you're terrible at hiding your workaholic tendencies." He steers her toward the door. "Home. Sleep. I'll see you later.”
a/n: I know this is probably not what you wanted the outcome with the Daniella situation but I think this is the most realistc outcome I came up with. I think it just fits Y/N’s character here and just the situation in general. Are we excited for the epilogue? 🤭
Summary: Harry Styles is a brilliant but infuriating surgeon who’s constantly butting heads with his stubborn intern. Their bickering is practically a daily surgery in itself.
A/n: Suprise!! Double update. This might include the storm I teased last chapter 😗
Masterlist
Read Part 1 here first
Part 1.5 in his POV
Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Two weeks pass in a blur of stolen moments and heated glances across the OR.
They've become experts at maintaining professional distance during work hours, though Harry's eyes still track her movements during rounds, and Y/N catches herself staring at his hands more often than she should. The tension between them is palpable, electric, and she's certain the other residents have noticed even if they haven't said anything.
But the moment they're off the clock, all bets are off.
Tuesday night finds them at her apartment, takeout containers abandoned on the coffee table as Harry presses her into the couch cushions, his mouth hot against her throat.
"We were supposed to eat dinner," Y/N gasps as his hand slides under her shirt.
"We will. Eventually." His teeth graze her collarbone. "Right now I'm hungry for something else."
Thursday they barely make it through his front door before he's lifting her against the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist as he kisses her breathless.
Saturday afternoon they actually venture out into the city as Harry insists on taking her to some tucked-away bookshop he loves. They browse the stacks, his hand warm in hers, and he buys her a first edition of her favorite novel without her knowing until they're at the register.
"You didn't have to do that," she protests as they walk along the waterfront afterward.
"I wanted to." Harry pulls her closer, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Besides, watching your face light up when you found it was worth every penny."
That evening they end up back at his place, and he cooks for her again but this time attempting Thai food with mixed results.
"Okay, so maybe I'm not as good with curry as I am with pasta," he admits, surveying the slightly burned pad thai.
"It's perfect," Y/N assures him, and she means it. Not because the food is perfect, but because he tried, because he wanted to make something for her. They eat at his kitchen island, knees touching, trading bites and stories about their day. It feels domestic in a way that should terrify her but doesn't.
Sunday morning she wakes up in his bed. She's been staying over more often now, her overnight bag a permanent fixture by his dresser. Harry is already awake, propped up on one elbow watching her with soft eyes.
"Morning," he murmurs, brushing hair from her face.
"How long have you been staring at me?"
"Not long enough."
They spend the morning tangled in his sheets, taking their time, learning each other's bodies with lazy thoroughness. When they finally emerge, it's past noon and neither of them cares.
Monday brings them back to reality with separate cars to the hospital and professional distance in the hallways. But during a particularly long surgery, Harry's eyes meet hers over his mask, and she knows he's thinking about last night, about the sounds she made when he—
"Dr. Y/L/N, suction," Harry says, his voice perfectly clinical even as his gaze burns.
"Yes, Dr. Styles."
Wednesday they meet for lunch at a café three blocks from the hospital. It's risky, anyone could see them, but Harry insisted.
"I needed to see you," he explains, reaching across the table to lace his fingers with hers. "Eight hours is too long."
"We work together."
"Not the same." His thumb traces circles on her palm. "I can't do this at the hospital."
That night at her place, he proves exactly what he can't do at the hospital. Taking his time undressing her, worshipping every inch of skin, making her forget her own name.
Friday evening finds them walking through Central Park, bundled against the early autumn chill. Harry's arm is around her shoulders, and she's tucked into his side, and it feels so normal, so right, that she almost forgets they're supposed to be keeping this quiet.
"We should probably talk about it," Y/N says eventually. "About what we're doing. What this is."
Harry stops walking, turning to face her fully. "What do you want it to be?"
"I don't know. I just know I don't want it to end."
His expression softens, and he cups her face in both hands. "Neither do I. So let's not overthink it. We're together. We're happy. The rest we'll figure out as we go."
"What about the hospital? The rules?"
"I've been looking into it more." His thumbs stroke her cheekbones. "As long as I'm not directly supervising your evaluations or assignments, we're in the clear. I can recuse myself from anything involving your advancement."
"You'd do that?"
"Y/N, I'd do a lot more than that for you."
The honesty in his voice makes her chest tight. She pulls him down for a kiss, pouring everything she can't quite say yet into it.
She smiles against his lips, “Have you put in the request yet?”
“Not yet, but I will”
The hospital cafeteria is bustling with the usual lunch rush when Y/N slides into the booth across from Niall. He's already halfway through a sandwich, his scrubs rumpled from what was clearly a long morning in the pit.
"There she is," Niall grins, gesturing with his sandwich. "The elusive Dr. Y/L/N. I was starting to think you'd forgotten about your favorite Irish bastard."
"Never." Y/N unwraps her own lunch. A sad-looking salad that she's already regretting. "We've both been swamped."
"Swamped. Right." Niall's blue eyes gleam with mischief. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
Y/N keeps her expression neutral, stabbing at her lettuce. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, come off it. You've been practically glowing for two weeks. Either you've discovered some incredible new skincare routine, or—" He leans forward conspiratorially. "The sexual tension with Dr. Dreamy finally combusted."
"Keep your voice down," Y/N hisses, glancing around the cafeteria. Thankfully, no one seems to be paying attention to them.
"So you admit it!"
She sighs, setting down her fork. "Fine. Yes. We're...seeing each other."
Niall sits back, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "I knew it. I fucking knew it. Louis owes me twenty quid."
"You bet on my love life?"
"Love life, is it?" He waggles his eyebrows. "So it's serious then?"
Y/N feels heat creep up her neck. "I don't know. Maybe. We're not putting labels on it."
"Y/N." Niall's teasing expression softens into something more genuine. "You know I'm happy for you, yeah? Even if he was a right prick to you for months."
"He wasn't—" She stops, reconsidering. "Okay, he was. But it's different now."
"Different how?" Niall takes another bite of his sandwich, watching her carefully. "Because I remember you coming to me almost in tears after he ripped apart your appendectomy technique in front of the entire surgical team."
Y/N winces at the memory. "That was months ago."
"And the time he made you redo your pre-op notes three times?"
"He was teaching me to be thorough."
"And when he—"
"Niall." She cuts him off gently. "I know. Trust me, I remember all of it. But something changed. In San Francisco, and then after...He's not like that anymore. Not with me."
Niall studies her face for a long moment. "You really like him."
"I really do."
"And he treats you well? Outside of work?"
A smile tugs at her lips before she can stop it. "He's...amazing, actually. Attentive and sweet and—"
"Please don't say romantic. I might actually vomit."
Y/N laughs. "Fine. But yes, he is. He cooks for me. Takes me to bookshops. He's—" She pauses, trying to find the right words. "He makes me feel special."
"Good." Niall's expression turns serious. "Because if he hurts you, attending or not, I'll kick his arse."
"Noted."
"So what's the plan? You two just sneaking around forever?"
"We're being careful at work. But he's looked into the hospital policies. As long as he's not directly evaluating me, we're okay."
Niall nods slowly. "And you trust him? To keep it professional when it needs to be?"
Y/N thinks about the surgery on Monday, the way Harry's eyes had met hers but his voice remained completely professional. The way he never shows favoritism, never goes easy on her just because they're together.
"I do. If anything, he's harder on me now. Holds me to a higher standard."
"Sounds exhausting."
"It is." She grins. "But in the best way."
Niall shakes his head, but he's smiling. "Look at you, all smitten. Never thought I'd see the day."
"Shut up."
"Does he know about all those times you used to rant about him? Because I have receipts. Text messages, voice memos—"
"Niall Horan, I swear to God—"
"I'm just saying, might be worth something. Blackmail material and all that."
Y/N throws a packet of dressing at him, which he dodges easily, laughing.
"Seriously though," Niall says once he's caught his breath. "I'm glad you're happy. You deserve it."
"Thanks, Ni."
"Just promise me one thing?"
"What?"
"If it goes south, you'll tell me. So I can either help fix it or help you key his car."
Y/N snorts. "Deal."
They fall into comfortable conversation about other things such as Niall's disaster of a Tinder date, a particularly difficult patient from the morning, and most important of all, hospital gossip. But as they're clearing their trays, Niall gives her a knowing look.
"So when do I get to give him the shovel talk?"
"Never."
"Come on, it's tradition. Best friend threatens the boyfriend—"
"He's not my boyfriend."
"Right. The man you're 'seeing' who cooks for you and takes you to bookshops and makes you glow like a bloody lighthouse." Niall grins. "Totally not your boyfriend."
Y/N's phone buzzes. She glances down to see a text from Harry.
Missing you. How much trouble would I get in if I pulled you into an on-call room?
She bites back a smile.
"That's him, isn't it?" Niall peers over her shoulder. "Christ, you're blushing."
"I am not."
"You absolutely are. This is disgusting. I love it."
Y/N shoves him playfully as they head toward the exit. "Don't you have patients to see?"
"Don't you have a secret boyfriend to snog in a supply closet?”
“Shut up, Niall."
As they round the corner toward the trash bins, Y/N nearly collides with someone coming from the opposite direction.
"Oh—sorry!" She steps back, then freezes when she recognizes who it is.
Daniella stands there with a bright smile, holding a bakery box. She's dressed in her usual polished style. Designer scrubs that somehow look runway-ready, her dark hair in a perfect ponytail.
"Y/N! Perfect timing." Daniella's smile doesn't waver. "I was hoping I'd run into you before I left."
Niall shifts beside her, his presence a quiet support.
"Left?" Y/N manages.
"Yes, today's my last day. I'm heading back to Johns Hopkins tomorrow." Daniella adjusts her grip on the box. Y/N was so occupied with Harry that she forgot about the day she had practically marked on her calendar.
"I wanted to say goodbye. And..." She pauses, her expression becoming more serious. "I owe you an apology."
Y/N blinks, caught off guard. "You do?"
"I do. I may have caused you some hurt during my time here, and that wasn't fair. You're a talented surgeon, and I shouldn't have—" She waves a hand vaguely. "Well. I'm sorry."
The apology feels rehearsed, but Y/N nods slowly. "Thank you."
"As a peace offering—" Daniella opens the box, revealing an assortment of muffins. "I got these for the whole department. But I saved a few special ones for you."
Niall leans in, eyeing the selection. "Are those chocolate chip?"
Niall doesn't need to be told twice, reaching for one of the chocolate muffins. "Cheers."
Y/N looks at the remaining muffins. Two left in what appears to be their own section of the box, separated slightly from the others.
"Go ahead," Daniella encourages. "I made sure to get extras just for you."
Something about the emphasis makes Y/N hesitate for just a moment, but she pushes the feeling aside. It's just muffins. She's being paranoid.
"Thank you." She takes both remaining ones. "What flavor are these?"
Daniella shrugs, her expression innocent. "I'm not entirely sure. The bakery had a mixed selection. But they looked good."
"I'm sure they are." Y/N tucks one into her pocket carefully. "I'll save one for Harry."
Something flashes across Daniella's face, too quick to read, before her smile returns. "How thoughtful. Well, I should get going. Lots to wrap up before I leave."
"Safe travels," Y/N offers.
"Thank you. And Y/N?" Daniella pauses. "Take care of yourself."
She walks away, her heels clicking against the linoleum floor.
Niall watches her go, then turns to Y/N with raised eyebrows. "That was weird, right?"
"Extremely."
"Since when does she do nice?" He takes a bite of his muffin. "These are good though."
Y/N looks down at the muffin in her hand, then at the one in her pocket meant for Harry. The gesture should feel kind, but instead it sits strangely in her gut.
"Yeah," she agrees quietly. "Weird."
Y/N makes her way through the cardiothoracic wing, the muffins still in hand. As she approaches Harry's office, Niall calls after her from down the hall.
"Remember…these walls aren't soundproof!"
She turns just long enough to flip him off with her free hand, making him laugh as he disappears around the corner.
She knocks once before entering Harry's office. He looks up from his computer, and his entire expression transforms. The stern attending melting into something warm and open.
"There you are." He's already standing, rounding his desk to meet her.
The moment the door clicks shut behind her, Harry pulls her in for a kiss that's far too heated for the middle of a workday. His hand cups the back of her neck, tilting her head to deepen it.
"Missed you," he murmurs against her lips.
"I was gone for forty-five minutes."
"Too long." He steals another kiss before finally pulling back. "How was lunch with Niall?"
"Good. Enlightening." She holds up one of the muffins. "Brought you something."
Harry eyes it warily. "What is it?"
"A muffin. Daniella gave them out to the department. She's heading back to Johns Hopkins."
Something shifts in Harry's expression at Daniella's name, but he masks it quickly. "That's...nice of her."
"I thought so too. Here." She offers it again.
"I just ate, actually." He pats his stomach. "Had that protein bowl from the cafeteria."
Y/N rolls her eyes. "Of course you did. Your obsession with micros and macros is getting out of hand."
"It's called maintaining peak performance," Harry defends, though there's amusement in his voice. "Some of us care about proper nutrition."
"Some of us also enjoy carbs."
"I enjoy carbs. In moderation. Calculated portions."
"You're annoyinh."
He grins, stealing a quick kiss. "You like it."
They settle into work as Harry pulls up several case files on his computer while Y/N perches on the edge of his desk. It's become their routine during these stolen moments: reviewing cases, discussing techniques, him teaching her things that go beyond what she'd learn in rounds.
"Look at this valve replacement," Harry says, turning the monitor so she can see better. "What would your approach be?"
Y/N leans in, studying the scans. As she talks through her surgical plan, she absently takes a bite of her muffin. It's good. Some kind of lemon flavor and a subtle nutty crunch.
Harry listens intently, occasionally interjecting with questions or suggestions. His hand finds her knee, thumb tracing absent patterns through her scrubs.
"Good," he says when she finishes. "Though I'd suggest a slightly different angle on the initial incision—"
She takes another bite, nodding as he explains. The conversation flows easily between them, professional and personal blurring in the privacy of his office.
By the time they've reviewed three cases, she's finished the first muffin and started on the second one she'd meant to save for Harry.
"These are actually really good," she comments, licking a crumb from her thumb.
Harry watches the gesture with dark eyes. "You're distracting."
"I'm eating a muffin."
"Distractingly." His hand slides higher on her thigh. "Should be illegal, the way you—"
His pager goes off, cutting him short. He groans, checking it.
"Trauma incoming. I need to scrub in." He stands reluctantly, but not before pulling her in for one more kiss. "Dinner tonight? My place?"
"Can't. I promised my mom I'd FaceTime her."
"Tomorrow then. And you're staying over."
"Bossy."
"Mhm" He says before kissing her cheek and heading for the door, but pauses to look back at her. "Lock up when you leave?"
"Will do."
She watches him go, finishing the last of the second muffin. Her stomach feels pleasantly full, warm. She gathers the case files they'd been reviewing, making notes on her tablet about the techniques Harry had shown her.
It's nearly 10 PM when Y/N finally hangs up with her mom. The conversation had run long as her mother wanted to know everything about work, about life, carefully not asking about whether Y/N was seeing anyone.
She's barely set her phone down before she's picking it back up, pulling up Harry's contact and hitting FaceTime.
He answers on the second ring, and the sight of him makes her smile. He's in bed already, shirtless, hair damp from a shower.
"Hey, love," he greets, his voice warm. "How was your mum?"
"Good. Exhausting." Y/N settles back against her pillows. "She spent twenty minutes telling me about my cousin's engagement. Very subtle hints about my own relationship status."
Harry chuckles. "Did you tell her you're seeing someone?"
"God, no. She'd have me married off by next week."
They fall into easy conversation. Harry telling her about the trauma case, a motorcyclist with a torn aorta. Y/N shares a funny story from rounds that morning. It's comfortable, natural.
Until it isn't.
"So Daniella's gone," Y/N mentions casually. "Back to Johns Hopkins."
Harry's expression shifts slightly. "Yeah, I heard."
"Did you talk to her before she left?"
"Briefly. She stopped by my office yesterday."
Something in his tone makes Y/N pause. "What did she want?"
"Just to say goodbye. Clear the air." He shrugs, but it doesn't look quite natural. "It was fine."
Y/N bites her lip, then decides to just say it. "Have you requested another evaluator for me yet?"
Harry's jaw tightens. "Not yet."
"Why not?"
"I've been busy, Y/N. It's not exactly a quick process—"
"You said you'd look into it two weeks ago." She sits up straighter. "What are you waiting for?"
"I said I'd handle it, and I will."
"When? Because last I checked, we're still breaking hospital policy every time we—" She stops herself, frustration building. "What are you waiting for? For us to get caught and this mess with my career?"
Harry's expression hardens. "Your career? You think I'd let anything happen to your career?"
"I think you're stalling. And I don't understand why."
"I'm not stalling. Christ, Y/N, I told you I'd take care of it."
"Saying you'll take care of it and actually doing it are two different things, Harry."
He runs a hand through his damp hair, clearly trying to keep his temper in check. "What exactly are you accusing me of?"
"I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm asking why you haven't done what you said you'd do."
"Because it's complicated!" His voice rises slightly. "I can't just snap my fingers and reassign your evaluations. There are protocols, paperwork, explanations I'd have to give—"
"Explanations you don't want to give."
"That's not—" He stops, jaw working. "I'm trying to protect both of us here."
"By doing nothing?"
"By being strategic about it. If I suddenly request to be removed from your evaluations with no good reason, people will ask questions. They'll start looking closer at both of us."
Y/N feels her chest tighten. "So what, we just keep hiding? Keep pretending at work while we're together everywhere else?"
"That's what we agreed to."
"No, we agreed you'd handle the evaluation situation so we wouldn't be in violation of hospital policy. But you haven't handled it, Harry. You've just...avoided it."
His eyes flash with anger now. "I've been a little busy keeping people alive, Y/N. Forgive me if navigating hospital bureaucracy to protect our relationship wasn't at the top of my priority list."
The words sting more than they should.
"Right. Because that's what this is about. You being too busy. Not about you being afraid to actually commit to making this work properly."
Harry's expression goes cold. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you want all the benefits of being together without any of the actual work of making it legitimate."
"I cook you dinner. I take you out. I—" He stops himself, clearly biting back something harsh. "I'm doing everything I can here."
"Except the one thing I actually asked you to do."
Silence stretches between them, tense and uncomfortable.
"Maybe..." Harry's voice is quieter now, but there's an edge to it. "Maybe you should have thought about all this before we started sleeping together."
Y/N feels like she's been slapped. "Excuse me?"
"You knew the situation. You knew it would be complicated. But you wanted this just as much as I did."
"Don't you dare put this all on me. You're the attending, Harry. You're the one who should have been thinking about the consequences."
"I did think about them. I'm still thinking about them. That's why I'm being careful—"
"You're not being careful, you're being a coward."
The word hangs in the air between them.
Harry's face goes completely blank, his voice dropping to something dangerously calm. "I think we're done here."
"Harry—"
"No. You want to call me a coward? Fine. But I'm not doing this right now." His finger moves toward the end call button. "We'll talk when you've calmed down."
"Don't you dare hang up on me—"
But he does.
The screen goes black, and Y/N is left staring at her own reflection, heart pounding, chest tight with anger and hurt and something that feels uncomfortably like regret.
She throws her phone onto the bed, pressing her palms against her eyes. What the hell just happened?
Y/N arrives at the hospital the next morning with dark circles under her eyes. She'd barely slept, replaying the fight over and over in her head. Part of her wants to apologize. The other part is still furious that he hung up on her.
She spots Harry almost immediately. He's at the nurses' station reviewing charts, surrounded by the usual morning chaos of the cardiothoracic wing. Their eyes meet across the corridor. And he looks away.
Not just a casual glance-away. A deliberate, pointed dismissal.
Y/N's stomach drops.
She approaches the station, keeping her expression neutral despite the way her heart is hammering. "Dr. Styles, I wanted to discuss the valve replacement scheduled for this afternoon—"
"Dr. Chen will be scrubbing in on that case." Harry doesn't look up from his chart. "Check with him for details."
His voice is perfectly professional. Perfectly cold.
"But you said yesterday I could—"
"Plans change." He finally meets her eyes, and there's nothing in them. No warmth, no anger, just...nothing. "I need someone with more experience for this particular procedure."
The words land like a punch. More experience. As if their entire relationship, professional and personal, has been erased overnight.
Madison, one of the nurses, glances between them with raised eyebrows.
Y/N forces herself to nod. "Understood."
She turns to walk away, but Harry's voice stops her.
"Dr. Y/L/N."
Hope flares stupidly in her chest as she turns back.
"Your post-op notes from Tuesday's CABG were incomplete. I need them on my desk by noon."
The hope dies.
"They were complete. I submitted them Wednesday morning."
"They were insufficient." He finally looks at her fully, and the blank professionalism in his gaze makes her want to scream. "Redo them. Include detailed analysis of the bypass grafts and post-operative hemodynamics."
This is bullshit. Those notes were thorough. She'd spent an extra hour on them specifically because she knew Harry would review them.
"Of course, Dr. Styles." She keeps her voice level through sheer force of will. "Anything else?"
"That's all."
He turns back to his charts, effectively dismissing her. Y/N walks away before she says something she'll regret. Her hands are shaking slightly as she pulls out her phone, firing off a text to Niall.
He's ignoring me. Actually fucking ignoring me.
Who? Prince Charming?
He's being a complete child. Won't even look at me.
What happened?
We fought last night. He hung up on me. Now he's acting like I don't exist.
Christ. Want me to accidentally spill coffee on him?
Despite everything, she almost smiles.
Tempting. But no.
The morning drags on. Every time Y/N sees Harry, he either ignores her completely or treats her with the kind of distant professionalism he'd shown before everything changed.
During rounds, he calls on every other resident except her. When she tries to present a case, he cuts her off halfway through and has someone else finish.
It's petty. It's childish. And it hurts more than she wants to admit. By lunch, she's oscillating between wanting to corner him in his office and demand they talk like adults, and wanting to key his stupidly expensive car.
She finds Niall in the cafeteria, dropping into the seat across from him with more force than necessary.
"He's a man child," she announces. "An actual man child."
"That bad?"
"He pulled me from a surgery I was supposed to scrub in on. Told me my post-op notes, which were perfect by the way, need to be redone. Won't even make eye contact with me."
Niall winces. "What did you fight about?"
Y/N sighs, pushing her untouched salad around. "I asked him why he hasn't requested another evaluator yet. Like he said he would. It escalated."
"How badly?"
"I may have called him a coward."
"Ah." Niall nods sagely. "Yeah, that'll do it."
"He hung up on me, Niall. Who does that?"
"Apparently Dr. Styles does." He takes a bite of his sandwich. "So what are you going to do?"
"I don't know. Part of me wants to apologize. The other part wants to throw his precious protein bowl at his head."
"Both valid options."
Y/N's phone buzzes. For a stupid, hopeful second, she thinks it might be Harry.
It's not. It's a notification about a staff meeting.
She drops her phone on the table with more force than necessary. "When did he become like this? The Harry I've been seeing for the past two weeks would never—"
"Maybe that's the problem," Niall says gently. "You've been seeing the version of him he is with you. Behind closed doors. But at work? He's still Dr. Styles. Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery. And when he feels threatened or hurt, he falls back on what he knows."
"Being an asshole?"
"Being in control." Niall shrugs. "Look, I'm not defending him. He's being a dick. But you did hit a nerve."
Y/N knows he's right. Doesn't make it hurt less.
"I just want him to talk to me," she admits quietly. "Like an adult. Not...whatever this is."
"So make him."
"How? He won't even look at me."
Niall grins. "Then make it impossible for him not to."
By 2 PM, Y/N had had enough.
She marches through the cardiothoracic wing with purpose, her jaw set. When she reaches Harry's office, she doesn't knock, just pushes the door open.
Harry looks up from his computer, surprise flashing across his face before it hardens into that same blank professionalism.
"Dr. Y/L/N. I don't recall scheduling—"
"We need to talk." She closes the door behind her with a decisive click.
"I'm busy."
"I don't care." She crosses her arms. "You don't get to do this."
Harry leans back in his chair, his expression cool. "Do what, exactly?"
"This. Ignore me all day, pull me from surgeries, treat me like I'm incompetent—"
"I'm treating you like any other resident."
"Bullshit." The word comes out sharp. "You're punishing me because I called you out last night."
His jaw tightens. "I'm doing my job."
"Your job? Your job is to throw away two weeks of—" She stops herself, lowering her voice. "You hung up on me. You won't even look at me. And now you're acting like I'm just another intern who can't do anything right."
Harry stands, planting his hands on his desk. "Maybe if you hadn't accused me of being afraid to commit—"
"I asked you a legitimate question!"
"You called me a coward." His voice rises to match hers. "In the middle of a conversation about me trying to protect both our careers, you called me a fucking coward."
"Because you are being one! You said you'd handle the evaluation situation and you haven't—"
"I told you it's complicated—"
"It's not that complicated, Harry! You're just scared—"
"Scared?" He comes around the desk, anger finally breaking through that professional mask. "I've been navigating this entire situation while you've been—what? Questioning my commitment? My intentions?"
"Your actions! Or lack thereof!"
"I've been careful. Strategic. Making sure we don't both end up fucked by this—"
"By doing nothing!"
"By not rushing into something that could destroy everything we've both worked for!" Harry's voice echoes off the walls. "But clearly that's not good enough for you—"
"Don't twist this around. I'm not asking you to rush into anything, I'm asking you to do what you said you'd—"
The overhead speaker crackles to life, cutting through their argument.
"All surgical staff report to Conference Room B immediately. Mandatory meeting. All surgical staff to Conference Room B."
They both freeze, chests heaving, staring at each other across the small space.
Harry runs a hand through his hair, that muscle in his jaw still working. "We have to go."
"We're not done—"
"We have to go." He's already moving toward the door, his professional mask sliding back into place like armor.
Y/N follows, frustration coiling tight in her chest.
Conference Room B is packed when they arrive. Surgeons from every department crowd in: cardiothoracic, neuro, general, ortho. The energy in the room is tense, confused.
Y/N spots Niall near the back and makes her way over. Harry positions himself near the front with the other attendings.
"What's going on?" she whispers to Niall.
"No idea. But it must be serious if they're pulling everyone."
Dr. Morrison, the Chief of Surgery, stands at the front of the room. She's a stern woman in her sixties, known for running the surgical program with an iron fist.
"Thank you all for gathering on short notice." Her voice cuts through the murmuring. "I'll keep this brief. Effective immediately, all surgical staff will undergo random drug testing."
A ripple of surprise moves through the room.
"This is a routine measure," Morrison continues. "Part of our ongoing commitment to patient safety and professional standards. Testing will begin today and continue over the next week. You'll each receive notification of your testing time. Failure to comply or a positive result will result in immediate suspension pending investigation."
Y/N doesn't think much of the drug testing announcement. She's never touched anything, not even during the stress of med school. It's routine, she tells herself. Just hospital protocol.
She's one of the first called that afternoon. A quick trip to the testing facility on the second floor, a urine sample, and she's back to work within twenty minutes.
The rest of her shift passes in a blur of post-op checks and chart reviews. She actively avoids Harry, and he seems content to do the same. The fight from his office still sits heavy in her chest, unresolved.
By 7 PM, she's exhausted, both emotionally and physically. She heads to the locker room to change, looking forward to going home, taking a long shower, and maybe stress-eating an entire pint of ice cream. She's just pulled her scrub top over her head when the locker room door slams open with enough force to make her jump. Harry storms in, his face thunderous.
"Are you fucking mental?" he demands, crossing the space between them in three long strides.
Y/N clutches her scrub top to her chest, more shocked by his sudden appearance than his anger. "Excuse me?"
"Don't play dumb with me right now—"
"Oh, so you're talking to me now?" She crosses her arms, anger from earlier flooding back. "Spent all day pretending I didn't exist, but now you want to have a conversation?"
"This isn't a joke, Y/N." His voice is low, dangerous. "Why the fuck is your test positive?!"
The words don't register at first. "What?"
"Your drug test. It came back positive. For opiates."
The world tilts slightly.
"That's impossible."
"Morrison just called me into her office. Showed me the results herself." Harry's hands flex at his sides. "You want to tell me what the hell is going on?"
"Nothing is going on! I don't—I've never—" Her mind races. "There has to be a mistake. A lab error or—"
"The lab doesn't make mistakes like this."
"Well they did this time because I haven't taken anything!" Her voice rises. "I don't even take Tylenol unless I absolutely have to!"
Harry studies her face, and she can see him trying to read her, trying to determine if she's lying.
"Harry." She drops her arms, meeting his eyes directly. "I swear to you, I haven't taken anything. This doesn't make sense."
Some of the anger drains from his expression, replaced by something closer to concern. "When was the last time you were in the med room? Had access to any controlled substances?"
"I—" She tries to think. "Two days ago? I assisted on that thoracotomy, helped log the fentanyl dosage. But I didn't take anything."
"Who else was there?"
"Dr. Chen, two nurses, you..." She trails off. "Harry, what's happening?"
He runs both hands through his hair, pacing away from her. "Morrison wants to suspend you pending investigation. I convinced her to give us twenty-four hours to figure out what happened."
Suspended. The word makes her stomach drop.
"This will destroy my career." She whispers
"It won't. We'll fix this." But he doesn't sound entirely convinced.
"How? If the test came back positive—"
"Then we retest. Request a confirmation test. The initial screening can have false positives." He's already pulling out his phone. "I'll call the lab, demand they run it again with a more specific test."
"And if it comes back positive again?"
"It won't." His certainty wavers for just a second. "Have you eaten anything unusual? Taken any medication, even over-the-counter? Supplements?"
Y/N shakes her head. "Nothing. I had coffee this morning, the salad from the cafeteria for lunch—"
"Any prescription medications?"
"Just birth control."
Harry's jaw works as he thinks. "We'll document everything. Every meal, every drink, everywhere you've been for the past seventy-two hours."
"This is insane."
"I know." He moves closer, his voice softening slightly. "But we're going to figure it out. I'm not letting this ruin you."
Everything started to weigh on here. The fight, the anger, the hurt, Y/N feels tears prick her eyes. It all crashes over her at once: their argument last night, Harry's cold treatment all day, and now this nightmare that could destroy everything she's worked for.
Her hands start to shake.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice breaking. "About last night. Calling you a coward. I was angry and—"
The tears spill over before she can stop them. Four years of medical school, two years of residency, every sacrifice, every sleepless night, every patient she's fought for, all of it could be gone because of a test result that makes no sense.
Harry stands frozen for a moment, watching her fall apart. His mind is racing…if he'd already switched her evaluator back when he'd promised, this would be so much simpler. He could advocate for her without anyone questioning his motives. But now? Now they'd think he was being biased. Protecting his...what? His girlfriend? His intern he was sleeping with?
The guilt hits him all at once
This is his fault. Not the positive test, but the position she's in now, vulnerable and alone because he'd been too cautious, too afraid of the complications.
"Y/N—" His voice cracks slightly.
"My career is over." She's spiraling now, the words tumbling out between sobs. "Even if we prove it's a false positive, there'll always be questions. People will always wonder. And my parents—god, my parents—"
"Stop." Harry closes the distance between them, his hands coming up to cup her face. "Look at me."
She does, her eyes swimming with tears.
"I'm going to fix this," he says firmly. "Do you hear me? I will fix this."
"How? You can't just—"
"I don't know yet. But I will." His thumbs brush away her tears. "I'll call in every favor I have. I'll get the best lawyers, the best lab techs. I'll tear this hospital apart if I have to."
"Why?" The question comes out small, broken. "I thought you were mad at me."
Harry's expression softens, and something in his chest cracks open.
"Because I love you," he says quietly. "And I'll be damned if I sit around while this is happening to you. Argument be damned."
Y/N's breath catches. "What?"
"I love you." The words come easier the second time. "I'm an idiot and an asshole and you were right. I should have handled the evaluation situation weeks ago. But I love you, and I'm not letting this destroy you."
Fresh tears spill down her cheeks, but these feel different.
"You hung up on me."
"I know. I'm sorry." His forehead drops to rest against hers. "I was hurt and angry and I handled it like a complete prick. Ignoring you all day, pulling you from surgeries—" He exhales roughly. "I was punishing you because you hit a nerve. Because you were right."
"I shouldn't have called you a coward."
"Maybe not. But you weren't wrong." His hands slide down to her shoulders. "I've been stalling. Making excuses. Because changing your evaluator makes this real in a way that scared me. Makes us official in the eyes of the hospital."
"And now?"
"Now I don't give a fuck what the hospital thinks." His voice hardens with determination. "First thing tomorrow, I'm requesting the evaluator change. And then I'm fighting this drug test result with everything I have."
Y/N lets out a shaky breath, her hands coming up to grip his wrists. "I really didn't take anything."
"I know you didn't." There's not a trace of doubt in his voice. "Which means someone made a mistake, or something contaminated the sample, or—" He stops, jaw tightening. "Or someone did this deliberately."
"Who would—"
"I don't know yet. But we're going to find out." He pulls back slightly to meet her eyes. "I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"
She nods, even though fear still coils tight in her stomach.
"Good." Harry's expression shifts into something more clinical, more focused. "Go home. Get some rest. I'm going to make some calls."
"It's almost eight at night—"
"I don't care what time it is." He kisses her forehead, lingering there for a moment. "I'm calling Morrison. I'll push for a secondary test. Hair follicle analysis. Results take a few days, but it'll show your actual usage pattern over the past three months. It's more comprehensive, harder to dispute."
His hands slide down her arms, gentle and reassuring.
"What if she says no?"
"She won't. Not when I explain the stakes." Harry's voice is soft but certain. "And if she does, I'll go over her head. I'll call the board if I have to."
Y/N's lower lip trembles. "You'd really do that?"
"Baby, I'd do a hell of a lot more than that." He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch achingly tender. "You think I'm going to let some bullshit test result destroy the woman I love? Not a chance."
There it is again. That word. Love.
"You really mean it?" she whispers. "You're not just saying it because—"
"I mean it." He cups her face again, making sure she's looking at him. "I love you. I've definitely loved you since San Francisco, maybe even before that. I was just too stubborn and scared to admit it."
"I love you too," she whispers, the words tumbling out before she can stop them. "I've been so scared to say it, but I do. I love you."
Harry's expression softens completely, all the hard edges melting away.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." A watery laugh escapes her. "Even when you're being an asshole. Even when you ignore me all day like a child."
"Christ, I'm sorry about that." He pulls her closer, wrapping his arms around her. "I was hurt and stupid and—fuck, I wasted an entire day being angry when I could have been—"
"It's okay."
"It's not." He presses his lips to her hair. "But I'm going to make it up to you. Starting with fixing this mess."
She burrows into his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with hospital antiseptic.
"I love you," he murmurs against her hair. "I love how brilliant you are. How you challenge me even when it drives me mental. How you care about every single patient like they're family." His voice drops lower, more intimate. "I love the way you scrunch your nose when you're concentrating. How you steal my coffee even though you have your own. How you look in my shirts in the morning."
Fresh tears slide down her cheeks, but she's almost smiling now.
"I love you," he repeats, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, then her temple, then the corner of her mouth. "And we're going to get through this. Okay?"
"Okay." The word comes out shaky but trusting.
"Now go home. Take a shower, try to eat something." His hands slide down to squeeze hers. "I'm going to make some calls, do some digging. I'll text you updates."
"Harry—"
"And tomorrow?" He cuts her off gently. "Tomorrow we fight back. But tonight, I need you to rest. Can you do that for me?"
She nods, even though she's not sure she'll be able to sleep.
"That's my girl." He kisses her properly this time, slow and sweet and full of promise. "I've got you. I promise."
When he pulls back, his green eyes are fierce with determination.
Summary: An unfortunate meeting place for these two strangers.
Word Count: 6.4K
Warnings: Claustrophobia (fear of closed spaces), Acrophobia (fear of heights), and mostly just fluff 💗
Please enjoy! I’m just doing this for fun. (This is a long read.)
✨masterlist✨ read the rest of my fanfics here
...
Y/N was a set designer in New York, fortunate enough to land a job as an associate designer on Saturday Night Live.
The job was fast, chaotic, and constantly changing—but she loved it.
Unfortunately, on this particular day, everything seemed to be going wrong.
The production team had been scrambling all morning because they still hadn’t found the exact type of chair the director wanted for one of the sketches. Every prop runner had already been sent out across the city hunting for furniture, fabrics, or last-minute set pieces.
Then somehow—miraculously—you found one.
A chair tucked away in a small prop warehouse downtown. When you sent the photo to your boss, they immediately forwarded it up the chain.
Your boss’s boss responded within seconds.
That’s the one.
Since every runner was already out, you offered to pick it up yourself.
Now you were hauling the chair into the building, slightly out of breath, and pressing the elevator button for your floor.
The doors began to close when you suddenly heard someone from down the hallway.
“Hold the door!” You quickly pressed the open button.
A tall stranger slipped inside just before the doors shut.
“Thank you,” he said politely, slightly winded as he stepped in.
“No problem,” you replied.
He pressed the button for the fifth floor—the rehearsal floor.
You didn’t think much of it.
Your hands were busy inspecting the chair’s upholstery, brushing your fingers over the fabric as you wondered if it needed a quick cleaning before presenting it to your boss.
Maybe a lint roller would do. Maybe some steam. You were already mentally running through solutions.
The elevator hummed upward.
Then— It stopped.
Abruptly.
Both you and the stranger looked up at the same time.
The overhead lights flickered before dimming into the faint red glow of the emergency light.
You stared at the ceiling. “...Fuck. Seriously? Out of all the days.”
You stepped forward quickly and pressed the emergency call button.
Nothing.
You pressed it again.
Still nothing.
Your eyes drifted to the maintenance chart posted on the wall.
Last inspection: last month. Next scheduled inspection: tomorrow.
You let out a slow, disbelieving breath.
“I’ll try calling someone,” the stranger offered, already pulling out his phone.
A second later, he frowned.
“Damn. No signal.”
“Seriously?”
You pulled your own phone out and checked.
Nothing. Of course.
You groaned quietly before leaning back against the wall.
“Well… good thing I update my boss constantly,” you said, exhaling.
“I messaged them right before I got into the elevator.”
You took a steadying breath and lowered yourself onto the very chair that had gotten you into this mess in the first place. The irony was not lost on you. Then you looked up at the stranger.
“Oh—sorry,” you said quickly, shifting a little. “Do you want to sit?”
You gestured toward the other side of the chair.
As you looked up, you nearly jumped out of your seat.
Standing right in front of you was Harry Styles.
Not a poster. Not a screen.
The actual man.
Your brain short-circuited. “God—sorry!” you blurted out immediately, cheeks flushing from embarrassment as you realized you had just offered Harry Styles half of a random chair in a broken elevator.
He waved it off casually.
“It’s fine,” he said, glancing down at the chair before tilting his head.
“So…where did you get this piece of shit?”
Your eyes widened. “Excuse me? Piece of shit?”
You sat up straighter, immediately offended. “This very chair is solely the reason I have a job right now.”
Harry blinked, then raised both hands in surrender. “Sorry,” he said, a small snicker escaping him. “Touchy subject.”
You crossed your arms dramatically. “The director was set on a very specific chair for one of the skits tonight,” you explained.
“And somehow I’m the idiot who managed to find it.”
You gestured vaguely around the elevator. “So here I am. Sitting in a death-metal box that might kill us both.”
Harry let out a quiet laugh, leaning back against the elevator wall.
“Well,” he said, glancing at the chair again, “if this is the chair that saves the show, I suppose it deserves a little respect.”
You huffed. “Thank you.”
A beat passed.
The elevator remained completely still.
Harry checked his phone again, even though both of you already knew the result.
Still no signal.
He sighed. “So,” he said, looking back at you with a crooked smile, “how long do elevators usually take to un-trap people?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know. This is my first time being potentially buried alive in a prop department disaster.”
He laughed again. “Comforting.”
You glanced back down at the chair, running your fingers along the armrest.
“Honestly,” you muttered, “if we die here, at least I can say I died employed.”
Harry tilted his head. “That’s a very New York way to look at things.”
You looked up at him. “Wait… are you here for rehearsal?”
He nodded toward the fifth-floor button. “Yeah. Musical guest and host this week.”
You blinked.
“Oh.”
A pause.
“…Right.” You rubbed your face.
“Great. So not only am I stuck in an elevator, but I’m also the reason the guest star is missing rehearsal.”
Harry laughed, shaking his head.
“I don’t think you broke the elevator.”
“Still feels like my fault.”
“Well,” he said, nodding toward the chair again, “if this thing’s the star of a sketch this weekend, we should probably protect it.”
You looked down at it. Then back at him.
“Are you suggesting we guard the chair?”
“I’m saying,” he replied with a grin, “if the show gets cancelled because the chair didn’t make it… You might actually lose that job.”
You gasped dramatically. “Oh, my god.”
Then you leaned forward, gripping the armrests like a bodyguard.
“You’re right.” Harry burst out laughing.
“You work in the…?” he asked, gesturing vaguely toward the chair and the tools sticking out of your bag.
“Set design department,” you answered.
Harry nodded slowly.
“And you’re doing double duty this week,” you added with a small smile.
“Congratulations.”
“For what?” he asked, amused. “You know—hosting and performing.” You gestured toward him.
“That’s… a lot.” He rubbed the back of his neck.
“Thank you,” he said. “A little nerve-wracking, but fun.”
You tilted your head. “That’s exactly why I like design more than acting,” you admitted. “I have massive stage fright.”
Harry chuckled. “You get used to it.”
“Well,” you replied, raising an eyebrow, “you’ve been doing it for almost two decades.” He laughed quietly at that, leaning his shoulder against the elevator wall.
The silence returned for a moment as the elevator remained stubbornly still. Then Harry glanced back down at the chair.
“So,” he said, nudging one of its legs lightly with his shoe, “what scene does this chair go in?”
You shrugged. “I actually don’t know.”
He looked surprised. “You don’t?”
“Nope.”
You leaned back slightly, tapping the armrest.
“I worked on the other three skits you’re doing this week.”
Harry’s eyebrows lifted.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.
One of them has a rotating kitchen set that took forever to get approved,” you said. “Another one has fake marble columns that look expensive but are actually foam.”
Harry laughed.
“Don’t ruin the magic for me.” “Sorry,” you said with a small grin.
“Occupational hazard.”
He studied you for a moment, curious. “So you basically build the worlds we embarrass ourselves in.”
“That’s a very poetic way of putting it,” you replied.
“Is it wrong though?”
You thought about it. “…No, actually.”
Another pause.
The elevator hummed faintly but didn’t move.
Harry sighed dramatically. “Well,” he said, glancing around the metal box, “this is probably the smallest set you’ve worked on.”
You looked around, too. “Minimalist design,” you said. “Very experimental.”
Harry laughed again.
“You’re handling this a lot better than I am.”
“Oh, trust me,” you said, gesturing to the chair beneath you, “I’m emotionally attached to this thing now.”
“Trauma bonding?”
“Exactly.” Harry looked at the chair thoughtfully.
“…Do you think it’ll make it to rehearsal?”
You patted the armrest like a loyal pet.
“It better.” Then you looked up at him.
“Otherwise, we were trapped in here for nothing.”
...
Thirty minutes had passed.
And apparently, no one had noticed that either of you was missing.
You sighed and leaned your head back against the elevator wall.
“I actually expect them not to care about me,” you said, glancing at him. “But you? There’s no way they forget about you.”
Harry chuckled. “C’mon,” he said. “You don’t think your boss is looking for you?”
You tilted your head, thinking about it for a second.
“I mean… they’ll definitely be looking for the chair.” That made both of you laugh.
After the laughter faded, you realized something.
“Oh—wait,” you said, sitting up straighter. “I actually haven’t introduced myself to you.”
You held your hand out. “I’m Y/N, by the way.”
Harry took your hand and shook it warmly. “Harry,” he said with a small smile. “But you probably know that by now.”
“Yeah,” you admitted. “I read the call sheet.” He laughed softly at that.
You leaned back into the chair again, studying him for a moment before speaking.
“I enjoyed your new album, by the way.” Harry looked pleasantly surprised.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” you said with a small nod.
“Especially Coming Up Roses.”
He blinked.
“Thank you YN.”
You shrugged. “What can I say? I have taste.”
Harry smiled at that, clearly amused. “Well,” he said, leaning against the elevator wall again, “I’m glad someone does.”
You looked around the still-motionless elevator.
“So… do you think this is the universe forcing us to network?”
Harry laughed.
“If this is networking,” he said, “it’s the most stressful version I’ve experienced.”
You patted the chair again.
“Hey. At least you met the real star this weekend’s show.”
Harry looked down at the chair.
“…I’m starting to think you’re serious about that.”
“Oh, I am.”
...
Fifty minutes in.
Just when the quiet had started to feel a little too long, a loud knock echoed against the metal doors.
Both you and Harry straightened immediately.
“Hello! It’s the fire brigade!” a voice called from outside. “Are you alright in there?”
Relief flooded through you.
“Yes! Yes, we’re alright!” you shouted back, standing up from the chair.
The voice came again.“How many of you are in there?”
You glanced at Harry. “Two!” you replied.
A pause.
“Two what?” the firefighter asked.
You blinked.
“Uh—two people?” Harry snorted quietly beside you, trying not to laugh.
“Can you tell us if anyone is injured?” the voice asked.
“No injuries!” you said. “Just a bruised ego!”
Harry leaned closer to the door and called out, “And a slightly offended chair!”
You elbowed him.
“Don’t listen to him!” you yelled through the door. “We're fine!”
There was a small murmur of confused voices outside.
Then the firefighter spoke again.
“Alright, stay calm. We’re going to manually open the elevator.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
Harry rubbed his hands together. “Well,” he said quietly, “looks like the chair survives.”
You looked down at it proudly.
“Of course it does.”
Another metallic clank sounded from outside as tools began working at the doors.
Harry glanced at you.
“You know,” he said with a grin, “this might be the most dramatic prop delivery in the history of Saturday Night Live.”
You crossed your arms.
“Worth it,” you said.
Then you added thoughtfully—
“…though I do expect a raise after this.”
Harry laughed.
“Fair.”
More clanking echoed from outside the elevator.
You and Harry waited, listening carefully as voices murmured beyond the metal doors.
Then the firefighter spoke again. “Alright, listen up. The elevator is stuck between floors. We’re going to get you out, but it might take some time.”
Your stomach dropped.
“How long?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.
There was a brief pause.
“Possibly around one or two hours. We have to secure the elevator first before opening anything. It could be risky otherwise.”
Two hours.
Your face went a little pale. “O-okay… thank you,” you called back.
The footsteps and voices outside moved away slightly as they began preparing.
You slowly turned around and sat back down on the chair.
The chair.
The stupid, career-saving chair.
You rubbed your hands together nervously.
“Okay,” you said quietly.
Harry looked over.
“I’m slightly panicking.”
He straightened a little. “Oh.”
You pursed your lips, trying to keep yourself calm.
“Did I mention,” you continued, forcing a casual tone, “that I’m a little claustrophobic?”
Harry’s eyebrows lifted.
“And also,” you added quickly, “terrifyingly afraid of heights.” You gestured vaguely toward the elevator walls.
“Which is unfortunate… considering we are currently trapped in a metal box… suspended in the air.”
Harry blinked. “…Right.”
You inhaled slowly, trying to steady yourself.
“I’m trying to stay calm,” you muttered. Then you looked at him seriously.
“If I pass out, please don’t let me fall off the chair.”
Harry crouched down slightly so he was more at your eye level.
“Hey,” he said gently. “Look at me.”
You did.
“We’re okay,” he said calmly. “The elevator isn’t going anywhere. They wouldn’t leave us hanging here if it wasn’t safe.”
You nodded, though your fingers were still twisting together nervously.
Harry glanced around the tiny space.
“Well,” he said, trying to lighten the mood,
“good news.”
You eyed him suspiciously.
“What?”
“At least you brought a chair.”
Despite yourself, you let out a shaky laugh.
“…You’re unbelievable.”
Harry grinned.
“Working on keeping morale up.”
Harry lowered himself carefully onto the elevator floor, legs crossed.
“I’ll help you keep grounded,” he said, looking up at you with a small grin.
“Pun intended, Harry?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.
“A little bit,” he admitted. “Yeah… appropriate for this very moment.”
You both giggled, the tension in your chest loosening slightly.
“Tell me more about you,” he said, leaning back on his hands, his eyes curious.
You narrowed your eyes at him, mock suspicion in your expression.
“Wow. Great technique on distracting me,” you muttered, trying to keep your heartbeat from speeding up.
“Distracting you?” he echoed innocently. “I’m just… helping you pass the time.”
“Uh-huh,” you said, crossing your arms, “by sitting on the floor like some charming elevator philosopher?”
Harry laughed, the sound echoing softly off the metal walls.
“Exactly,” he said, shrugging. “Keeps things… interesting.”
You shook your head, trying not to smile too widely. “Alright, fine. I’ll bite. What do you want to know?”
“Everything,” he said, his grin widening. “Well… not everything. But… what keeps you sane when elevators are out to get you?” You let out a short laugh, shaking your head.
“Good question. I… focus on the small wins. Like, right now, surviving thirty minutes without screaming counts, right?”
“Definitely counts,” Harry agreed.
“And honestly… I think you’re handling this better than I am.”
You blushed faintly, glancing down at the chair beneath you.
“Well,” you said, trying to sound casual, “this chair is literally keeping my career alive. It’s kind of my life coach at this point.”
Harry’s laugh came again, and this time it was softer, warmer.
“I like that,” he said. “Life coach chair. Makes sense.”
You couldn’t help but grin. “And here I thought being stuck in an elevator was going to be terrifying,” you murmured.
“Who knew,” Harry said, leaning back slightly, “that it could also be… kind of fun?”
You laughed quietly, shaking your head.
“Yeah… kind of fun. Don’t make me regret saying that, though.”
Harry winked.
“Too late. It’s already happening.”
A beat of silence settled over the two of you.
You stared at the elevator doors, willing them to budge, willing someone—anyone—to get you both out of this metallic cage.
Harry, noticing your blank stare, snapped his fingers lightly in front of your face.
“You good, Y/N?” he asked, his tone soft but teasing.
You blinked, shaking yourself out of the trance. “Eh… good,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant, though your fingers still twitched nervously.
He raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly on his elbows.
“Good is good,” he said with a small smile, as if your answer alone was enough to ease some of the tension.
You nodded, forcing yourself to breathe a little easier.
“Yeah… good,” you murmured again, though a tiny laugh escaped your lips.
Harry’s grin widened just slightly, catching the small sound. “You know,” he said quietly, “if being stuck in an elevator makes you giggle, I’d say we’re surviving better than expected.”
You glanced at him, the corner of your mouth twitching.
“Better than expected… sure. I’ll take that,” you said, letting yourself lean back a little against the chair, finally feeling a fraction more grounded.
For a moment, the panic faded into something lighter—shared, quiet, and oddly comforting.
“Wanna take a seat on the chair?” you asked, gesturing toward the prop that had caused both your triumph and your current predicament.
“Yeah… might as well,” Harry said, easing himself carefully onto the chair. “Solemnly keeping your job for you, huh?”
“HA! Right,” you laughed. “This little thing has been more useful than half the runners today.”
Harry leaned back, resting one arm on the top of the chair.
“Don’t worry, Y/N,” he said, looking at you with a small grin. “You won’t lose your job. This is the universe’s work—they won’t fire you… I think.”
You exhaled a relieved laugh.
“Thank you for the reassurance, Harry,” you said, letting yourself relax a little.
“And if they do fire you,” he added with mock seriousness, “I’ll find a way to get you on my payroll.”
Your eyebrows shot up, surprised. “Wow. That’s generous. Are there… benefits?” you teased, leaning against the chair.
“Benefits?” he asked, raising a brow, playing along.
“Yes. You know. Health care. Insurance. Paid vacation. Perks. Free snacks?”
Harry chuckled, tilting his head thoughtfully.
“Hm… well,” he said, smirking, “health care? Check. Insurance? Absolutely. Paid vacation? Probably. Perks… depends on how well you survive elevator adventures. Free snacks? Only if you help me pick my new furniture.”
You laughed, shaking your head.
“Sounds… like a pretty good gig,” you said, letting yourself sink a little further into the chair.
Harry leaned back slightly, eyes glinting with amusement.
“Just… promise me one thing,” he said quietly.
“What’s that?”
“That if we survive this elevator, you’ll let me see your set designs sometime. I want to see the worlds you make.”
You smiled, feeling the panic from earlier soften even more.
“Deal,” you said. As you both shake hands to seal the deal.
"Can I ask you something?” you said, leaning slightly forward, curiosity getting the better of you.
“Of course,” Harry replied, tilting his head, giving you his full attention.
“What did you want to be before auditioning for X Factor?” you asked.
“Like… did you know what you were going to do after college? Did you have a backup plan if you didn’t get in?”
Harry chuckled softly, leaning back a little on the chair.
“Wow… jumping straight to the deep questions, huh?” he said with a grin.
“Hey,” you shot back, “we’re trapped in an elevator. Deep questions are basically mandatory.”
He laughed, shaking his head.
“Fair enough,” he said, eyes thoughtful. “Before auditioning… I honestly just wanted to perform. Sing, write, maybe play a few shows. I didn’t really think about a backup. I was too stubborn, I guess.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Stubborn or brave?” you asked.
“Maybe a little of both,” he admitted, smiling faintly. “I figured if I wanted it badly enough, I’d find a way to make it happen.”
You nodded slowly, impressed despite yourself.
“And you weren’t scared?” you pressed, leaning closer. “Of… failing?”
Harry shrugged, his grin softening.
“Of course, I was scared,” he said honestly. “But you know… fear’s part of it. You just… push through. Otherwise, you’d never know what could’ve been.”
You smiled, thinking about your own choices, your own little victories and risks in New York set design.
“So… no backup plan?” you asked again, a teasing tone creeping into your voice.
“Not really,” he said, laughing. “But if the music thing hadn’t worked, I probably would’ve ended up doing something else creative or helping people. You know… art, psychology, design, theatre, or therapist… something where I could still function in society some way.”
You grinned, leaning back on the chair, feeling the strange intimacy of the conversation wrap around the two of you.
“You sound like someone who always makes it work,” you said quietly.
Harry shrugged modestly, still grinning. “Or someone lucky… maybe a little of both,” he said.
You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head.
“Lucky… sure. That’s one way to put it.”
“How about you?” Harry asked, leaning forward slightly. “How did you get into this… industry?”
You thought for a moment, fingers brushing along the chair armrest.
“Well,” you began, “I always wanted to be an interior designer.
But… honestly, it was kind of boring for me to sit in an office all day.”
Harry nodded, listening intently.
“I mean,” you continued, a small smile tugging at your lips, “this is still an office job in a way—but there’s so much more creativity in it. I get to make the most random sets every weekend, design worlds that people only see for a few minutes, and then… poof, gone. But it’s fun. It keeps me on my toes.”
Harry’s eyes lit up with curiosity. “That sounds amazing,” he said.
“Random sets every weekend? Must be a rush, seeing everything come together like that.”
“It is,” you admitted, leaning back slightly, enjoying the way the elevator’s cramped space had somehow turned into a safe little bubble for this conversation. “And the best part… the little details no one notices but make a scene feel real. That’s my favorite part.”
He smiled softly.
“I get that,” he said. “It’s like… the things people don’t see are sometimes the most important.”
You nodded, feeling an odd connection forming through the shared understanding.
“Exactly,” you said, eyes lighting up. “And sometimes, it’s the little things that end up saving the show… or the job.”
Harry glanced down at the chair you were both sitting on, then grinned knowingly.
“Ah… so this chair really is a hero, huh?”
You laughed, shaking your head.
“Yeah… my unsung hero of the week.”
“Okay… can I hold that against you, Harry?” you asked, tilting your head with a mischievous smile.
“Adding in me your payroll,” your smile not going away.
“Sure,” he said, grinning, “Only catch is you have to let me take you to dinner.”
You laughed, gesturing vaguely around the cramped elevator.
“Well,” you said, still smiling, “if we do live to tell the tale.”
He pulled his phone out and handed it to you.
“Here,” he said. “Put your number in. That way we can have a proper meet-up… rather than this little… elevator mishap.”
You took the phone carefully, fingers hovering for a second before typing in your number.
“Done,” you said, handing it back.
Then, without thinking too much, you immediately grabbed the phone again, held it up, and sat up straight in the chair, smiling softly.
“Smile,” you muttered to yourself, as if instructing a photographer.
Harry raised an eyebrow. “I’m surprised… You only took one.”
“Yes,” you said, handing the phone back to him.
“Being in here has made me look pretty… flushed. No need for a touch-up.”
He chuckled, tucking the phone away. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, grinning.
“Ridiculously right,” you replied, smirking, letting yourself relax back into the chair.
The two of you shared a quiet laugh, the elevator suddenly feeling less like a trap and more like its own little world—two people, a heroic chair, and a pause from the chaos outside.
...
An hour had passed.
The initial panic had faded into a quiet, exhausted stillness. The adrenaline that had kept you alert and jittery was slowly draining away.
A voice crackled from outside the elevator. “Alright, guys,” one of the firefighters called.
“In about ten minutes, you might feel a big shift. We’re trying to move the elevator to the next floor up.”
“Okay,” Harry responded, leaning slightly back against the chair.
You let out a soft sigh, closing your eyes for a moment. The exhaustion from the morning, combined with the stress and anxiety, was starting to hit you.
“Do you guys need any immediate medical attention?” the firefighter asked.
“Nope, we’re good!” you called back.
The elevator fell quiet again.
Harry glanced at you, eyes concerned. “Are you sure you’re good, Y/N?” he asked gently.
You let out a long yawn, rubbing at your eyes.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Just sleepy… from this morning and… from the anxiety.”
Harry nodded slowly, as if understanding more than you were saying.
“Sleepy,” he repeated, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I get that. It’s been a lot.”
You gave a small laugh, but it was tired, soft.
“Yeah,” you whispered, leaning slightly back into the chair. “Just… wish I had a proper bed right now.”
Harry tilted his head, watching you. “Or… maybe a friend to keep you company while you wait,” he said lightly, almost teasing—but there was warmth in his voice.
You opened your eyes slightly and met his gaze, your tired grin soft.
“Yeah… I suppose this works too,” you murmured. He smiled back, and for a moment, the elevator—though still cramped and unmoving—felt like its own little safe space.
You yawned again, burying your face into the chair’s backrest, letting yourself finally relax just a little.
Harry stayed nearby, leaning against the you, silently keeping watch.
...
Harry lowered himself carefully onto the elevator floor beside you, leaning his head against the chair’s cushion.
“I thought I was going to get tired from rehearsing,” he said quietly, letting out a little laugh, “but this… this is exhausting too.” You let out a soft chuckle.
“Me too,” you admitted, glancing at him. For a moment, the two of you just sat there, letting the silence stretch. The only sounds were the faint hum of the elevator machinery and your slow, steady breathing.
Then Harry shifted slightly, looking over at you. “I’m… happy that you’re the person I got stuck in an elevator with today,” he said softly, a small, sincere smile tugging at his lips.
You shrugged, trying to play it cool, even though the warmth of his words settled pleasantly in your chest.
“Ditto to that,” you said quietly, meeting his gaze. Another pause fell between you. It was comfortable this time, not awkward—just two people quietly existing together in a tiny, suspended world.
You let your hand brush lightly against the chair cushion, your fingers almost grazing his. He glanced at it, then back at you, a teasing sparkle in his eye.
“Pretty cozy,” he murmured. You laughed softly, shaking your head.
“Who knew being trapped in a metal box could be… sort of nice?”
Harry smirked. “Only with the right company,” he said.
You felt a small, genuine smile spread across your face, and for the first time in over an hour, the elevator didn’t feel so confining.
A voice suddenly echoed from outside the elevator.
“Alright, you two,” one of the firefighters called, “there’s going to be a jolt, and the lights might go out. We need to restart the system to move it again.”
You shot upright, your heart jumping.
“…Wait. What did you just say? The lights will go out?” you blurted, your voice a mix of disbelief and panic.
Harry glanced at you, eyebrows raised, then leaned back slightly against the chair.
“…Yup,” he said calmly, almost teasing. “Looks like we’re about to get a little… adventure bonus.”
You let out a sharp laugh that was more nervous than amused.
“Adventure bonus? Are you kidding me? We’re already trapped, and now this?” Harry tilted his head at you, giving you a small, reassuring smile.
“Hey, if it makes you feel better,” he said, “I’ll be right here. Lights or no lights. Chair or no chair.”
You blinked at him, the ridiculousness of the situation colliding with the comfort in his calm presence.
“…Right,” you muttered, forcing yourself to breathe. “Okay… just… don’t laugh if I scream.”
“Noted,” he said, leaning slightly closer, a smirk tugging at his lips. “But no promises if you grab the chair and try to throw it at me.”
You groaned, letting your head drop into your hands for a second, then peeked up at him.
“Honestly… what else could go wrong?”
Harry shrugged, smirking. “Well… I’d say if we survive this, the universe owes us a drink—or two.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “…Fine. Deal,” you said. “But only if you promise not to let me fall off the chair when the lights go out.”
“Scout’s honor,” he said, flashing a quick grin.
You swallowed, bracing yourself as the elevator hummed again, and the faint click of the system restarting made your stomach twist.
And then—just like the firefighter warned—the elevator jolted.
You let out a loud, sharp gasp, your chest tightening as the sudden movement made your stomach lurch.
Instinctively, your fingers scrabbled at the cushion of the chair, scratching it for comfort.
Then, darkness.
The lights went out.
You froze for a moment, heart pounding, before your hand found Harry’s shoulder without thinking, pressing against it for grounding.
Your nails dug in slightly, and a quiet, embarrassed, “Sorry,” escaped your lips.
“No,” Harry said softly, his voice calm even in the dark. “You’re fine, Y/N.”
You felt his hand wrap gently around your wrist, anchoring you. The warmth of his touch was grounding, almost soothing.
“This is… a first time for me,” you admitted quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Ditto,” Harry replied, his tone soft but steady.
You swallowed, leaning slightly closer toward the warmth of his presence, letting yourself settle just a fraction more.
For a moment, the darkness didn’t feel so terrifying—not with him right there.
Your heartbeat was still racing, your nerves still frayed, but somehow…
You weren’t alone.
The elevator jolted again, this time moving slowly upward.
You gripped the chair tightly as it shifted beneath you, your stomach twisting with every tiny lurch.
Then, finally, it stopped.
The lights flickered weakly as you heard a familiar voice from outside.
“Freedom is almost there, guys,” the firefighter called. “We just need to pry the doors open. Give us a moment to get it prepared.”
You let out a long, shaky breath without even realizing you’d been holding it.
Harry exhaled beside you as well, his shoulder brushing yours.
“Finally,” he muttered quietly, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips.
You leaned back against the chair, letting your hand slowly fall from his shoulder, though the warmth lingered in your memory.
“Almost there,” you echoed softly, the tension in your shoulders finally starting to ease.
For the first time in what felt like forever, the cramped metal box didn’t feel suffocating—it just felt… temporary.
Harry glanced at you, his smirk returning.
“Think we survived the world’s tiniest adventure?” he teased lightly.
You gave a tired laugh, your voice soft. “…I think we did,” you admitted.
And for the first time in an hour, it felt like you could finally relax.
“I’m gonna file for PTO,” you muttered, rubbing your eyes, your voice rough from the stress and exhaustion. “I cannot be in this office tomorrow.”
Harry leaned back slightly against the chair, watching you with that familiar, soft smile.
“Well… once you recover,” he said gently, “I hope you’ll come see my SNL show this weekend.”
You looked at him, tired but touched.
“I want you there, Y/N,” he said softly, his eyes warm.
“Okay… I will be,” you whispered, managing a small, tired smile.
Then, a voice came over the elevator door again, cutting through the quiet.
“Get away from the door! We don’t want you getting hurt!”
You and Harry both jumped slightly, instinctively stepping back. Moments later, the unmistakable sound of banging echoed around you, and with a loud metallic clunk, the doors began to slide open.
Light poured into the elevator, and your eyes widened as you saw the scene before you.
A small crowd had gathered—firefighters still in their gear, Harry’s assistant and manager hovering anxiously nearby, your boss looking flustered but relieved… and a handful of curious bystanders who had apparently caught wind that Harry Styles had been trapped in an elevator.
Gasps, whispers, and a few excited murmurs filled the space.
“Y/N!” your boss called, rushing forward. “Are you okay?”
“Yes!” you said, stepping out carefully, still clutching the chair.
“We’re… fine!”
Harry rose from the chair beside you, brushing himself off, looking calm despite the chaos.
“Thanks for getting us out,” he said to the firefighters, giving a small, grateful nod.
His manager shot him a sharp look, muttering something about “embarrassing headlines,” but Harry’s attention was already back on you.
“Trapped in here with you…” He murmured with a half-smile, glancing at you. “…not the worst thing that could’ve happened.”
You laughed softly, exhaustion and relief mixing into a warm, dizzying feeling.
The crowd murmured again, a mixture of awe and disbelief—Harry Styles, trapped in an elevator, and he wasn’t alone.
You shot him a tired but fond look.
“Ditto,” you said quietly.
And for a moment, amidst the chaos, it felt like it had all been worth it.
…
After all the commotion outside the elevator, you and Harry were escorted into a nearby conference room.
Inside sat Harry’s manager and assistant, along with your boss. The door closed behind you, the hallway noise fading as everyone settled into their seats.
The building manager and a company representative stood across the table, looking apologetic and slightly nervous.
“We deeply apologise, Mr Styles,” the representative began. “We had an inspection scheduled for that elevator tomorrow. Somehow it malfunctioned today. We will compensate for any possible damages that occurred during this incident.” Harry nodded politely.
“Thank you,” he said calmly. “But you’re forgetting that I wasn’t alone. I was with Y/N, and she deserves an apology too.”
Your eyes widened slightly.
You honestly hadn’t expected that. Usually, if anything inconvenient happened in the building, the company would quietly brush it aside—unless, of course, an A-list celebrity was involved.
The representative blinked before quickly turning to you.
“Yes, absolutely—uhm… Y/N, right? We sincerely apologise for the situation you experienced as well. You are welcome to file for any leave you may need after this incident, and it will be immediately approved.”
Your boss nodded quickly beside you. “Yes, of course. Take whatever time you need.”
You blinked, still processing the sudden shift in treatment.
“Thank you,” you said quietly.
The building manager nodded several more times. “Again, our deepest apologies. We’re very glad both of you are safe.”
After another round of apologies and handshakes, the representatives finally left the room with a series of hurried goodbyes.
The door clicked shut. And suddenly the room felt much quieter.
Harry leaned back slightly in his chair, glancing over at you with a small, reassuring smile—like the whole situation hadn’t been such a big deal to him.
But to you, it kind of was.
Because someone had actually stood up for you.
And that didn’t happen very often.
And then, suddenly—
You and Harry both burst out laughing.
It wasn’t even coordinated. It just… happened. The absurdity of everything—the elevator, the chair, the darkness, the crowd waiting outside—finally caught up to you.
Across the table, your boss, Harry’s manager, and his assistant all looked completely confused.
“Harry,” his manager said sharply, “this is no laughing matter. You’re way behind schedule because of this fiasco.”
Harry wiped at the corner of his eye, still smiling.
“Jesus Christ, Jeff, calm down,” he said. “We’re not hurt in any way.”
Jeff still looked unconvinced.
Harry leaned back in the chair, exhaling.
“But I do agree,” he added, rubbing the back of his neck. “I need to decompress after that.” His assistant nodded sympathetically.
“Sure. Take the rest of the day off, Harry.”
Before anything else could be said, your boss suddenly rushed toward you and wrapped you in a tight hug. You blinked in surprise as they clung to you, eyes a little teary.
“I was so scared,” they said. “I thought something happened to you. I thought you got mugged or something.” You laughed softly.
“But then I saw your text after thirty minutes,” they continued, pulling back slightly. “You were stuck in the elevator! Y/N, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you said gently. “Not exactly the worst coworker to be stuck with.”
Harry grinned from his chair.
Your boss sniffled and wiped their eyes before suddenly remembering something.
“Oh! And the firefighter brought the chair up to the fifth floor for rehearsal,” they said.
You let out a relieved breath.
“Thank god.”
Your boss pointed at you with a proud smile.
“Y/N, I owe you a big solid for this.”
Harry chuckled, glancing between the two of you.
“See?” he said. “Hero chair did its job.” You shook your head, laughing again.
The entire situation finally felt real now—chaotic, ridiculous, but somehow… worth it.
And for the first time since the elevator doors opened, the tension in the room had completely melted away.
Harry stood from his chair and stretched his arms a little.
“Jeff,” he said casually, “I won’t be checking emails or calls today. Take care of them for me, alright?”
Jeff looked mildly exasperated but nodded. “Sure, mate. Where will you go?”
Harry didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he glanced over at you. “Y/N,” he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Wanna grab a bite?” You blinked, slightly surprised—but not unhappy about it.
“Sure,” you said, standing up and grabbing your bag.
Then you paused and added quickly—“But let’s take the stairs.”
Harry raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve had enough of elevators today.”
That made him laugh. “Fair point,” he said, pushing his chair back.
Jeff sighed dramatically behind him.
“Brilliant. My client almost died in an elevator, and now he’s going on a lunch date.”
Harry shot him a look over his shoulder.
“Relax, Jeff. I survived.”
You shook your head, trying not to laugh as the two of you headed toward the door.
Harry held it open for you, gesturing toward the hallway.
“After you.”
You stepped out and glanced toward the elevator down the corridor.
Then immediately turned the other direction.
“Stairs,” you repeated firmly.
Harry followed beside you, grinning.
“Stairs it is.”
And for the first time that day, the whole ordeal felt less like a disaster…
…and more like the beginning of a really good story.
...
AHHHHH I'm just overwhelmed, so I'm coping by making silly stories in my head ☆⌒(>。<)
I just realised that @fkingstyles made a better version of this, so sorry. I didn't mean to do this. Please forgive me for my mistakes.
Please read and heart their work here (｡╯︵╰｡)
part two of No Boats Involved. Read part one here!
after one unexpectedly good first date, Harry comes back to the city early and a spontaneous walk turns into the first stop on your very unofficial New York tour.
word count: 11.9k
The date goes well.
Not in a flashy, cinematic way. Nothing dramatic happens. No one at the bar recognizes him, no one interrupts, and the world outside keeps moving like this is just another quiet Wednesday night.
Which, for the two of you, it somehow becomes.
The strange part is how quickly the nerves fade. For the first few minutes you’re aware of everything. The way you’re sitting. The way he’s looking at you. The low hum of the bar around you.
Then the conversation finds its rhythm and suddenly it feels familiar.
Like the app just changed locations.
He takes a sip of his drink and glances at you, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
“This is strange,” he says.
“Strange good or strange bad?”
“Strange like we’ve been talking for weeks but I’m only just hearing your voice in person.”
You laugh softly. “It is a little weird bringing the chat into real life.”
“That’s exactly it,” he says. “Feels like we skipped the awkward part.”
“You mean the part where two strangers pretend they’ve always liked the same music?”
“Exactly that.”
You tilt your head. “We did cover a lot of ground already.”
He smiles. “We did.”
There’s a small pause, comfortable enough that neither of you rush to fill it.
“So,” you say, turning slightly toward him, “how were the meetings today?”
He exhales softly, leaning back on the stool.
“Long,” he says. “A lot of people in rooms talking about the album like it’s a strategy.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It’s not terrible,” he says quickly. “Just strange sometimes. You make something extremely personal and suddenly it’s being discussed like a product.”
You nod slowly.
“I think that happens with writing too,” you say. “Just smaller.”
His eyes flick back to you.
“How so?”
You shrug slightly, tracing the rim of your glass.
“I’ll write something about a neighborhood or a person and suddenly people online are arguing about it who have never been anywhere near the place I’m talking about.”
He smiles faintly at that.
“Sounds familiar.”
“Does it bother you?” you ask.
He thinks about it for a second.
“Not always,” he says. “Sometimes it means people care. Sometimes it’s just background noise.”
You nod.
“That’s the exact balance.”
He studies you for a moment, curious in a way that doesn’t feel intrusive.
“You’re exactly how I imagined you’d be,” he says.
You narrow your eyes slightly. “That sounds like a dangerous thought.”
“Why?”
“Expectations.”
He shakes his head.
“Not expectations,” he says. “Just… familiar.”
You glance down at your drink to hide the small smile forming.
The conversation drifts after that. Not shallow, not heavy. Just steady.
You tell him about the bakery that almost closed and the neighborhood that rallied around it. He tells you about the strange quiet of studios late at night when everyone else has gone home.
At one point he leans his elbow against the bar and tilts his head slightly.
“You ask good questions,” he says.
You shrug.
“That’s the job.”
He smiles at that, like he’s realizing something.
“Good thing you asked me out then.”
You blink.
“I did not ask you out.”
“You asked if I had plans.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It’s close enough.”
You laugh, shaking your head.
And somewhere between that moment and the next sip of your drink, the last of the nerves disappear.
You’re not meeting Harry Styles.
You’re just talking to Harry.
Eventually the night starts to wind down on its own.
Not because the conversation dries up, but because the bar slowly empties around you. The couple in the corner leaves. The bartender begins wiping down the far end of the counter again. The quiet hum of closing time creeps into the room.
You glance at the clock on the wall without meaning to.
He notices.
“Early morning?” he asks.
“Always,” you say. “Deadlines wait for no one.”
He smiles faintly at that, but there’s a small nod that follows.
“Same,” he says. “Flight’s early.”
That swims in the space between you. Not heavy. Just real life.
You both sit there for a moment longer, letting the night settle around the edges of the conversation.
“I’m glad you asked if I had plans,” he says after a second.
You look over at him.
“I’m glad you said yes.”
The simplicity of it makes you smile.
The bartender brings the check without being asked. He reaches for it automatically and you immediately reach too.
“You don’t have to—” you start.
“It’s one drink,” he says lightly.
“You flew across the country.”
“That’s unrelated.”
You hesitate, then let it go with a quiet shake of your head.
Outside, the air is colder than when you arrived. The streetlights make everything look softer, quieter than the day version of the same block.
You stand there for a second on the sidewalk, both of you adjusting to the abrupt shift from dim bar to cold night air.
“Well,” you say.
“Well,” he echoes.
It’s not awkward. Just the natural pause of two people deciding what the ending of the night looks like.
Then he steps forward and wraps you in a hug.
It catches you slightly off guard, but you hug him back without thinking.
And for a brief second your brain short circuits.
Wow.
That’s a really good hug.
Warm. Easy. The kind that feels genuine instead of polite.
And he smells… incredible.
Clean, warm, something subtle and expensive that you can’t place but immediately notice.
You pull back before your brain can spiral too far down that path.
“Safe flight tomorrow,” you say.
“Good luck with the deadlines,” he replies.
You both hesitate for half a second like there might be something else to say.
But somehow it already feels complete.
You start walking toward your building, hands tucked into your coat pockets, trying very hard to act normal.
Halfway down the block you realize something.
You’re smiling.
And you can still faintly smell whatever cologne he was wearing clinging to your clothes.
Work drags the next morning.
Not because anything is particularly difficult. Just because your brain refuses to stay where it’s supposed to be.
Wednesday night keeps replaying in small, inconvenient flashes.
The bar.
The way the conversation never stalled.
That hug.
You sit through a meeting Thursday morning where someone is explaining a zoning amendment and realize halfway through that you haven’t heard a single word. Your editor asks you a question and you answer just slowly enough that she pauses.
“Coffee,” you say.
She nods like that explains everything.
By the afternoon you’re finally settling back into your work when your phone buzzes on your desk.
Raya.
Your stomach flips immediately, which is deeply annoying.
You open it.
Made it.
You blink at the screen.
Gone so soon :(
The typing bubble appears quickly.
Still thinking about our date.
A smile creeps onto your face before you can stop it.
Wow. A date? I thought it was just one drink.
Three dots appear.
Semantics.
You laugh quietly to yourself and lock your phone, setting it face down on your desk before you can keep the conversation going.
The rest of the afternoon slowly finds its rhythm again. Emails. Edits. A deadline that refuses to write itself.
Still, every once in a while, your brain drifts back to Wednesday.
Friday passes in much the same way. Normal enough on the outside, but with your mind wandering back to the same handful of moments.
By evening you’re finally packing up your bag when your phone buzzes again.
Camille.
Girl dinner tonight. My place.
You smile.
What time.
Soon. I made pasta and something I’m calling salad but it’s mostly cheese.
On my way.
You step out into the early evening air and start walking toward her neighborhood, letting the noise of the city swallow up the end of the workweek.
Your mind drifts again, unhelpfully, to Wednesday night.
The way he laughed when you told him about the laundromat cat.
The way he listened when you talked about your job.
The way that hug lingered just a second longer than you expected.
You shake your head slightly as you walk.
It was just one drink.
A very good drink.
But still. Just one.
By the time you reach Camille’s building the sky has already turned that deep blue that only happens at the end of a long day in the city, the kind of evening where the sidewalks are still busy but the rush has softened into something looser, people lingering outside restaurants and talking louder than they probably should. You climb the familiar stairs and let yourself in the way you always do, the faint smell of garlic and something creamy drifting down the hallway before you even reach her door.
When you push it open she’s standing at the stove with her back to you, hair twisted up loosely and one of those oversized sweatshirts she claims is vintage even though you’re fairly certain she bought it last month. A pot is bubbling on the stove and the island is already scattered with bowls and plates in a way that somehow still looks intentional.
“You’re early,” she says without turning around, stirring something with exaggerated focus.
“You texted soon,” you reply, dropping your bag near the couch and shrugging out of your coat.
“That’s my version of time management.”
You walk over and slide onto one of the stools at the island while she finishes whatever final step she’s pretending requires deep concentration. Without even looking she reaches behind her, grabs a wine glass from the counter, pours generously, and slides it across the island toward you.
You accept it gratefully.
“Thank you.”
“Of course,” she says, finally turning around. “You look calm for someone who had a full work week.”
You take a sip before answering, letting the wine settle for a second.
“It was normal.”
“Normal is boring,” she says, leaning her hip against the counter and studying you.
You shrug. “It was busy.”
She starts plating the pasta while you talk, asking about your editor, about the piece you were finishing, about the bakery story that had you rewriting the same paragraph three different ways. The conversation drifts the way it always does between the two of you, jumping between work and random stories and small complaints about the city.
You answer her, but you’re quieter than usual.
Not distant exactly. Just… thoughtful.
Camille notices almost immediately.
She always does.
Halfway through telling you about a brand event she went to the night before she stops mid sentence and squints at you across the island.
“What happened.”
You blink. “What.”
“You’re thinking about something,” she says, pointing a wooden spoon at you like it’s evidence. “And you’re trying to act like you’re not.”
You look down at your wine for a second before glancing back up at her, a small smile already pulling at the corner of your mouth.
“Nothing dramatic,” you say.
Her eyes narrow further.
“Tell me.”
You take another sip of wine, setting the glass down carefully before finally saying it.
“I met up with Harry Wednesday night.”
There’s half a second of silence where the words land.
Then Camille screams.
Not a polite gasp. Not a surprised laugh.
An actual scream.
The wooden spoon flies out of her hand and clatters across the counter as she grabs the nearest thing within reach and throws it at you, which turns out to be a folded kitchen towel that bounces harmlessly off your shoulder.
“YOU WHAT?”
You burst out laughing despite yourself while she stares at you like you just announced you’ve secretly been living on the moon.
“You went on the date and didn’t tell me?” she demands, already pacing behind the island.
“It wasn’t a whole thing,” you protest.
“You went on a date with him, and then just casually came to pasta night like that didn’t happen?”
You lift your hands defensively, still laughing.
“It was one drink.”
“ONE DRINK?” she repeats, throwing her hands in the air. “You buried the lead for forty eight hours and now you’re acting like this is normal information?”
You shake your head, smiling into your wine glass.
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?” she demands. “Next month?”
“I was literally about to tell you.”
She stops pacing and stares at you, hands on her hips, trying to process the fact that the story she’s been waiting weeks to unfold apparently already happened without her.
“You went on the date,” she says slowly, like she’s confirming reality.
You nod.
“And?”
You take another sip of wine, letting the suspense linger just long enough to annoy her.
“It was really good.”
You take another sip of wine, letting the moment breathe while Camille stands there across the island looking like she might explode if you don’t start talking.
“It was great,” you say finally.
She blinks.
“That’s it?”
“It was short,” you add with a small shrug. “He was a little late. But once he got there it was… really good.”
Camille leans forward across the island like she’s conducting an interrogation.
“How good.”
You laugh quietly, shaking your head.
“Camille.”
“I need details.”
You roll the stem of your wine glass between your fingers for a second before answering.
“It was just easy,” you say. “We talked the whole time. It didn’t feel weird or awkward like I thought it might. It just felt like we picked up the conversation we’d already been having.”
She studies your face carefully, clearly reading between the lines.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Did you kiss.”
You chuckle at the bluntness of it and take another sip of wine before answering.
“No.”
Her eyebrows shoot up.
“No?”
“We hugged.”
She leans back, crossing her arms.
“A hug.”
“It was a really good hug,” you say defensively.
“That is not the same thing.”
“I know.”
She watches you for another second, then smirks slightly.
“You liked him.”
You try to keep your expression neutral and fail completely.
“He was amazing,” you admit.
Her reaction softens just a little at that.
“Okay,” she says. “So what did he think.”
“What do you mean.”
“The date,” she says impatiently. “Did he say anything. Did he text you after. Did he vanish into the pop star void.”
You reach into your bag and pull out your phone, unlocking it before sliding it across the island toward her.
“He messaged me when he got to the airport.”
She grabs the phone immediately and starts scrolling through the short exchange on the screen, reading the messages silently while you sip your wine.
Her expression moves through a full range of reactions in about ten seconds.
“Hm.”
“What.”
She looks up at you.
“Well first of all,” she says, pointing at the screen, “I love that he called it a date.”
You smile slightly.
“Second,” she continues, narrowing her eyes a little as she hands the phone back to you, “I don’t love that he hasn’t taken it off the app.”
You blink.
“What.”
“He should’ve given you his number,” she says matter of factly. “That’s step one.”
“It’s been like… thirty hours,” you reply.
“I don’t care,” she says. “Men with phones give numbers.”
You laugh.
“That’s your takeaway.”
“It’s one of them.”
She leans forward again, lowering her voice slightly like she’s sharing a theory.
“But.”
“But?”
She points at the screen again.
“He said he’s still thinking about Wednesday.”
You glance down at the message again.
“Yeah.”
“That’s not casual,” she says. “That’s a man who wants to see you again.”
You take your phone back from her and stare down at the screen for a second, the short exchange suddenly feeling heavier now that someone else has looked at it.
Camille watches you closely while you think.
You run a hand through your hair, pushing it back in that absentminded way you do when your brain is moving faster than your words.
“I want to see him again too,” you admit finally, your voice quieter than it was a minute ago.
Her expression immediately softens into something smug and sympathetic at the same time.
“I knew it.”
“But,” you continue quickly, leaning your elbows on the island and wrapping your hands around your wine glass, “we haven’t actually talked about that.”
She tilts her head.
“What do you mean.”
“I mean we had the drink, he had to fly out early the next morning, and then he texted when he got to the airport. That’s it.”
Camille squints at you like she’s examining evidence.
“And you didn’t bring it up.”
You shake your head.
“He’s so busy,” you say, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “He flew back to LA for promo and meetings and all of that. I’m not going to be the person who immediately asks when he’s coming back.”
She leans against the counter, thinking.
“That’s fair,” she says slowly. “But also you’re allowed to want to see someone again.”
“I know,” you say with a small laugh. “I just don’t want to make it weird.”
She studies you for another second, then gestures toward your phone again.
“You realize this whole situation is already weird, right.”
You smile into your glass.
“I’m aware.”
Camille sighs dramatically and pushes the pasta bowl closer to you.
“Okay,” she says. “Let’s establish a few things.”
You brace yourself.
“One,” she says, counting on her fingers, “you went on a date with Harry Styles and had a good time. No, a great time.”
You nod.
“Two,” she continues, “he texted you after and called it a date.”
Another nod.
“And three,” she says, pointing directly at you now, “you both clearly liked each other.”
You laugh quietly.
“When you say it like that it sounds ridiculous.”
“It is ridiculous,” she says immediately. “But it’s also happening.”
You glance down at your phone again, the screen still dark in your hand.
“I just don’t know what the next step looks like,” you admit.
Camille grins.
“Oh, I think we’re about to find out.”
You shake your head immediately.
“No.”
Camille lets out a dramatic groan.
“Why are you acting like this is a hostage negotiation,” she says, throwing her hands up. “Just message him.”
“I am not messaging him.”
“You literally already message him.”
“That’s on the app,” you say quickly, pointing at the phone on the counter between you. “That’s different.”
“How.”
“Because that’s where we’ve been talking,” you explain. “This would be… something else.”
Camille stares at you for a long moment like she’s trying to understand how your brain works.
“You two have already gone on a date,” she says slowly. “You hugged goodbye.”
You wince slightly.
“That was a really good hug.”
“That is not the point.”
You drag your hands back through your hair again, leaning your elbows on the island.
“I don’t want to make it weird.”
Camille leans forward, suddenly calmer.
“Okay,” she says. “Then don’t make it weird.”
You squint at her.
“I don’t like when you say things like that.”
“Just send him your number.”
You blink.
“What.”
“Send him your number,” she repeats, like this is the most obvious solution in the world. “You’re not asking for anything. You’re just saying, hey, if you want to text instead of the app, here it is.”
You hesitate.
“He might actually feel more comfortable with that,” she adds. “Think about it. He probably doesn’t just hand his number out on apps.”
You sit there quietly for a second, considering it.
“That’s actually… not a terrible point,” you admit.
“I know.”
“But it’s still terrifying.”
Camille smiles.
“That’s because you like him.”
You look down at the phone again, suddenly very aware of the empty message box waiting on the screen.
Your stomach twists.
“I can’t.”
“You absolutely can.”
“No, I really can’t.”
She sighs and holds her hand out across the island.
“Give me the phone.”
You hesitate for a second before sliding it toward her across the counter.
“I regret this already,” you say.
Camille grabs it immediately, eyes lighting up like she’s been waiting all night for this moment.
“Relax, look what happened when I messaged him last time for you,” she says, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
“You are not allowed to say anything weird.”
“I would never.”
“That’s a lie.”
She grins without looking up.
“Trust the process.”
You lean back on the stool and cover your face with one hand while she starts typing.
Camille studies the screen for a second, her thumbs hovering over the keyboard while you sit across from her with your hand still half covering your face.
“You better not say anything crazy,” you mumble through your fingers.
“I am crafting a perfectly normal message,” she says calmly.
“That sentence alone makes me nervous.”
She ignores you and starts typing, pausing once or twice to reread it like she’s editing an email instead of sending a message on a dating app.
“Okay,” she says after a moment. “Tell me if this is insane.”
You slowly lower your hand and lean forward across the island.
She turns the phone so you can read it.
Hey, I really enjoyed our time together Wednesday. I figured I’d send my number in case texting is easier than the app. No pressure, just thought I’d share it.
Below it she’s typed your number.
You stare at the message for a few seconds, reading it twice.
It doesn’t sound desperate. It doesn’t sound awkward. It sounds… normal.
Thoughtful, even.
“That’s good,” you admit quietly.
“I know,” Camille says smugly.
You hesitate for another second, your stomach tightening again now that the send button is right there.
“What if this is weird,” you say.
“It’s not weird.”
“What if he thinks it’s weird.”
“He won’t.”
You exhale slowly and lean back on the stool again, pushing the phone back toward her.
“I can’t press send.”
Camille grins.
“Good thing I can.”
Before you can change your mind, she taps the screen.
The message disappears into the chat.
For a moment neither of you move.
You both just stare at the phone sitting on the counter between you like it might explode.
“Oh my god,” you say, dropping your head into your hands.
Camille laughs and slides the phone back toward you.
“Relax.”
You peek at the screen again, your heart suddenly beating much louder than it should.
“Now what.”
“Now,” she says, reaching for her wine again, “we wait.”
And you did wait.
Not dramatically at first. The message had been sent, the number shared, and for the rest of that night you and Camille forced yourselves to stop staring at the phone like it might immediately light up with an answer. Dinner continued, the pasta was eaten, the wine disappeared from your glasses, and eventually the conversation drifted to other things the way it always did.
The next morning passed quietly. You checked the app once out of habit and saw the message sitting there exactly where it had been left, your number at the bottom of it like a small offering you were now trying not to overanalyze. You told yourself that was fine. He was traveling. He had meetings. You had no idea what his schedule actually looked like and you refused to become the person who refreshed a dating app every twenty minutes.
So you let it sit.
A few days moved past that way, filled with work and errands and the small routines that keep a week moving forward whether your brain cooperates or not. By the time the weekend rolled around you had mostly convinced yourself not to expect anything. If he texted, great. If he didn’t, the date had still been good and that could simply be where the story ended.
Late Sunday afternoon you left your apartment to walk to the grocery store a few blocks away, your coat half zipped against the chill and your mind already making a mental list of things you needed to buy. The sidewalks were busy in that lazy weekend way where people move slowly and no one seems particularly rushed.
Your phone started ringing in your coat pocket just as you reached the corner.
You pulled it out without thinking, already assuming it was Camille calling to ask if you wanted to come over again or some unknown number trying to sell you something you definitely didn’t need. The screen lit up with a number you didn’t recognize and for a moment you just stared at it, thumb hovering over the answer button while the phone continued vibrating in your hand.
You debated letting it go.
If it was important, they would leave a voicemail. If it was spam, it would stop eventually. There was no real reason to answer a random number while standing on a cold sidewalk.
The phone kept ringing.
You sighed quietly and tapped the screen.
“Hello?”
There was the faintest pause on the other end before a familiar voice came through the speaker, warmer than you expected and immediately recognizable in a way that made your stomach flip.
“Hi,” he said. “It’s Harry. I hope it’s alright that I called.”
You stop walking the second you heard his voice.
Not gradually either. One step forward and then nothing, like your body forgets the next instruction.
People move around you on the sidewalk while you stand there holding your phone to your ear, the grocery store completely forgotten.
“Harry?,” you say after a second, your voice catching slightly before settling. “Yes. Hi.”
You hear him let out a quiet breath on the other end, almost like relief.
“Good,” he says. “I was starting to think you might not answer.”
“Well… I almost didn’t.” You laugh softly, the sound more nervous than you meant it to be.
There’s a small pause between you. Not uncomfortable, just the kind that happens when two people who are used to texting suddenly have to remember how conversations move out loud.
“I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time,” he says.
You glance around, still standing on the corner with a grocery bag hanging off your arm.
“No,” you reply. “I was just walking to the store.”
“I’ve been meaning to reach sooner, but things got a little chaotic here.” He replies.
“LA,” you say.
“Exactly.”
You start walking again without thinking, moving slowly down the block while you talk.
“So,” you say after a moment, “you survived the meetings.”
“Barely,” he says. “But I did.”
“That’s impressive.”
Another small pause settles in, the kind that feels thoughtful instead of empty.
Then he says something that makes your stomach flip all over again.
“I’ve been thinking about Wednesday.”
You glance down at the pavement while you walk.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His voice is calm, almost reflective.
“I had a really good time.”
You feel yourself smile automatically.
“Me too.”
A few steps pass before he speaks again.
“I was actually calling because I wanted to ask you something.”
You slow down slightly.
“Okay.”
Another breath on the other end of the line.
“When are you free again?”
You feel the smile before you even answer.
It spreads slowly, the kind you can hear in someone’s voice even if they’re miles away.
A quiet laugh escapes you as you continue walking, weaving around a couple pushing a stroller while you tuck the phone closer to your ear.
“I’m actually free next week for a few days,” you say.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” you reply, a little sheepish now that you’re saying it out loud. “I decided to take what the kids call a mental health break.”
He laughs softly at that.
“Good for you.”
“I figured if I didn’t step away from my computer for a minute I might start writing zoning updates in my sleep.”
“That sounds like a real risk to the public.”
You smile to yourself.
“So I took a few days.”
There’s a small pause on the other end of the line before he asks, casually but with just enough curiosity tucked into the question.
“Do you have any plans?”
You slow your pace slightly as you approach the grocery store, the automatic doors sliding open and letting out a burst of warm air that fogs your glasses for a second.
“Not really,” you say, stepping inside and grabbing a basket without breaking the rhythm of the conversation. “That was kind of the point.”
You hear him shift slightly on the other end, like he’s settling into the call.
“That’s good,” he says.
You pause in the produce aisle, leaning your hip against the display while you listen.
“Why’s that?”
There’s a brief moment of quiet before he answers, his tone still easy but carrying a small thread of intention now.
“Because I happen be in New York again that week.”
You stop mid step in the produce aisle, your fingers hovering over a basket of apples as his words settle in.
“Wait,” you say, a small laugh slipping out with a hint of surprise, “really?”
“Yeah.”
There’s something casual about the way he says it that makes it feel almost spontaneous.
You let out a quiet gasp before you can stop yourself.
“Yeah? Doing anything fun while you’re here?”
You hear him shift slightly on the other end of the line, like he’s leaning back wherever he is.
“I decided to just take a trip,” he says. “See the scenes a bit. Walk around without a schedule for once.”
You smile to yourself, picturing it.
“That’s actually a pretty good plan.”
“Thought so.”
You pick up one of the apples absentmindedly, turning it in your hand while you think.
“Well,” you say lightly, trying to keep your voice casual, “there are a few places you should try if you’re actually going to do that properly.”
“Oh yeah?” he replies.
“Yeah,” you say. “Most people do the obvious stuff and miss the good parts.”
There’s a small pause on the line.
Then he answers, and you can hear the smile in his voice.
“Well,” he says, “maybe you know a good tour guide.”
You laugh softly, shaking your head as you set the apple back down.
“That depends,” you say.
“On what?”
“On whether you’re actually interested in the local version of the city and not just the Instagram one.”
He hums thoughtfully.
“I think I’d prefer the local version.”
You shift the basket on your arm, leaning your shoulder lightly against the display while you answer.
“Well then,” you say, smiling into the phone, “you’re in luck.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” you reply. “I’m pretty good with the local area.”
There is a small pause on the other end of the line, just long enough that you know he is smiling.
“I had a feeling you might say that.”
You shift the basket on your arm and start slowly down the aisle again, scanning shelves while trying not to look like someone currently planning an entire tour of New York in their head.
“So,” he says, voice relaxed, “are you volunteering.”
You laugh quietly.
“That might be possible.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Only if you’re actually interested in seeing the city properly,” you say. “I have very strong opinions about the right way to do New York.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“I refuse to be responsible for someone thinking Times Square is the highlight,” you add.
He laughs again, the sound warmer this time.
“Fair enough.”
You grab a box of pasta off the shelf without really looking at it.
“So when are you coming,” you ask, keeping your voice casual even though your stomach has started doing something inconvenient.
“Early next week.”
You pause in the aisle.
“That’s soon.”
“Yeah,” he says simply.
You lean your shoulder lightly against the shelf, thinking for a second.
“Well,” you say slowly, “lucky timing.”
“How’s that.”
“My very official mental health break starts Monday.”
There’s a brief silence.
“Perfect,” he says.
You continue down the aisle, turning toward the next row of shelves.
“So what does your ideal version of sightseeing actually involve,” you ask.
“Honestly?” he replies. “Walking around, finding places that look interesting, eating something good.”
“That’s a solid approach.”
“I figured someone with local expertise might refine the plan a bit.”
You bite back a smile.
“I could probably work with that.”
“Good.”
The conversation settles for a moment as you reach for a loaf of bread, your phone tucked between your shoulder and your ear.
Then he asks, almost casually,
“What are you doing Monday.”
You slow your steps a little as you reach the end of the aisle, the basket resting against your hip while you think about the question.
A small smile slips across your face before you answer.
“Well,” you say lightly, “I was hoping I’d be seeing you.”
There’s a quiet pause on the other end of the line.
Then you hear him laugh under his breath.
“I think that can be arranged.”
You pick up a loaf of bread and drop it into the basket, trying not to look like someone whose mood has just shifted dramatically in the middle of a grocery store.
“Good,” you reply. “Because my very official mental health break would feel wasted otherwise.”
“That would be tragic.”
You turn the corner toward the checkout lanes, the conversation settling into a comfortable rhythm again.
“So Monday,” you say. “What are you thinking.”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
For a second all you hear is the faint sound of movement on his end of the line, like he’s shifting the phone in his hand.
“There’s actually a place I’ve been wanting to take you,” he continues. “It’s one of my favorite spots in the city.”
You raise an eyebrow even though he can’t see it.
“Oh, so now you’re the one giving the tour.”
“Something like that.”
You smile, shifting the basket onto the counter as the cashier waves you forward.
“Well,” you say, pulling your wallet out of your coat pocket, “I guess I’ll have to trust your taste.”
“I think you’ll like it,” he replies.
The quiet confidence in his voice makes you believe him.
The way he says it that makes you believe him without asking anything else.
The cashier starts scanning your groceries and you fumble for your wallet, suddenly aware that you’ve been standing in the middle of the store having a full conversation.
“I should probably let you go,” you say with a small laugh. “I’m currently holding up a checkout line.”
“Ah,” he says. “Important responsibilities.”
“Very important. Pasta and bread don’t buy themselves.”
You hear him laugh quietly on the other end.
“So Monday,” he says, his tone settling again, making sure it’s understood. “I’ll text you when I’m in the city.”
“Okay.”
There’s a brief pause before he adds, softer this time,
“I’m looking forward to it.”
You feel the smile spread across your face again, even as you swipe your card through the reader.
“Me too.”
Another quiet beat passes between you.
Then he says, “Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”
“You too. Safe travels.”
“Talk soon.”
“Talk soon.”
The line clicks softly as the call ends.
You stand there for a second longer than necessary, phone still in your hand, while the cashier finishes bagging your groceries.
The ordinary sounds of the store fill the space again, carts rolling past and people chatting as they move through the aisles.
But as you pick up the bags and step back out into the cool evening air, the week ahead suddenly feels very different than it did an hour ago.
You step out of the store and into the cool evening air with two grocery bags cutting into your fingers and your phone still warm in your hand. For a moment you just stand there on the sidewalk letting the call settle in your head, the noise of the street moving around you like normal while your brain is still catching up.
Then you immediately tap Camille’s name.
The phone barely rings once before she answers.
“Hello?”
“Monday,” you say.
There’s a pause.
“What.”
“Monday,” you repeat, starting down the block toward your apartment, the grocery bags swinging slightly at your sides. “I’m seeing him Monday.”
You hear the rustling of something on her end, like she just sat up very quickly.
“You spoke to him?”
“He called me.”
Camille makes a noise that sounds somewhere between a gasp and a shriek.
“He called you?”
“Yes.”
“On the phone?”
“Camille, how else would someone call me.”
“Don’t get technical with me,” she snaps. “What happened.”
You weave around a couple standing outside a deli, shifting the bags in your hands while you start walking faster without meaning to.
“I was walking to the grocery store and my phone started ringing from a random number. I almost didn’t answer.”
“You almost didn’t answer a call from Harry Styles.”
“I didn’t know it was him!”
She groans loudly.
“Continue.”
You laugh under your breath and keep walking.
“He said he saw the message with my number and wanted to call. We talked for a bit and he asked when I was free next week.”
“And?”
“And I told him I’m off Monday through Wednesday.”
“And?”
You smile despite yourself.
“And he’s coming back to the city.”
There’s a full second of silence.
Then Camille screams so loudly you have to pull the phone away from your ear.
“I KNEW IT.”
You shake your head, laughing as you turn onto your street.
“He said he wanted to see me again.”
“Of course he does.”
“And he’s taking me somewhere,” you add.
“Oh my god.”
“He said it’s one of his favorite places.”
You hear Camille pacing through the phone now, the sound of her footsteps echoing as she processes this new development.
“So this is a second date,” she says finally.
“I guess so.”
“No,” she corrects immediately. “This is a second date.”
You smile to yourself as you reach your building.
“Well,” you say, pushing the door open with your shoulder, “I guess it is.”
The weekend passes slowly in a way that feels slightly unfair.
Not painfully slow, just stretched. Every normal moment feels a little heavier with the knowledge that Monday is coming.
After you hang up with Camille that night you put your groceries away and try very hard to behave like a person whose life is not suddenly orbiting a second date with someone she met on the internet. You cook dinner, you watch something mindless, you answer a few emails you’d been ignoring.
Still, every once in a while your brain drifts back to the call.
The quiet confidence in his voice.
The way he said he had a place in mind.
Saturday morning you wake up later than usual and take your time with the day. Coffee, laundry, a long walk through the park where the air still has that sharp early spring chill to it. At one point you catch yourself mentally calculating how many hours are left until Monday and immediately shake your head.
This is ridiculous, you tell yourself.
It’s just a date.
Sunday goes by even faster. You meet Camille for brunch where she spends an unreasonable amount of time trying to decide what you should wear tomorrow.
“You’re acting like this is a red carpet,” you tell her as she leans back in her chair, studying you with the kind of focus that would make sense if she were planning a photoshoot instead of brunch.
“It might as well be,” she says, completely serious while scrolling through her phone. “This is a second date.”
You laugh and shake your head, but she continues anyway, holding up different outfit ideas and explaining her reasoning like it’s a full strategy meeting.
By the time you get home that evening the city has that quiet Sunday night feeling where everything slows down just enough that you start noticing the coming week creeping in.
You tidy your apartment a little, mostly as a distraction, and eventually settle onto the couch with a book you read three pages of before realizing you’ve absorbed none of it.
Your phone buzzes on the coffee table.
You glance at it automatically.
Harry.
Your heart jumps before you even open it.
You pick up the phone.
Made it to the city.
A smile spreads across your face before you even start typing.
Already?
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
Flight got in early.
You lean back into the couch cushions.
Welcome back.
There’s a short pause before another message appears.
Still good for tomorrow?
You glance at the clock, then back at the screen.
Yes.
Another bubble appears.
Good.
You set the phone down on the coffee table and stare at it for a moment longer than necessary, the glow of the screen fading as it locks again. The apartment is quiet in that particular Sunday night way where everything feels paused for a second before the week starts again. Outside your window the city is still moving, distant traffic humming and someone laughing somewhere down the block, but inside your living room the silence feels heavier now that you know he’s back in the city.
Tomorrow.
You lean your head back against the couch and let out a slow breath, letting the thought settle in. A second date. The words still feel slightly surreal when you say them in your head. A few days ago you were standing on a street corner debating whether to answer a call from a number you didn’t recognize. Now you’re sitting here on a Sunday night knowing you’ll see him again in less than twenty four hours.
You pick up your book again and try to read, but your eyes move over the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single word. Eventually you give up and set it aside, pushing yourself up from the couch and wandering into your bedroom instead.
Your closet door slides open and you stand there for a moment looking at the options like they might magically arrange themselves into the right answer. Camille’s voice echoes faintly in your head from brunch earlier, her dramatic commentary about outfits and second dates still fresh enough to make you smile.
“You’re acting like this is a red carpet,” you had told her.
“It might as well be,” she replied.
You shake your head and pull out the outfit the two of you eventually landed on, holding it up briefly before laying it carefully over the back of the chair. Seeing it there makes the plan feel more real, less hypothetical.
Your phone buzzes again from the living room.
Your heart jumps immediately and you walk back out faster than you intended, picking it up from the coffee table.
Harry.
You open the message.
Settled into the hotel.
A smile pulls at the corner of your mouth.
Hope it’s cozy for you.
A moment passes before the typing bubble appears again.
You watch it blink on and off, curiosity building as the next message appears.
Is it wrong that I kind of want to see you tonight?
You stare at the screen for a second, completely caught off guard by the question.
Your heart does an immediate, inconvenient flip.
You read it again just to make sure you didn’t imagine it.
Is it wrong that I kind of want to see you tonight.
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, quiet but incredulous, and you sink back onto the couch while you think about what to say. The plan had been tomorrow. That was the timeline. That was the reasonable, well paced version of events.
And yet the thought of seeing him tonight sends a warm ripple through your chest.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a second before you start typing.
Wrong might be a strong word.
You hit send before you can overthink it, watching as the message disappears into the conversation.
You stare at the screen for a moment after sending it, the quiet of your apartment suddenly feeling a little too still. The message sits there for a second before the typing bubble appears again, blinking on and off like he’s reconsidering how much to say.
Then the next message comes through.
I know we said tomorrow.
You can almost hear the slight sheepishness in it.
Another bubble appears.
But I just got in and the city feels too quiet.
You shift your legs up onto the couch, tucking them underneath you as you read.
A third message follows.
Thought I’d ask.
Your stomach flips.
You glance back up at the ceiling for a second like the answer might be written somewhere up there. The plan had been tomorrow. That was the reasonable version of this. The paced, sensible one.
Instead you’re sitting on your couch with your heart doing something wildly unhelpful while a pop star casually asks if he can see you tonight.
You look back down at your phone just as the typing bubble appears again.
You’re probably tired.
A quiet laugh slips out of you.
I’m not, you type.
There’s a brief pause on the other end before the bubble returns.
Are you sure?
You glance around your apartment, taking in the quiet room, the outfit hanging over the back of your chair in the bedroom that you had carefully set aside for tomorrow.
You smile.
I think I can handle one spontaneous decision.
The response comes quickly this time.
I’m glad you said that.
You feel that same warm ripple again, the anticipation settling in where the earlier nerves used to be.
What did you have in mind, you ask.
The typing bubble flickers once more.
Nothing complicated.
Another message follows right after.
Maybe a walk.
You tilt your head slightly at the simplicity of it.
You flew back to New York for a walk.
Don’t sound so unimpressed.
You laugh softly.
I’m not.
There’s a small pause before his next message appears.
If you’re up for it.
You glance toward the window where the city lights glow faintly through the glass, the quiet hum of traffic still drifting up from the street below.
The idea of stepping outside again, of seeing him tonight instead of waiting for tomorrow, suddenly feels far more appealing than staying on your couch pretending to read.
Your fingers move before you can second guess it.
Where?
The reply comes almost immediately.
Central Park. West side entrance.
You read it twice, like seeing the words again might make the moment feel less surreal.
Give me twenty minutes.
Your heart jumps.
You sit up straighter on the couch, suddenly aware that you are currently wearing an old sweatshirt and socks that definitely do not belong in the category of spontaneous nighttime walks with someone you are very interested in.
Okay, you type.
The second you hit send you’re already standing up.
Your apartment shifts from quiet Sunday evening to low level chaos in about ten seconds. You move quickly through the living room and into your bedroom, mentally cataloguing options as you go. The outfit you had carefully laid out for tomorrow is still draped over the chair, looking far too intentional for what is now a late night walk through Central Park.
You pause for a second, staring at it.
“No,” you say quietly to yourself.
This needs to look like you didn’t panic.
You pull open your dresser and reach for something easier. Dark jeans. A soft sweater that hangs just loose enough to feel comfortable without looking sloppy. You run a hand through your hair while you walk past the mirror, pausing long enough to smooth it down and check that you at least look like someone who planned to leave the house tonight.
Your phone buzzes again on the bed behind you.
You turn back immediately.
Leaving now.
Your stomach flips.
Me too, you reply.
You grab your coat, slip your phone into your pocket, and head for the door before you can talk yourself out of how ridiculous this entire situation feels.
The hallway outside your apartment is quiet, the kind of still that only happens late on a Sunday night when most people have already settled in for the week ahead. Your footsteps echo lightly as you make your way down the stairs and push through the building’s front door into the cool evening air.
The city feels different at night.
Not quieter exactly, but softer somehow. The traffic is lighter, conversations drifting out of restaurants and bars as people linger over late dinners. You pull your coat a little tighter as you start walking toward the park, your mind moving faster than your feet.
You are meeting Harry Styles in Central Park for a walk.
You laugh under your breath just thinking it.
A few blocks pass before you realize you’re checking your phone every thirty seconds like someone waiting for a ride share to appear on a map. Eventually you force yourself to stop and just walk.
The park entrance comes into view ahead of you, the tall trees forming dark shapes against the glow of the city lights behind them. A couple walks past you with a dog, their conversation fading as they move toward the street.
You slow slightly as you approach the entrance, scanning the path without meaning to.
For a moment you wonder if you’re early.
Then you see him.
He’s leaning casually against the stone railing near the path, hands tucked into the pockets of a dark coat, his hair slightly windblown like he’s been standing there for a few minutes already. There’s something almost unfair about how easily he blends into the scene, like he belongs to the city in a way that makes him look completely natural standing there under the park lights.
He spots you at the same moment.
The small smile that spreads across his face is immediate.
You walk the last few steps toward him, suddenly aware of your own heartbeat again.
“Hi,” you say.
“Hi.”
He pushes away from the railing, stepping closer.
“I’m glad you said yes, I know it’s late.”
You smile, hands tucked into your coat pockets.
“I’m glad you asked.”
For a moment neither of you move, the quiet of the park settling around you while the city hums softly beyond the trees.
Then he gestures toward the path.
“Walk?”
You nod.
And just like that the two of you start moving deeper into the park together, the gravel crunching lightly under your shoes as the lights of the street fade behind you.
The path curves gently as you move farther into the park, the noise of the city softening behind the trees until it becomes more of a distant hum than actual traffic. Lamps line the walkway in warm pools of light that stretch across the gravel, and every so often the wind moves through the branches above you with a quiet rustling sound that makes the entire park feel calmer than the streets just outside it.
For the first few moments you simply walk.
Not awkwardly. Just adjusting to the strange fact that you’re next to each other again after a week of messages and one date that ended faster than either of you expected.
He glances over at you.
“You look different.”
Your eyebrows lift.
“Different good?”
“Different from the other night, but yes. Good.”
You glance down at yourself like the sweater might explain something.
“I didn’t exactly plan this outfit.”
“I know.”
You look back at him.
“You know?”
“You texted back too fast,” he says with a slight smile. “That’s how I knew you were scrambling.”
You laugh out loud.
“That’s rude.”
“It’s observational.”
“I had a perfectly good outfit ready for tomorrow,” you tell him. “You disrupted the entire plan.”
The path opens slightly ahead where a small clearing lets the skyline peek through the trees in the distance. The lights glow faintly above the dark outline of the park, and for a moment both of you slow without saying anything.
Eventually he asks, “How was your weekend.”
“Pretty normal,” you say.
“Oh yeah?”
“Laundry. Coffee. Camille interrogating me about you.”
He laughs.
“She is very proud of the Raya code.”
“I owe her then.”
“Please don’t encourage her,” you say quickly. “She’ll start expecting thank you notes.”
He smiles at that.
“I had a pretty quiet weekend too,” he says.
You glance over.
“That surprises me.”
“Why.”
“I don’t know,” you admit. “I assume your life is usually… louder.”
“It is,” he says. “That’s why I like coming here.”
You look around at the path, the trees, the quiet space stretching out around you.
“This is your version of normal.”
“For tonight,” he says.
A comfortable silence settles between you as you keep walking. Not the kind that feels empty, just a moment where neither of you feels the need to rush the conversation forward.
Eventually he nudges it again.
“So,” he says, glancing over at you, “do I get the official tour tomorrow or did tonight count.”
You smile.
“This was just the preview.”
“Good.”
“You still have to earn the full tour.”
“And how does one do that.”
You pretend to think about it.
“Well,” you say slowly, “not getting lost would be a good start.”
He laughs quietly.
“That feels like a challenge.”
“Everything in this city is a challenge.”
The path bends again and you pass a couple walking a dog, the leash stretching across the walkway as the dog stops to investigate something near the edge of the grass. The owner apologizes as they pull it back and you both step around them before continuing on.
After a few more minutes you slow your pace, glancing toward the streetlights glowing through the trees ahead.
“You hungry?” you ask.
He looks over.
“Always.”
You smile.
“Good.”
You turn toward the park exit and start leading the way back toward the street.
“I guess I can start the tour tonight after all.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say, stepping out onto the sidewalk and turning down a quieter block lined with older buildings. “There’s a place a few blocks from here.”
“What kind of place.”
You glance back at him with a small grin.
“The kind that doesn’t look impressive at all from the outside.”
“That sounds promising.”
“It’s a hole in the wall pizza spot,” you say. “The best one I know.”
He nods immediately like that’s the easiest decision he’s made all day.
“I trust your expertise.”
The two of you walk the rest of the way down the block together, the bright lights of the tiny shop coming into view ahead. Through the window you can see the glow of the ovens and a man behind the counter sliding a fresh pie onto the counter.
You glance over at him with a satisfied little smile.
“Welcome to the real tour.”
The bell above the door gives a tired little jingle as you push it open, the sound barely audible over the low hum of an old refrigerator somewhere behind the counter. The place is small in the way only real neighborhood pizza shops are, narrow with a few tiny tables pushed up against the wall and a long glass case stretching across the counter that holds rows of slices under warm yellow lights.
The air is thick with the smell of baked dough, tomato sauce, and something faintly sweet that’s probably been drifting out of the dessert case all day.
It isn’t polished. The tile floor has seen better decades, and the menu board above the counter is a mix of faded letters and handwritten additions taped into the corners. One of the tables near the window wobbles slightly when a guy in a Yankees cap shifts his weight, and the soda fridge in the corner rattles every few seconds like it’s considering retirement.
Behind the counter an older Italian man stands with his arms folded, watching the two of you walk in with the quiet authority of someone who has been working in the same place for thirty years and intends to continue doing so until they die.
He squints at you for a second.
“Late night pizza?” he asks.
You smile.
“Always.”
He nods like that’s the correct answer and reaches for a paper plate without asking another question.
You step up to the counter and glance back at Harry, who is taking the whole place in with clear amusement, his eyes moving over the slightly crooked menu board and the stack of flour bags tucked against the wall.
“So,” you say, turning toward him. “What do you want.”
He looks at you immediately.
“I feel like I should let you decide.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“That’s a lot of trust.”
“You’re the local,” he says with an easy shrug. “I’m following your lead.”
You turn back toward the counter, considering the options for half a second before nodding.
“Alright,” you say. “We’re going classic.”
The man behind the counter slides open the glass case.
“Two cheese,” you tell him. “And two cannolis.”
He nods approvingly like you’ve passed some kind of test and reaches for the slices with a metal spatula, sliding them into the oven for a quick reheat.
Harry leans slightly closer to you while you wait, lowering his voice just enough that it doesn’t carry across the room.
“This is already better than most restaurants I get dragged to.”
You glance sideways at him.
“Because it’s not trying to impress you.”
“Exactly.”
A minute later the man pulls the slices out and slides them onto paper plates before adding two cannolis wrapped in wax paper and pushing the whole thing across the counter.
You hand over a few bills and grab the plates before Harry can even reach for his wallet.
He notices immediately.
“You didn’t let me pay.”
“You’re the guest,” you say simply.
“That’s not how dates work.”
You shrug.
“You asked for the local experience.”
He laughs softly as you lead him over to one of the tiny tables by the window.
You set the plates down and slide one toward him.
“A slice of cheese,” you say. “The only correct first order.”
He studies it for a second before picking it up.
“You’re very confident about this.”
“You’ll understand in about thirty seconds.”
He takes a bite.
For a second he just stands there chewing while you watch him with the quiet satisfaction of someone who already knows the outcome.
Then his eyebrows lift slightly.
“Okay,” he says slowly.
You grin.
“Right?”
He nods once, looking down at the slice again like he’s reassessing something.
“That’s very good.”
You pick up your own slice.
“See,” you say. “Tour guide knows what she’s doing.”
He takes another bite before saying anything, folding the slice the way people here do without thinking about it. The cheese stretches for a moment before breaking cleanly, and he chews slowly, looking down at it like he’s considering something.
Then he nods once.
“That’s very good.”
You smile slightly and take another bite of your own slice.
“I told you.”
For a minute the two of you eat quietly, the small shop carrying on around you in its usual rhythm. The oven door opens and shuts behind the counter, the soda fridge hums steadily in the corner, and every so often someone passes by the front window, their footsteps muffled by the glass.
Harry glances around the room again, taking in the slightly crooked menu board, the narrow tables, the flour bags stacked near the wall.
“It’s nice,” he says after a moment. “Feels real.”
“That’s why I like it,” you reply.
You brush a few crumbs from the paper plate and lean back in your chair.
“I’ve been coming here for years,” you add. “Usually late after work when everything else is closed.”
He nods like that makes sense.
The man behind the counter calls something in Italian toward the kitchen and slides another tray of slices into the glass case. The smell of fresh dough drifts across the room again, warm and familiar.
Harry wipes his hands on a napkin and looks back at you.
“You weren’t exaggerating about this place.”
You shrug lightly.
“It’s one of those spots people only find if someone brings them.”
He nods again, like he understands exactly what you mean.
You reach for the cannoli and slide the small wax paper package toward him.
“You should try that too.”
He unwraps it carefully and takes a bite, pausing for a second before giving a quiet laugh under his breath.
“That’s dangerous.”
You smile.
“Right?”
He sets the rest of it back down on the paper and leans back slightly in the chair, looking more relaxed now than when the two of you first walked in.
Outside the window the street has grown quieter, the late night crowd thinning as the city settles in.
You glance toward the clock near the counter.
“Technically this was the beginning of your tour,” you say.
He looks back at you.
“Just the beginning?”
You nod.
“Tomorrow is the actual tour.”
He considers that for a moment, then gives a small nod.
“Good.”
You both finish the last of the pizza slowly, the conversation drifting into easier things as the night settles around you.
By the time you stand up to leave, the shop has grown nearly empty, the older man behind the counter already stacking trays and wiping down the glass case.
When you push open the door the bell jingles softly again, the cool night air meeting you on the sidewalk.
For a second you both pause under the streetlight, the quiet stretch of the block glowing faintly in the distance.
Tomorrow suddenly feels very close.
The bell gives its soft, tired jingle again as the two of you step back out onto the sidewalk, the warm air of the pizza shop fading behind you the moment the door swings closed. The night has settled fully now, the street quieter than when you first walked in. A few cars pass at the far end of the block and somewhere nearby someone is dragging a metal chair across pavement, the sound echoing briefly before disappearing again.
For a moment you both just stand there beneath the streetlight, the glow from the shop window spilling out behind you.
You glance down the street and then back at him.
“So,” you say, adjusting your coat slightly, “where’s your hotel?”
He turns and points casually down the block.
“Couple streets that way.”
You follow the direction with your eyes, nodding.
“That’s close.”
Then he gestures in the opposite direction.
“And you?”
You point back the way you came, toward the darker stretch of street leading toward your neighborhood.
“That way,” you say. “Short walk.”
He looks down the block for a second and then back at you, considering it.
“I’ll walk you back.”
You blink, caught slightly off guard by the immediacy of it.
“You don’t have to do that,” you say. “It’s really not far.”
“That’s not the point.”
You smile faintly at the seriousness in his voice.
“It’s New York,” you reply. “People walk home alone all the time.”
He shakes his head a little.
“Still.”
You tuck your hands into your coat pockets and tilt your head at him.
“You realize it’s not exactly safe for you either.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Oh?”
“You’re an international pop star,” you point out. “You walking around the city at midnight probably comes with its own risks.”
For a second he just looks at you.
Then he laughs, the sound easy and warm in the quiet street.
“Fair enough.”
You both stand there another moment, the night stretching comfortably between you.
Finally he glances down your street again and then back toward his.
“Well,” he says, “at least we both made it this far safely.”
You smile.
“So far.”
For a moment neither of you move.
The street is quiet, the glow from the pizza shop window behind you fading as the owner inside begins stacking chairs and wiping down the counter. A car passes slowly at the end of the block, headlights sliding across the pavement before disappearing around the corner.
You both know this is the part where the night ends.
You shift your weight slightly and glance down your street again.
“Well,” you say softly.
“Well,” he echoes.
There’s a small pause where it feels like something else might be said, but neither of you rush it.
Then he steps forward and pulls you into a hug.
It’s warm and easy, the kind that lingers just a second longer than a polite goodbye. Your arms wrap around him automatically and for a moment you just stand there like that beneath the streetlight, the quiet of the city stretching around you.
When you pull back he’s still smiling slightly.
“I had a really good time tonight,” he says.
“You said you wanted a walk,” you reply. “I upgraded it.”
“Good call.”
You hesitate for a second, suddenly aware again that tomorrow technically still exists. The plan. The tour.
“So,” you say, tucking your hands back into your coat pockets, “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I guess you will.”
Another small pause settles between you, neither of you quite stepping away yet.
Then finally he nods toward your street.
“Text me when you get home.”
“You’re still doing the protective thing.”
“Just covering my bases.”
You smile.
“Goodnight, Harry.”
“Goodnight.”
You both turn at almost the exact same moment, heading in opposite directions down the block.
You make it about four steps.
Maybe five.
Then something in your chest tightens suddenly, a rush of adrenaline hitting you so quickly you stop walking without even thinking about it.
You turn around.
He’s already halfway down the sidewalk, hands in his coat pockets, head slightly down as he walks.
Your heart is pounding now.
Before your brain can catch up, you call out.
“Harry!”
He stops immediately and turns around.
“What—”
You don’t give him time to finish.
You’re already moving, jogging back across the distance between you with a burst of nervous energy that feels completely irrational and completely necessary at the same time.
He looks slightly surprised for half a second as you reach him.
And then you kiss him.
It’s sudden and unplanned and far more certain than anything you expected to do when you left your apartment earlier that night. Your hands find his coat automatically, pulling him slightly closer as your lips meet his.
For a moment he freezes in surprise.
Then he kisses you back.
The city fades into the background again, the quiet street and the glow of the streetlight blurring into something distant while the kiss deepens just slightly, enough to make the moment feel real instead of impulsive.
When you finally pull back, both of you are a little breathless.
He’s looking at you like he’s still catching up to what just happened.
You take a small step back, suddenly aware of the adrenaline still racing through you.
where Harry studies the way Y/N reacts to music and writes a song built around it (based off Carla’s Song by Harry Styles)
Word count: 6.9k
The first time you really notice the way Harry listens to music happens on a quiet night that feels so ordinary you almost miss the moment entirely.
Dinner has long since finished, but neither of you has made any move to leave the kitchen yet. The plates are stacked loosely beside the sink and Harry is rinsing them one by one under the warm stream of water, his movements slow and absentminded in the way people move when they are comfortable in their own space. The smell of garlic, butter, and a little bit of lemon still lingers in the air from the pasta he insisted on making himself earlier, and the window above the counter is cracked open just enough to let the cool evening breeze slip in. Somewhere in the other room a record is spinning steadily, the music drifting down the short hallway and into the kitchen in soft waves. It sounds warm and textured, slightly grainy the way vinyl always does, like the song has lived a little before reaching you.
You are perched on the kitchen counter beside the stove with your legs hanging over the edge, the heel of your socked foot occasionally tapping lightly against the cabinet below without you realizing it. Your wine glass rests loosely in your hands while you watch Harry move around the sink with quiet concentration, sleeves pushed up his forearms and hair slightly messy from where you had been playing with it earlier while the two of you were stretched across the couch. Every once in a while he hums along with the music coming from the living room, not loudly, just a soft absent sound under his breath that seems more instinct than decision.
It takes you a moment to realize he is doing it.
“You like this one,” you say after watching him for a little while.
Harry glances back over his shoulder at you, one hand still resting on the edge of the sink while the other holds a plate under the running water. There is a small smile on his face like the observation is both obvious and slightly amusing to him.
“I do,” he says simply.
“What is it?”
He tells you the name of the artist and the record, like it is information you are supposed to already have. Then he shrugs one shoulder lightly.
“Found it the other week.”
You nod, turning your attention back toward the doorway where the music is drifting in. It is not something you would have chosen on your own. The song is soft and layered, the kind that takes its time building itself instead of announcing what it is right away. The instruments weave together in a way that feels almost delicate, like each sound is placed exactly where it belongs.
Harry shuts the faucet off and dries his hands slowly on the dish towel before leaning back against the counter across from you. For a moment neither of you says anything. The kitchen feels warm and calm, the only real movement coming from the quiet music floating in from the other room.
After a few seconds he tilts his head slightly, listening more carefully.
Then he looks at you.
“Listen to this bit,” he says, nodding toward the living room.
You glance toward the doorway and then back at him. “I am listening.”
He smiles faintly, shaking his head once.
“No,” he says gently. “You’re hearing it.”
You let out a small laugh under your breath, the corner of your mouth lifting.
“What’s the difference?”
Harry does not answer right away. Instead he just watches you for a moment, his attention settled on your face with quiet patience, like he is waiting for something to happen that only he knows is coming.
Then he tips his head slightly toward the living room again.
“Just give it a second.”
The two of you fall quiet again after that, the kitchen settling back into the comfortable stillness it had before you started talking. The music continues to drift in from the living room, soft enough that you have to pay a little more attention than before. Harry stays leaned against the counter across from you, arms loosely folded now, his gaze shifting between you and the doorway like he is following the shape of the song in his head.
At first nothing really changes. The melody continues the same gentle way it has been moving along, the instruments layered softly over one another. You start to think maybe you already missed the moment he was talking about. Your fingers turn the stem of your wine glass slowly while you listen, trying to catch whatever it is he is waiting for.
Then the song shifts.
It is subtle at first, just a slight build in the sound, like something is opening up underneath the rest of the music. A second guitar slides in quietly, brighter than the rest, weaving around the melody instead of sitting behind it. The rhythm picks up a little, the whole thing starting to feel more alive, like the song has been walking slowly and suddenly decides to start running.
And then there is a little riff.
It is quick and playful, just a few notes tucked perfectly into the middle of everything else, but something about it lands exactly right. It scratches at that strange, satisfying part of your brain that reacts before you even think about it.
Your face changes without you realizing.
A smile spreads across your mouth as the sound fills the room and you tilt your head slightly, listening closer now.
“Oh,” you say softly.
Harry immediately notices.
You glance back at him with a small laugh, pointing toward the doorway. “That bit.”
He is already smiling like he knew it was coming.
“I like that,” you say, still listening as the riff slips back into the rest of the song. “It… I don’t know. It tickles my brain a little.”
Harry’s smile widens at that, something warm and quietly pleased settling across his face.
“Yeah,” he says. “Thought it might.”
Harry is already smiling when you look back at him, like the reaction landed exactly where he expected it to.
The music continues to swell gently from the other room, the little riff weaving itself back into the rest of the song as if it had always belonged there, but your attention has shifted now. You are watching him instead, the quiet satisfaction sitting on his face making something warm curl low in your chest.
“You knew I’d like that,” you say softly.
He shrugs a little, pushing himself off the counter. “I had a feeling.”
Harry crosses the small space between you slowly, the movement easy and familiar, until he is standing right in front of where you are sitting on the counter. His hands settle naturally on your thighs, warm through the thin fabric of your clothes, and he steps closer until he is gently easing himself between your legs without asking. The movement is so casual, so practiced, that you shift automatically to make room for him.
The music continues quietly in the background while his thumbs rest against the outside of your legs.
“You always do that,” you say after a second.
“Do what?”
“Watch me when you play something new.”
Harry’s mouth curves slightly at that, his eyes lifting to yours for a moment before his gaze drifts down to your lips, then back again.
“Of course I do.”
“Why?”
He does not answer right away. Instead he leans in, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him before his lips brush softly against yours. The kiss is unhurried and gentle, the kind that feels less like a moment and more like a quiet pause in the middle of the night. His hand shifts slightly higher on your thigh as he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead briefly against yours.
Then his mouth drifts to the side of your neck.
His voice is low when he speaks, the words half murmured against your skin.
“I like watching you experience things.”
For a moment he stays there, close and warm between your legs, his breath still brushing softly against your neck while the music continues to drift in from the other room. The record crackles faintly between notes, the sound folding into the quiet of the kitchen in a way that makes the whole moment feel slower, softer. His hands remain resting against your thighs, thumbs moving absentmindedly as if he has forgotten they are even there.
You slide your arms around his neck, pulling him closer without much thought, the familiar weight of him settling comfortably against you. Harry leans into it easily, his forehead brushing lightly against your temple as you hold him there for a second longer than necessary, the two of you swaying just slightly in place.
Then you lean back just enough to look at him.
Your finger hooks gently under his chin, tilting his face up so his eyes meet yours again. There is still that quiet softness there, the kind he gets when he is talking about music or watching you listen to it.
You smile.
Before he can say anything else you lean forward and kiss him again, slow and affectionate, the kind of kiss that makes him laugh softly into it because he was not expecting it quite like that.
When you pull away, you shake your head at him fondly.
“You’re such a big sap.”
Harry lets out a quiet laugh, one eyebrow lifting slightly like he might argue with that if he felt like it.
But he does not.
Instead he just looks at you, amused and a little pleased all at once.
You brush your fingers lightly through the hair at the back of his neck before speaking again.
“Do you want some ice cream?”
Harry does say yes, immediately, like the offer was the easiest decision he has made all evening.
You slide off the counter and the two of you move around the kitchen together in that easy, slightly clumsy way couples do when they know the space well. The freezer opens, the cold air spilling out as Harry pulls the tub of ice cream forward while you lean across the counter looking for bowls. He insists on making the sundaes properly, which means there is chocolate syrup involved, a handful of crushed cookies he finds in the cupboard, and a very serious moment where he debates whether or not whipped cream is necessary.
“It’s always necessary,” you tell him.
He glances over at you, already holding the can. “Just checking.”
You end up standing shoulder to shoulder at the counter while he finishes them, his arm occasionally bumping yours as he drizzles chocolate over the top in messy spirals. When he hands the bowl to you, he looks quietly proud of it.
“Presentation matters,” he says.
You take a bite and nod thoughtfully. “Very professional.”
He hums in approval, satisfied.
Later, when the bowls are empty and the kitchen is dim except for the soft light over the stove, the record has long since finished spinning in the other room. The night settles into something quieter after that, the kind of calm that happens when nothing else needs to be done.
Hours pass almost without either of you noticing.
Harry eventually ends up in the corner of the living room where his computer and small keyboard sit, one leg tucked under him in the chair while he idly scrolls through something on the screen. There are headphones hanging loosely around his neck and the faint glow of the monitor lights the side of his face while he taps at a few keys, testing sounds the way he always does when he is half focused and curious at the same time.
Across the room you are curled into the armchair with a book resting open in your hands, your legs pulled comfortably underneath you while you read. The lamp beside you casts a warm circle of light across the pages, and every once in a while you turn one slowly, settling deeper into the story.
Harry is only half paying attention to what he is doing. His fingers press down on the keys experimentally, letting a few notes drift softly into the room while he scrolls through different sounds on the computer. None of it is really a song yet. Just small fragments. A chord here. A few notes there. The quiet exploration of someone who cannot stop playing with music even when they are not trying to write anything.
One particular combination of notes rings out a little brighter than the others.
You shiver suddenly.
Harry looks over immediately.
“Cold?” he asks, his hand hovering over the keyboard.
You glance up from your book, a small smile pulling at your mouth as you tuck the edge of the page between your fingers.
“No.”
He studies you for a second, unconvinced.
“You just shivered.”
You shift slightly in the chair, pulling the blanket beside you a little closer around your legs before looking back at him.
“It wasn’t that.”
“What was it then?”
You tilt your head toward the keyboard, the smile growing just a little.
“The notes.”
Harry blinks once.
“The notes?”
You nod softly, tapping the page of your book absentmindedly.
“That thing you just played.” You pause, searching for the right way to explain it. “It… tickled something in my brain.”
Harry stares at you for a second after you say it, the faint glow from the computer screen catching the slight crease forming between his brows as he tries to understand exactly what you mean. Then the expression shifts all at once and he lets out a soft laugh, leaning back slightly in his chair.
“I know exactly what you mean,” he says.
You lower your book a little, watching him with mild curiosity as he runs a hand through his hair, still smiling to himself like the explanation made perfect sense to him all along. His fingers tap the edge of the keyboard once more, replaying the few notes he had pressed earlier, letting them ring gently through the room again.
You feel it immediately.
That same little spark in the back of your mind that makes you shift in your seat.
Harry sees the reaction before you can even say anything.
“See,” he says lightly.
You point at him from across the room. “That. That part.”
He laughs again, softer this time, like the whole thing is quietly fascinating to him. For a moment he just sits there looking at the keyboard, his fingers hovering over it thoughtfully.
Then he closes the laptop.
The screen goes dark and he pushes the chair back slightly, turning to face you fully now instead of the desk. The energy around him changes in a small but noticeable way, like an idea has just taken root in his head and he is already halfway excited about it.
“What?” you ask, setting your book down on your lap.
Harry leans forward a little, resting his forearms on his knees while he looks at you with that familiar spark in his eyes.
“I’m going to start showing you things,” he says.
You blink. “Things?”
“Music.”
You laugh quietly under your breath. “You already do that.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head once. “I mean properly.”
He gestures vaguely toward the keyboard behind him, then toward the living room where the record player sits, then back to you again.
“I want to see what you really like.”
You tilt your head slightly, amused by the sudden seriousness of it.
“What does that mean?”
Harry smiles, slow and thoughtful.
“It means I’m curious.” He pauses, studying your face the same careful way he had earlier in the kitchen. “You react to things differently than most people I know. Not the big obvious parts. It’s always the little bits tucked inside the song.”
You shrug lightly, pulling the blanket closer around your legs.
“I just like what sounds good.”
“Exactly,” he says.
There is a quiet excitement in his voice now, the kind that creeps in when he starts thinking about music too deeply.
“So I want to see where that happens.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You’re going to study me?”
Harry grins.
“I’m going to play you a whole bunch of different things,” he says. “And watch what your face does.”
Time starts to move a little differently after that night.
It does not become some formal experiment the way Harry jokingly suggested. There are no notes taken, no serious declarations that he is studying your taste in music. Instead it becomes something softer and more natural than that. Music simply begins to fill more of the space between the two of you.
Sometimes it happens in the car while you are driving somewhere with the windows cracked open and the late afternoon sun washing everything in gold. Harry will reach across the console to switch songs halfway through something else, his eyes flicking toward you for only a second before the new one begins. He never says anything right away. He just lets it play, watching the road while he waits.
You will hum along to the chorus of one without even realizing you are doing it, and he will smile quietly to himself like he just learned something important.
Another time it happens while the two of you are stretched across the couch late at night, the lights turned low while a record spins slowly beside the bookshelf. Harry will sit up halfway through the song and reach forward to replay a section again, leaning closer to the speakers like he is chasing a sound.
“Did you hear that guitar?” he asks.
You nod, thoughtful. “I really liked that bit.”
He rewinds it again anyway, just to watch the moment land on your face a second time.
Not everything works.
One afternoon he plays something loud and chaotic through the speakers while he paces around the room explaining why it is brilliant, his hands moving animatedly as the music crashes and shifts in strange directions. You try to follow along, really you do, but after a minute you scrunch your nose and shake your head.
“It’s making me anxious,” you admit.
Harry stops pacing and laughs, running a hand through his hair.
“Fair enough.”
Sometimes the reaction is immediate.
A soft piano melody once drifts through the living room while you are half distracted flipping through a magazine, and before you even look up Harry notices the way your foot starts tapping gently against the rug.
“There it is,” he says under his breath.
You glance up. “What?”
“Nothing.”
Other times it surprises both of you.
One night Harry is sitting on the edge of the couch with a guitar resting loosely across his lap, idly playing while you are curled up beside him reading. He is not performing exactly, just letting the chords wander the way they do when his hands need something to do.
Then he sings a line quietly under his breath.
The melody lifts at the end in a way that feels unexpected, his voice flipping gently upward before settling again.
The sound sends a sudden wave of goosebumps down your arms.
You actually gasp a little.
Harry immediately stops playing.
“What?” he asks.
You look up at him, wide eyed, one hand rubbing your arm where the chill passed through.
“Do that again.”
“What?”
“That thing you just did with your voice.”
He frowns slightly, confused. “Which bit?”
You try to mimic it badly, your voice cracking halfway through the attempt.
“That little… flip thing.”
Harry stares at you for a second, then laughs softly before repeating the line the same way.
The moment it happens again your shoulders lift instinctively.
“There,” you say, pointing at him.
Harry’s smile spreads slowly as he watches the reaction settle over you.
“Tickled your brain?” he asks.
You nod.
“Yeah,” you admit quietly. “That one really did.”
As the weeks pass the pattern becomes so natural that you almost stop noticing it happening. One constant thing is that Harry always watches you.
Not obviously. Not in a way that feels like you are being studied. It is quieter than that. He will lean back against the couch while a song plays, one arm stretched along the back cushion behind you, and every once in a while his eyes drift to your face instead of the speakers. Sometimes he catches the small smile that spreads across your mouth when a melody lands just right. Sometimes he sees the way your eyebrows knit together when something feels strange or unfamiliar.
He never interrupts right away.
He just observes.
Eventually though, the curiosity starts to grow on your end too.
One evening the two of you are stretched out on the couch together after dinner, the room lit only by the lamp in the corner and the soft glow from the kitchen spilling in behind you. A playlist is drifting quietly through the speakers, something Harry had put on earlier while the two of you cleaned up. Your legs are tucked comfortably beneath you while Harry sits beside you with one arm draped along the back of the couch, his fingers absentmindedly tracing slow circles against the fabric near your shoulder.
Another song begins, something warm and layered, and you notice his gaze shift toward you again.
You glance sideways at him.
He immediately looks back at the speaker like he was not doing anything.
You sigh and let the moment pass for a few seconds before speaking.
“Okay.”
Harry hums softly. “Okay what?”
You turn slightly toward him, resting your elbow against the cushion.
“Why do you do that?”
He looks back at you, confused. “Do what?”
“You literally stare into my soul when music is playing.”
There is no accusation in your voice, just curiosity.
Harry’s expression softens a little as he leans his head back against the couch, considering the question.
For a moment he does not answer.
The music continues quietly in the background while he gathers his thoughts.
Then he shrugs lightly.
“I already told you, I like seeing it.”
“Seeing what?”
“The way you listen to things things,” he says.
You frown slightly. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Harry smiles faintly, like he expected that answer.
You shift a little closer, waiting for him to explain.
He glances toward the speakers for a moment before looking back at you again, his voice calm and thoughtful when he continues.
“I’ve been around music my whole life,” he says. “Writing it. Recording it. Breaking it apart and putting it back together again. After a while it starts to feel… technical.”
“Technical?”
“Like science,” he explains quietly. “You know what a chorus is supposed to do. You know where a song is meant to lift or soften. You know which notes are supposed to give people goosebumps.”
He pauses briefly, searching for the right words.
“When I hear something now, part of my brain is already analyzing it. Thinking about structure. Production. Why it works.”
You listen carefully while he talks.
“But you don’t do that,” he continues.
Your brow lifts slightly. “No?”
He shakes his head gently.
“You just feel it.”
The words are simple, but there is something sincere behind them.
Harry looks at you for another second before his mouth curves into a small smile.
“And I love watching that.”
You tilt your head.
“But why?”
He studies your face the same way he does when a new song starts playing, quiet and thoughtful.
“Because it reminds me what it’s supposed to feel like.”
You do not think about that conversation again for a long time.
Not because it was not meaningful, but because life with Harry tends to move easily from one moment into the next. Days pass in the comfortable rhythm the two of you have built together, filled with small routines and quiet evenings and the kind of laughter that happens without effort. Eventually the memory of that particular conversation settles somewhere in the back of your mind, not forgotten exactly, just tucked away.
So when your phone buzzes one afternoon while you are stretched across the couch at home, you do not expect anything unusual.
You glance down at the screen.
Harry
Lunch with me today?
You smile slightly.
You
Thought you were working
Harry
I am
But I’m starving
You stare at the message for a second before typing again.
You
So you want me to bring you lunch
Three little typing bubbles appear almost immediately.
Harry
You’re catching on
You shake your head, already reaching for your keys.
You stop by a small place the two of you both like, grabbing a couple of sandwiches and drinks before heading toward the studio nestled downtown. The building is quiet when you arrive, the hallway carrying that familiar mix of coffee, cables, and faint music leaking through closed doors somewhere deeper inside.
When you push open the door to the room Harry is working in, he is sitting at the desk with his back partially turned, clicking through something on the computer screen while a pair of headphones rest around his neck. The glow from the monitor lights the side of his face as he leans forward slightly, focused.
He looks up the second he hears the door.
“There she is.”
You lift the paper bag in one hand. “Your lunch delivery.”
Harry pushes his chair back and walks over with a grin that spreads easily across his face, taking the bag from you before you can even set it down.
“You’re a lifesaver.”
“And you my friend are dramatic.”
He laughs softly, already opening the bag while the two of you sit down at the small table nearby. The next few minutes pass the way they always do with him, relaxed and a little chaotic. He steals half your chips without asking. You shove the drink toward him when he almost knocks it over while talking. At one point he pretends to guard his sandwich like you might suddenly change your mind and take it back.
It feels easy. Familiar.
When the food is gone and the wrappers are folded back into the bag, Harry leans back in his chair slightly and looks at you.
“Do you have somewhere else you need to be?” he asks.
You glance up from the table. “No.”
“What were you planning to do today?”
You shrug lightly. “Go home. Probably look at adoptable cats for a while.”
Harry immediately shakes his head.
“No cats.”
You laugh. “Why not?”
“Because I want to show you something.”
He stands up before you can ask anything else and walks back toward the desk, gesturing for you to follow. You push your chair back and move across the room, curiosity building a little as he guides you over to the computer.
Harry reaches out and pulls the chair forward for you, his hand resting briefly against your back as you sit down. He stays close beside you, leaning slightly over your shoulder while the screen glows in front of you.
For a moment he just looks at it.
Then he glances down at you.
“I’ve been working on something,” he says quietly.
You raise one eyebrow slowly as you settle into the chair.
Harry notices immediately.
“What?” he asks.
“You’ve been working on something,” you repeat, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly.
Harry laughs softly under his breath, leaning forward to tap a few keys on the computer. The studio is quiet around you, the hum of equipment filling the space while the screen shifts as he pulls up a project file. A timeline spreads across the monitor with different tracks stacked on top of each other, colors and waveforms stretching across the length of the screen.
You glance between the screen and him.
“You’re not about to make me critique something serious, are you?”
“No,” he says easily. “Just want you to hear it.”
The file finishes loading and he rests one hand lightly on the back of your chair while the other moves the mouse across the desk. For a moment he does not press play. Instead he looks down at you, his expression softer now, a little more thoughtful than it had been when you walked in.
“You know you really inspire me,” he says.
You blink.
“Do I?”
Harry nods slightly, his fingers tapping absentmindedly against the edge of the desk while he searches for the right words.
“Watching you listen to things,” he continues quietly. “Watching you react to them. It reminded me why I wanted to do this in the first place.”
You turn in the chair just enough to look up at him properly.
“What do you mean?”
Harry gestures lightly toward the computer.
“I’ve been around this so long it becomes… a job. You start thinking about structure and production and all the things that make a song work.” He pauses, his voice softening slightly. “But you don’t do that. You just hear it. You feel it. You let it take over your body and I love that. It reminds me how music should make people feel.”
Your brow lifts a little, not entirely sure what to say to that.
Harry smiles faintly.
“Seeing that again reminded me why music is so special and made me appreciate this journey even more.”
For a second the two of you just look at each other in the quiet of the studio.
Then he presses play.
The music starts gently at first, a soft swell of sound that fills the room through the studio speakers. It feels warm and layered, the instruments unfolding slowly the way good songs do when they know they do not have to rush.
You lean back slightly in the chair, listening.
Harry watches you.
His voice eventually comes in over the music, soft but steady.
“There is a bridge that leads to troubled waters…”
The words settle into the melody like they belong there.
“If you know then you know,” he sings, the line stretching easily across the music. “If you don’t then you don’t…”
You glance up at him briefly before looking back toward the speakers.
“That’s heavenly.”
The song continues to build slowly around you, the sound opening wider with each section. There are little details tucked underneath everything else, bright pieces of melody weaving through the instruments in a way that feels familiar.
Harry moves quietly beside you, leaning his hip against the desk while he watches your face.
“From your head to your toes,” he sings.
You feel your shoulders shift slightly as the music swells again.
“Saw the light in the gold that you discovered…”
Your eyes drift closed for a second as the next part rolls in.
“Through your eyes,” Harry continues softly. “In awe…”
The melody lifts there, just enough to give the words space.
“Melodies like the tide…”
You feel it again.
That strange little spark in the back of your mind when something lands exactly right.
The music grows fuller now, the rhythm settling in underneath the melody as the chorus opens.
“It’s all waiting there for you,” Harry sings.
The line repeats gently, the sound expanding across the room.
“It’s all waiting there for you…”
You shift slightly in the chair, completely focused now.
Harry’s gaze stays on you the entire time.
“Can you hear that voice delivering the news?” he continues.
The next section moves into something lighter, almost playful.
“Ignorance or innocence,” he sings. “Call it what you wanna…”
You let out a small breath, shaking your head faintly at how easily the melody keeps unfolding.
Then the music dips for a moment.
When it rises again the sound shifts slightly, and Harry’s voice carries the next line with quiet certainty.
“I know what you like…”
Your eyes open.
Harry glances down at you.
“I know what you’ll really like…”
The melody lifts right at the end of the line in a way that sends a little wave of recognition through you.
“I know what you like,” he continues. “I don’t have to read your mind…”
You turn slowly in the chair to look up at him now, the realization beginning to settle.
Harry just smiles gently.
“I know what you like,” he sings again. “You can hear it anytime.”
The music fills the room around you while the chorus swells again, the same line weaving through the sound.
“It’s all waiting there for you…”
You sit there quietly, the words settling slowly in your chest as the song continues to play.
The music continues to move through the room, the sound filling the studio in that full, layered way that good speakers make possible. It feels different hearing something like this in a place where it was built piece by piece, where every note and sound has been shaped and adjusted until it sits exactly where it is supposed to.
But you are not thinking about any of that.
Your body reacts before your brain really catches up. A small shiver runs through you first, quick and involuntary, like a ripple passing through your shoulders. You pull your arms in slightly without realizing it, rubbing one hand across the other as goosebumps spread along your skin.
Harry notices immediately.
He straightens just a little beside the desk, his attention sharpening the moment he sees it.
“You okay?”
You nod automatically, but the sound still fills your chest in a way that makes it hard to breathe normally. The chorus rolls through the speakers again, that line repeating with the same gentle certainty.
I know what you like. I know what you’ll really like.
Your fingers curl against the arm of the chair while you listen, your shoulders lifting slightly as another little detail slips through the melody, something bright tucked quietly into the music that feels exactly like the kinds of sounds he has been watching you react to for weeks.
Your throat tightens.
Harry is still watching you carefully when you finally turn to look up at him.
Your eyes are already glossy.
He sees it immediately.
“Oh no,” he says softly.
You shake your head a little, but it is too late. The tears gather quickly, spilling over before you can stop them as the music continues behind you.
Harry stares down at you for half a second, surprised.
Then he lets out a small breathy laugh.
“Well,” he says lightly, lifting his hands a little in surrender. “If it was shit you could’ve just told me.”
You immediately reach up and shove his arm.
“Harry,” you protest through a shaky laugh.
“I’m serious,” he continues, smiling now even as he watches you cry. “You didn’t have to get emotional about it.”
“Shut up.”
You swipe at your cheeks quickly before pushing yourself up out of the chair. The moment you are standing you step into him, wrapping your arms around his middle and pressing your face into his chest before he can say anything else.
Harry lets out a soft surprised sound but his arms come around you automatically, holding you close as the music continues to play quietly through the room.
For a moment he just stands there with you, one hand moving gently along your back.
“You’re crying,” he says after a second, his voice softer now.
You nod against him.
“Yeah.”
He tilts his head slightly, resting his cheek lightly against the top of your hair.
“That bad?” he teases.
You shake your head quickly, pulling back just enough to look up at him. Your eyes are still wet but there is a small smile sitting there too.
“No,” you say quietly.
Your hand slides up to his shoulder, squeezing lightly.
“It’s just… you knew.”
For a moment neither of you moves.
Harry’s arms stay loosely around you while the last part of the song continues quietly through the studio speakers, the sound filling the room in a way that suddenly feels very different now that you understand what you are hearing. Your hands rest against the front of his shirt while you look up at him, your cheeks still warm from the tears that caught you off guard.
You let out a small breath, shaking your head faintly.
“I feel so seen right now,” you admit.
The words come out softer than you expected, almost like you are still trying to catch up with the realization sitting in your chest.
Harry’s expression changes when you say that. The teasing edge that had been in his voice a moment ago fades, replaced by something gentler. His hand slides up along your back, settling comfortably between your shoulder blades as he looks down at you.
“Well,” he says quietly, “I’ve been watching.”
You let out a small laugh through the last of your tears. “Yeah. I noticed.”
“I mean really watching,” he continues. “All those little moments when something catches you. When a guitar does something strange or a melody lifts in a way that makes you sit up.” He nods slightly toward the speakers behind you where the track is still playing. “All those bits.”
Your eyes widen slightly as you look back at him.
“I took them,” he says simply. “The sounds you liked. The ones that made you react. And I put them in there.”
You stare at him for a second, completely overwhelmed by how straightforward he makes it sound.
“You built a whole song out of my weird little brain reactions.”
Harry smiles.
“They’re not weird.”
“They are.”
“They’re honest.”
The simplicity of that makes something in your chest tighten again. You look back toward the speakers where the chorus drifts through the room one more time.
I know what you like. I know what you’ll really like.
You shake your head softly and look back at him.
“You’re too perfect,” you say.
Harry immediately groans.
“Oh no.”
“You are,” you insist, poking lightly at his chest. “Who does that? Who sits there studying someone’s music reactions and turns it into a song?”
He shrugs lightly, his arms still loosely wrapped around you.
“Someone who thought it was beautiful.”
Your expression softens immediately at that.
The room grows quiet around the two of you as the song begins to fade toward its ending. For a moment you both just stand there in the middle of the studio, close enough that you can feel his breathing slow and steady against you.
Your hand drifts up to rest along the side of his neck, your thumb brushing lightly against his jaw.
“That was the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” you say quietly.
Harry smiles in that small, slightly shy way he gets when he knows he has done something meaningful but does not want to make a big deal out of it.
“I just wanted you to hear it,” he says.
You lean forward then, wrapping your arms around him again, pulling him into a tighter hug than before. Harry laughs softly but holds you just as tightly, his chin resting briefly on the top of your head while the last notes of the song fade out behind you.
For a second neither of you says anything.
The moment just sits there between you.
Eventually you lean back just enough to look at him again.
Your eyes are still a little glassy from earlier, but the emotional weight has settled into something lighter now, something warm that sits comfortably in your chest. Harry studies your face for a moment, checking you the way he always does when you get emotional about something.
“You alright?” he asks gently.
You nod.
“Yeah.”
His thumb brushes once along your side before he lets out a quiet breath, clearly relieved that you are not about to start crying again.
“Good,” he says.
You stare at him for another second, your expression slowly shifting into something more thoughtful.
Then the corner of your mouth lifts.
Harry notices immediately.
“That look worries me.”
You tilt your head slightly, studying him in a way that makes him instinctively narrow his eyes back at you.
“You love me a lot, right?” you ask sweetly.
Harry blinks once.
“That feels like a trap.”
“Just answer the question.”
He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. “Yes.”
“Like a lot a lot?”
Harry groans softly, already knowing where this is going.
“Oh no.”
Your smile widens.
“So,” you continue, folding your arms loosely while still standing close to him, “since you clearly love me so much…”
Harry points a finger at you immediately. “No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”
“Yes I do.”
You try to look innocent.
“Can I get a cat?”
Harry stares at you for half a second before shaking his head immediately.
“No.”
The answer is so quick you burst out laughing.
“You didn’t even think about it.”
“I did,” he says firmly. “The answer is still no.”
“Harry.”
“No.”
“It would be one cat.”
“No cats.”
You squint at him. “You just wrote me a whole song.”
“Yes.”
“About how well you know me.”
“Correct.”
“And how much you love watching me experience things.”
“Yes.”
You lean forward slightly, poking him lightly in the chest.
“A cat would be a very meaningful experience for me.”
Harry lets out a helpless laugh, running a hand through his hair before looking down at you again.
A CHAPTER EVERY TUESDAY! (THAT'S THE PLAN I SWEAR I WILL TRY MY BEST)
ROYAL AU (Prince!Harry x Commoner!Reader)
Summary: Harry runs away from the only life he’s ever known, leaving behind a palace full of expectations and a crown he isn’t sure he wants. Alone in the countryside and far from home, an unexpected encounter on a quiet hill might change everything...
Word Count: 6.6k
A/N: Thanks for waiting! and thanks for the anon for the wine idea!! i hope you enjoy this part as much as i did! a lot is happening
WARNINGS: Mentions of physical abuse from parents (not heavy) Mentions of alcohol, ANGST (but everything its okay i promise)
The afternoon softens slowly, the way market days always do.
The early rush fades into a quieter rhythm: slower footsteps, longer conversations, fewer coins exchanging hands. The sunlight shifts from sharp gold to something warmer, sliding between the stalls and casting long shadows across the square.
Harry stands beside you the entire time, watching everything with quiet intensity.
He tries not to make it obvious and…he fails.
Every transaction seems to fascinate him, the way people barter, the casual jokes exchanged over small purchases, the familiarity in people’s voices when they greet you by name and how you kindly answer.
Near the end of the day, when only a few baskets remain, a broad-shouldered man approaches carrying a dark glass bottle cradled carefully in one arm.
“Ran out of coin” he says with a shrug “But I brought this”
He sets the bottle on the table between you. The glass is thick, slightly uneven, the deep red liquid inside catching the low sun.
“Last of the autumn batch” he adds proudly.
You pick it up, turning it slightly.
“You’re very confident in that tone.”
“You liked it last year.”
You glance at the remaining produce on the table, two squash, a bundle of carrots, and some herbs that won’t survive another day.
“What are you trading for?”
He gestures toward the vegetables. “Those.”
You think about it for a moment. The vegetables would soften by morning. The wine, on the other hand, might last weeks.
“Fine” you say, sliding the carrots toward him. “But if it’s sour, I’ll make sure everyone knows”
He laughs “It won’t be”
The trade is quick and easy and Harry watches the whole thing closely.
Once the man leaves, he turns the bottle in his hands, studying the sediment settled at the bottom.
“So no coins?” he asks.
“Not everything needs a coin” you reply, stacking the last empty crate. “Sometimes trade is simpler.”
He nods thoughtfully, still examining the bottle as if it’s some rare artifact.
By the time the sun dips lower behind the trees, the square begins to empty. Other merchants start packing up their stalls. Wooden carts creak, voices fade, and the smell of fresh bread drifts lazily from the bakery across the way. You gather the last of your baskets and Harry takes the heavier ones without asking.
“You don’t have to carry all of those” you say.
“I don’t mind.”
Together, you load the remaining crates onto the horse and begin the walk back. The road feels different at dusk, quieter…Neither of you talks much this time.
The house comes into view just as the sky turns a deep shade of violet, inside, you set the baskets down and reach straight for the wine.
“You’re opening it?” he asks surprised.
“You helped earn it”
You fetch two simple clay cups and pry the cork loose. The scent rises instantly, fermented berries, slightly sharp, with a faint note of clove.
You pour and Harry lifts his cup cautiously and smells it.
His eyebrows rise.
“This smells… strong.”
“It is.”
You take a sip without hesitation and he watches you for a moment before trying it himself.
The reaction is subtle, but unmistakable. His shoulders stiffen slightly as the burn hits his throat.
“You don’t drink,” you say chuckling.
“I do,” he replies quickly.
“Not this at least.”
He takes another sip, slower this time, as if determined to prove something.
The fire crackles softly beside you. Shadows dance along the walls, and the house feels smaller now, quieter in the dark. The wine settles in gradually, a little warmth in his cheeks and a little looseness in his shoulders.
“So…you’ve been alone in here” he says after a while.
“Yes”
“For how long?”
“A while”
He smiles faintly at the familiar answer.
“Was there someone before?”
You stare into your cup instead of at him.
“There’s always someone before,” you say quietly. “Bought the place to a kind farmer….and you?” you ask. “Does Oakenthorpe miss you terribly?”
A quiet laugh escapes him.
“There isn’t much to miss.”
“No family?”
“They’re… there” he says carefully. “Very present.”
“That doesn’t sound fond.”
He studies the wine in his cup, swirling it slightly.
“Some families build things,” he says slowly. “Some families maintain them. Even when they shouldn’t.”
You watch him over the rim of your drink.
“That sounds heavy for a traveler.”
“Travelers leave things…” he replies. “That doesn’t mean they weren’t important.”
He leans back slightly in the chair, his guard lowered.
“You didn’t wake up one day and decide to wander” you say.
“No.”
“Then what happened?”
For a moment, you think he might actually answer.
Instead, he says quietly, “Have you ever looked at something everyone else calls right… and known it was wrong?”
“Yes.”
His eyes flicker with something like relief.
“I couldn’t stay” he admits. “Not if it meant becoming what they expected.”
“You speak like someone who had expectations placed on him”
“I did.”
“And now?”
He exhales slowly “Now I don’t know what I am.”
The honesty in that sits heavily between you. You study him in the firelight. The way he sits straight even when relaxed. The careful way he chooses words. The strange mix of calloused hands and refined posture.
Nothing about him quite fits….You thought.
“You’re hiding” you say.
“Yes.”
“For a bad reason?”
He shakes his head.
“No”
The answer is immediate, you don’t know who he is but you don’t think he’s dangerous.
He lifts his cup again, slightly unsteady now.
“To vegetables?” he says.
You almost smile.
“To not trampling berry bushes” you reply, clinking your cup against his.
He laughs.
.
The wine bottle is nearly empty when the fire begins to die down.
You notice it before he does. His words have slowed, his posture relaxed in a way that tells you the drink reached him faster than he expected. Not drunk, just softened.
You stand first.
“That’s enough” you say, collecting the cups.
He looks mildly confused, like he had forgotten the world continued beyond the warmth of the fire.
“You’re throwing me out already?” he asks, half joking.
You snort. “It’s night.”
He glances toward the dark window as if only now realizing how late it is.
“I can go,” he says, beginning to push his chair back.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
He pauses.
“You can’t ride out in the dark like that” you add, already reaching for your cloak. “You’ll break your neck on the road.”
“I’ve traveled at night before.”
“Not here you haven’t.”
You pull the door open and step outside before he can argue further.
The air is colder now. The stars are bright and scattered across the sky, the fields quiet except for the faint rustle of grass.
His horse lifts its head when you approach, ears flicking forward.
“You’re lucky” you mutter, rubbing the animal’s neck. “Your owner has terrible instincts.”
Harry appears in the doorway behind you, leaning slightly against the frame.
“I heard that.”
You ignore him and grab a small sack of grain from the storage barrel and pour it into the trough. The horse begins eating immediately.
“He worked today too” you say.
Harry steps closer, watching you.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes I did.”
He doesn’t argue.
For a moment neither of you speaks. “You can stay another night,” you say finally, still looking at the horse instead of him. “You can’t just disappear into the dark after drinking half a bottle of homemade wine.”
He exhales quietly.
“I don’t want to impose”
“You already have”
That earns a small smile.
“But you can stay” you repeat.
“Thank you.”
You nod once, then head back inside.
.
Morning comes cold and gray, you’re awake before the sun again, and by the time Harry steps outside, rubbing sleep from his eyes, you’re already in the garden.
You’re kneeling in the dirt, sleeves rolled, inspecting a row of struggling lettuce plants and a small basket of tools resting beside you.
He stops a few steps away.
“I was about to leave” he says.
You don’t look up immediately.
“Your horse is limping…”
That makes him pause.
“What?”
You finally glance toward the animal grazing near the fence.
“Back left leg” you say. “I noticed it yesterday when we came back.”
Harry walks over to the horse, crouching slightly to inspect the leg.
The horse shifts, but calmly.
“I don’t see anything,” he says.
“It’s there” you reply
He turns toward you, confused.
“It might be a strain”
“You’re guessing.”
“Probably” you admit.
You stand and brush dirt from your hands.
“But if you ride him hard today and it gets worse, you’ll both be stuck halfway to nowhere”
Harry looks between you and the horse, he studies the animal a moment longer, clearly weighing the idea.
“You could stay until tomorrow” you add casually, returning to the garden bed. “Give the horse a day.”
He notices the slight tension in your shoulders as you begin pulling weeds with unnecessary focus.
“You’re letting me stay another day?” he says.
Your hands pause briefly in the dirt.
“I’m protecting a horse from a careless traveler.”
“That’s not what it feels like.”
You pull another weed free…The truth sits somewhere uncomfortable in your chest, it isn’t about the horse, it isn’t about him either, it’s the quiet…
The way the cottage had felt fuller the past two days. The way someone else’s footsteps echoed down the hallway. The way conversation filled the evening instead of silence.
You’ve lived alone long enough that the absence of it presses oddly now. You don’t really know if you like that after many years.
“The garden needs work” you say finally. “If you’re staying, you can help.”
Harry watches you for a moment and then he rolls his sleeves up.
“What do I do?”
You point to the row beside you.
“Start there.”
He kneels in the dirt, awkward at first but ready…
You hand him a small knife, not sharp enough to be dangerous, but sharp enough to work.
“Not like that!” you say immediately when he reaches for the first plant.
He pauses, knife hovering awkwardly above the stem.
“You’re about to kill it”
“I’m just cutting it”
“No, you’re murdering it.”
He glances at the plant again, then back at you.
“There’s a difference?”
“Yes”
You move closer, crouching beside the row. Your fingers push aside the leaves, exposing the base of the stem.
“Look here,” you say, pointing. “If you cut too high, it grows back weak. Too low, it won’t grow again at all.”
He leans in slightly, watching carefully.
“So here?” he asks, adjusting the knife.
“Lower….Not that low!”
He exhales through his nose. “You’re very precise.”
“You’ll appreciate that when something actually grows.”
You guide his hand slightly, showing him the exact angle.
“Cut there.”
The stem snaps cleanly.
You nod approvingly. “Good”
He studies the plant like he’s just performed a delicate operation.
“That felt… good”
“You’ll get used to it”
You move to the next row, already talking. “These need harvesting every two days or they become bitter. The herbs are easier, they practically beg to be cut. But the berries are delicate. You can bruise them just by looking too aggressive.”
He follows, listening carefully. At first he only asks practical questions…
“How do you know when something is ready?”
“How do you keep pests away?”
“Why are those leaves yellow?”
But the more you explain, the more you keep explaining. And explaining. Soon you’re moving quickly through the garden, pointing, demonstrating, describing every little detail.
“The soil here holds water longer, so those roots grow deeper. That’s why I planted the carrots there. And the mint has to stay contained or it spreads everywhere. One year I didn’t watch it and suddenly half the garden smelled like mint and nothing else.”
Harry realizes something after a while…you talk more when your hands are busy. A lot more…your voice becomes animated, your gestures quicker, your explanations flowing one into another like you’ve been waiting to say them out loud for years.
“And you can tell the herbs are ready by the smell” you continue, crushing a small leaf between your fingers and handing it to him. “Not the color…smell.”
He leans closer and inhales.
“That’s… strong.”
“That means it’s good.”
And you’re already moving again.
“And these flowers aren’t just for decoration. Some people buy them for tea, some for oils, some just because they’re pretty. Pretty things sell too”
.
“Like this?” he asks, carefully cutting another stem.
You glance over.
“Yes. Exactly like that.”
He nods, satisfied.
“You’re improving..” you admit.
“High praise.”
He works beside you quietly after that, following your instructions. Pulling weeds where you point, harvesting where you indicate, carrying small baskets when they fill. The work is simple.
But the morning passes faster than either of you expect. At one point he misjudges a step and nearly crushes a cluster of herbs.
“Careful!” you say, grabbing his arm to steady him.
He freezes slightly at the contact.
“They are very fragile…” he says, glancing at the plant.
“No,” you reply. “Just not meant to survive boots”
He lifts his foot carefully away and ou both look at the slightly flattened leaves.
Then, unexpectedly.. You laugh, a real laugh.
Harry looks at you, slightly stunned.
“You do laugh”
“Don’t get used to it”
He grins faintly…
A while later you’re both sitting back on your heels, dirt on your hands, baskets half full with fresh vegetables and herbs.
“You’re not terrible at this…”
“High praise again.”
“You’re still slow.”
“I’m learning.”
You glance at him briefly.
“You are.”
By the time the sun climbs high enough to warm the back of your neck, the baskets beside you are half full. “That’s enough for today,” you say.
Harry looks down at the neat row you’ve finished clearing and nods, though his hands still hover uncertainly above the plants like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to stop.
“Lunch?” he asks.
You stand, stretching your back.
“Yes. Before you start harvesting things that aren’t ready.”
He follows you inside, wiping his hands on a cloth near the door the way you showed him earlier. The cottage feels cooler than the garden, the faint smell of herbs still hanging in the air.
You move straight to the kitchen.
“Sit” you say automatically.
He does, but only for a second before standing again.
“You’re not sitting,” he points out.
“I’m cooking.”
“I can help.”
You glance at him.
“You know how?.”
“I can learn.”
That earns him a small pause…Then you slide a wooden board across the table toward him and place a knife beside it.
“Fine. Chop those.”
He studies the onions like they’ve personally offended him.
“How small?”
You with your fingers “Like this.”
He begins cutting carefully. Slowly.
“You’re holding the knife wrong…” you say immediately.
He stops. “Am i?”
You take the knife gently from his hand and reposition his grip.
“Here. Your fingers guide the blade, not the other way around.”
He tries again.
This time the cuts are cleaner.
“You know a lot about cooking…” he says.
“I know a lot about eating too”
You move around the kitchen easily, adding herbs to a pot, stirring something that smells like lentils and garlic. Harry keeps chopping, or trying to.
“What’s that?” he asks, pointing to a jar near the window.
“Dried thyme.”
“And that?”
“Salt.”
“And that one?”
You stop stirring and look at him.
“You tryly ask a lot of questions.”
“I’m learning.”
“About salt?”
He smiles faintly and returns to the onions and then he says something without thinking.
“At the palace…”
The word leaves his mouth before he can stop it. The knife in your hand pauses briefly over the herbs.
“…the palace kitchens” he corrects quickly, far too quickly, “in Oakenthorpe.”
You don’t look at him.You simply continue chopping. “Mm,” you say lightly, as if the slip never happened.
The moment dissolves, but you noticed…of course you did.
A little later, when the soup is simmering, you slide a bowl toward him.
“Edward,” you say.
He doesn’t respond.
You wait.
“Edward.”
He blinks, looking up.
“Oh… yes?”
You raise an eyebrow.
“I asked you to taste this.”
He clears his throat, taking the spoon quickly.
“Right”
You watch him carefully as he tastes the broth.
He nods “That’s good.”
“You had to think about your name twice..”
His shoulders tense slightly.
“I didn’t”
“You did”
He opens his mouth to argue, then closes it.
“…It’s been a long few days” he says instead.
You lean against the counter, arms folded.
“Edward…” you repeat.
This time he answers immediately.
“Yes?”
You hold his gaze for a moment longer.
Then you take the spoon from his hand and taste the soup yourself.
“Needs more salt.” you say.
And just like before, you let the lie go.
.
The days begin to fall into a rhythm neither of you expected…At first, Harry stays because he said he would, then he stays because there is always something else to learn.
You show him the garden row by row, plant by plant, like it’s a language he needs to understand before speaking. “These berries,” you explain one afternoon, placing a small handful in his palm, “sweet if you pick them now. Tomorrow they’ll start turning bitter.”
He studies them closely.
“How do you know?”
You shrug. “I just… do.”
He doesn’t accept that answer.
So you show him….you make him smell leaves, feel the firmness of fruits, look at the color changes in stems and petals. Soon he knows which plants sting if touched wrong, which roots grow best in dry soil, and which mushrooms could make someone very sick if mistaken for the edible ones.
“This one?” he asks once, crouched beside a cluster of small brown caps.
“Poison”
“Deadly?”
“No” you say calmly, kneeling beside him. “But enough to make someone regret their life choices for a few days.”
“Useful information.”
Another day he reaches toward a plant with soft-looking leaves.
You grab his wrist quickly.
“Don’t.”
He freezes.
“That one will make your skin itch for hours.”
He pulls his hand back immediately.
“You keep dangerous plants in your garden?”
“I keep useful plants.”
“Fair.”
He’s curious about everything…sometimes annoyingly so.
“Why do you grow flowers again?”
“Tea, oils…cause they are pretty”
.
Slowly, he gets better, he cuts herbs cleanly without destroying the stems. He learns to carry baskets properly. He even recognizes some of the plants before you point them out.
“You’re a master now” you joke smiling
“High praise again.”
He notices every single time you smile…and you also notice things about him….The way he speaks when he forgets himself. The strange words that slip through occasionally. The way he holds tools carefully, like someone who has never needed to use them before.
And sometimes…When you call him Edward, there’s still that tiny pause before he answers.
.
By the time Sunday arrives, the garden has been harvested carefully, the baskets are full, carrots, herbs, onions, berries, bundles of lavender, small jars of oils, flowers tied neatly with string.
Harry helps carry everything outside and you secure some baskets onto the horse, tying them carefully.
Harry watches you work.
“You trust me with the rest?” he asks.
You hand him two baskets.
“Don’t drop them”
“I won’t.”
You glance at him. “That wasn’t a suggestion”
“Yes, ma’am.”
You start walking down the narrow path toward the road that leads to the market.
He falls into step beside you, balancing the baskets carefully, he looks around as you walk, the fields, the distant houses, the occasional farmer passing by with carts or animals.
For a while the only sounds are footsteps on dirt and the faint clink of jars in the baskets.
Then he asks a question.
“Where does your family live?”
You hesitate slightly.
“A few villages away.”
“Do you miss them?”
“I miss my sister”
He waits for more.
It doesn’t come.
So he doesn’t push.
.
Ahead, the first sounds of the market begin to reach them, voices, carts, animals, the hum of people gathering.
Harry glances at you.
“You ready?”
You shrug.
“Always.”
And once again, Vegetables on the bottom crates. Herbs hanging from the sides. Flowers toward the front and he jars and oils placed neatly on the table.
Soon the customers begin arriving.
An elderly man buys onions and insists on telling a long story about last winter’s frost. A young mother asks for herbs for soup… A farmer trades you a handful of apples for dried lavender.
Harry helps when he can.
Mostly he hands things to people or holds baskets while you pick vegetables.
At one point a group of children wander over.
They stare at him….whispering.
Then one of them says loudly, “Why does he talk like that?”
Another one says.“Maybe he’s from across the world!!”
Harry blinks at them.
“I’m not from across the world”
“You sound funny,” the first kid continues, squinting suspiciously.
You laugh from behind the table.
“He’s not from very far away, I can tell you that….”
“How do you know?” the child asks.
You shrug.
“He’s from a village very far up north and very far down south.”
The kids laugh and Harry shakes his head, amused and mildly offended.
“Carry those carrots,” you said to him, sliding a bundle.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The morning passes easily, the sun climbs higher, the crowd thickens, copper coins clink into your small pouch and Harry moves around the stand naturally now, handing people herbs, lifting crates, even recommending flowers after overhearing you explain their uses enough times.
“Look at you and your flower knowledge” you smiled
“I’m being useful.”
“Let’s not exaggerate…”
By midday the square is lively and loud.
Only about three hours remain before the market closes.
You’re helping an older woman choose the best carrots from a basket when the sound arrives… faint at first, distant, but unmistakable. Hoofbeats. Many of them. Heavy. Fast. The rhythm slices through the market noise, and people begin to pause as heads slowly turn toward the road. Within seconds, the lively chatter of the square dissolves into an uneasy silence. You straighten slowly. Harry notices it too. At the far end of the road, the riders appear: a group of soldiers. Their armor is unfamiliar. Their banners are not from your village… nor from your kingdom.
You narrow your eyes slightly.
“That’s strange,” you murmur.
The horses push through the edge of the market, hooves striking the stone hard. Villagers step aside quickly. and the soldiers scan the crowd.
Searching.
You turn your head toward Harry.
“Do you know who…” but you don’t finish, the words stop in your throat.
He’s frozen anc completely still, his shoulders are rigid, his jaw tight and a flicker of something very close to panic crosses his expression before he quickly looks away.
“Edward?” you say quietly.
He doesn’t answer.
And then. A voice echoes across the square, one of the guards stands tall in his saddle, projecting loudly so everyone can hear.
“By order of the Crown!”
The market falls completely silent.
“We are searching for a runaway prince!”
A murmur ripples through the crowd.
The guard continues.
“He is traveling with a horse and a quantity of stolen gold, Prince Harry Edward Styles from Alderwyn”
Your eyes slowly drift back toward Harry and the guard’s voice carries again over the square.
“Anyone with information will be rewarded. VERY well rewarded”
And suddenly all the details begin lining up in your mind. The expensive embroidery on the handkerchief. The way he speaks. The way he sometimes forgets to answer to Edward. The word palace slipping out as if it belonged in his mouth.
The soldiers begin moving through the market, looking, searching, their presence cutting through the usual noise of the square. And Harry, standing beside you, looks like a man trying very hard not to run.
For a moment, everything inside you collides at once: fear, anger, confusion, and a sharp, sudden understanding that makes your chest tighten. Runaway prince. Horse. Gold.
Your eyes flick back to him. Not Edward. Harry.
A prince. A runaway prince!
Rage flares through you, hot and immediate. He lied. He stayed in your home, worked beside you, ate your food, learned your garden… But the anger tangles with something else just as quickly. Worry.
Because the soldiers are getting closer, weaving through the market with careful eyes. And Harry is standing there like a statue, frozen in place.
If someone looks too closely, they’ll see it.
“Edward,” you whisper sharply.
He doesn’t respond.
“Harry.”
His eyes snap to you.
That’s the moment it clicks fully between you.
You know. He knows you know. There’s no time to say anything.
The guards are already moving through the market stalls, questioning vendors.
You act before either of you can think about it. You shove the heavy sack of potatoes away from under the table, the rough fabric scraping loudly against the wood.
“Under,” you hiss.
Harry blinks.
“What…”
“Now!”
There’s no softness in your voice, only urgency. He hesitates for half a second then crouches quickly and slides under the table. You grab two burlap sacks and drop them loosely over him, arranging them so they look like the rest of your supplies.
“Don’t move,” you whisper.
He nods once.
You push the potato sack back slightly, leaving just enough room for him to breathe, then straighten up quickly.
Just in time.
Two soldiers approach your stand. Your heart is pounding so hard you’re certain they can hear it.
But you keep your hands busy, rearranging herbs like nothing unusual is happening.
“Vendor,” one of the guards says.
You glance up.
“Yes?”
“We’re searching for a fugitive.”
You shrug lightly.
“So I heard.”
The guard studies the stand briefly, the vegetables, the baskets, the hanging herbs. Your hands continue tying a bundle of rosemary like it’s the most important task in the world.
“Have you seen a young man traveling through the area?” he asks. “Tall. Dark hair.”
You tilt your head, pretending to think.
“People come through the market all the time.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Traveling with a horse.”
You gesture vaguely toward the other end of the square where all the horses are, but luckily Daisy is just hidden perfectly
“Half the farmers here brought horses.”
Under the table, Harry barely breathes.
The guard steps closer.
Too close.
Your stomach twists.
He glances down briefly toward the sacks near your feet and for a terrifying moment you think he might lift one….Instead he looks back at you.
“You sell herbs?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“For cooking?”
“And other things.”
His gaze shifts toward a bundle of plants hanging at the side.
“What’s that one?”
You follow his gaze towards the parsley
“Oh,” you say casually knowing he doesn’t know anything about herbs “That one makes a very unpleasant rash if you touch it.”
The guard instinctively takes half a step back.
You almost smile.
After a moment he nods.
“If you see anyone suspicious,” he says, “you report it.”
“Of course.”
The soldiers move on to the next stall. Your shoulders remain perfectly still until they’re several steps away, only then do you slowly kneel beside the table again and you lift the edge of one sack slightly.
Harry’s eyes stare back up at you from the dim space beneath the stall.
Still tense. Still silent. Still waiting.
You whisper just loud enough for him to hear.
“…I’ll tell you when to come out”
You sit behind the stall, hands resting on the table, pretending to reorganize herbs that don’t need reorganizing. The soldiers are still somewhere in the square, moving from stall to stall, their armor catching the sunlight every time they turn.
Your heart still hasn’t slowed down. You’re angry…and confused, and hurt and even scared.
But every time you imagine lifting the sacks and telling the guards exactly where he is, something tightens in your chest and refuses to let the thought settle. So you wait….
Customers leave one by one. Vendors pack their baskets, carts creak away down the road, children’s laughter fades into the distance.
The sun lowers.
At some point the soldiers leave too, their horses’ hooves echoing away down the same road they came from. Still, you wait longer.
Long enough that the square feels hollow and quiet again. Long enough that even the last bread seller closes her stall…and finally, with a tired sigh, you kneel beside the table and lift the sack.
“Alright,” you say quietly. “You can come out.”
For a second nothing happens.
Then Harry slowly pushes the sacks aside and crawls out from under the stall.
He unfolds himself stiffly, brushing dust from his sleeves, blinking in the late afternoon light. He looks… smaller somehow.
Like the confidence he carried around the market earlier in the day has been stripped away.
“Are you alright?” you ask.
He opens his mouth but no sound comes out and his eyes look glassy, like he might cry if someone touches him the wrong way.
“Harry,” you say more gently.
He swallows hard, shaking his head slightly.
“I—”
The word breaks apart before it finishes.
You exhale slowly.
“Come on….let’s go back”
You begin packing the remaining baskets without another word.
He helps automatically, hands moving like he’s following instructions he can’t quite hear.
Neither of you talk. Not while tying the baskets. Not while loading the horse. Not during the long walk home.
The road is quiet except for footsteps and the occasional jingle of glass jars shifting in the baskets.
Harry walks beside you, but it feels like he’s miles away, his shoulders are tight and his breathing uneven. Several times he opens his mouth like he might say something and each time he stops himself.
You don’t push. Your mind is too full anyway.
Prince. Runaway. Liar. Gold. Horse. PRINCE!
Boy who learned how to harvest herbs beside you and smiled when you laughed, all of it tangled together in ways you don’t understand.
By the time you reach the cottage, the sky is beginning to dim toward evening…you tie the horse outside automatically and step inside.
“Sit,” you say.
Harry sits at the table immediately. He keeps staring at the surface of the table, avoiding your eyes. His hands are shaking. You notice it when he tries to clasp them together, fingers tightening as if that might hide it.
Your anger flickers again, but something else pushes past it again…worry.
This isn’t how someone looks when they’re caught lying. This is how someone looks when they think the world just collapsed.
You move quietly around the kitchen. Water into a pot. Herbs from a small jar. A calming tea your grandmother taught you to make. The familiar motions give your hands something to do while your thoughts race.
Harry still hasn’t spoken.
By the time you place the cup in front of him, his breathing has grown shallow and quick, his chest rising too fast. “Drink,” you say softly.
He nods, though it takes him a moment to actually reach for the cup. His hands shake again when he lifts it. He takes a sip. Then another.
You sit across from him, watching.
The silence stretches between you. You feel the anger rising again, the questions clawing at your throat, demanding to be asked. But when you look at him, truly look, you don’t see a scheming liar.
You see someone who looks like he’s barely holding himself together.
So instead of shouting, you do something else.
You start talking.
“You’re not the only runaway here.”
Harry’s head lifts slowly.
You stare down at the table as you speak.
“My parents were…” You pause, searching for the word. “Cruel…very...physically cruel”
The words feel strange coming out loud.
“I don’t remember a time when they weren’t angry about something. Angry at each other, angry at the world, angry at me.”
Your fingers trace the grain of the wood absentmindedly.
“When I was younger, I thought that was just what families were like.”
Harry watches you quietly.
“One night my father got drunk. Worse than usual. My sister and I hid in the barn because we thought it would pass like it always did.”
Your voice tightens slightly.
“But it didn’t.” You take a slow breath.
“I ran. I don’t even remember deciding to. I just… ran.” you sighed “My grandmother lived two villages away. I showed up at her door in the middle of the night covered in mud and she didn’t ask a single question.”
You smile faintly at the memory.
“She just gave me soup and a blanket and told me I could stay.”
Your eyes drop again.
“She taught me everything. The garden, the herbs, the market. How to survive without needing anyone else.”
The room grows quiet again.
Then you add softly,
“I had a sister.”
Harry’s brow tightens slightly.
“She stayed behind that night,” you continue. “I thought she would come later. I thought she’d find a way…”
Your voice cracks just a little.
“She never did.”
The words sit heavy in the room.
“I still don’t know where she is…i wish i could’ve done something”
You swallow.
“Every time someone passes through the market I wonder if they’ve seen her. Or if she ended up somewhere like this. Or if…”
You stop yourself. Then you shrug faintly.
“So in some ways,” you say quietly, “I’m a runaway too.”
The silence that follows is different.
Softer.
Harry stares at the tea in his hands and his breathing finally begins to steady. Not perfect. But better.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have lied.”
You nod slightly.
“No.”
“I didn’t know what else to do..If they find me… they’ll take me back.”
“And that’s bad?” you ask carefully.
He lets out a humorless laugh.
“You have no idea.”
You study him.
The boy who stumbled through your garden learning how to cut herbs and the prince hiding from soldiers…now the same person somehow.
“I’m not… supposed to run” he says slowly. “They are cruel too…they let people starve to death, they punish people for being themselves! ” His jaw tightens. “I felt like I was suffocating…and i tried my best but…i couldn’t…i couldn’t stay” he said softly
The room falls quiet again. Harry exhales shakily.
“I didn’t expect soldiers.”
You almost laugh.
“That’s very naive..”
He gives a weak smile.
“I know.” then he looks down again. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”
This time the apology feels heavier. Real.
You watch him for a moment and then you stand. “Finish your tea.”
He blinks up at you.
“You’re not throwing me out?”
You hesitate.
Part of you still wants to scream and part of you doesn’t, but another part of you remembers the boy who carefully harvested herbs beside you, the one who listened to every lesson like it mattered.
“You’re not in any condition to go anywhere tonight,” you say finally “and you don’t know where they are looking”
“And tomorrow?” he asks.
You glance toward the dark window.
“We’ll think about it tomorrow…”
He stands carefully, still looking exhausted and shaken.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
You nod once.
“Go sleep.”
He disappears into the small room where he’s been staying,the door closes softly and you remain at the table for a long time after that, staring at the empty teacup…wondering what exactly you’ve just gotten yourself into.
And why…despite everything, you’re relieved he’s still here.
.
Morning arrives slowly.
Not the soft, peaceful kind of morning, this one feels heavier, like the night never quite finished passing. Harry wakes before the sun is fully up, and for a moment he doesn’t move.
His chest is tight, his breathing uneven, the fading remnants of a dream still clinging to his mind, horses pounding down the road, soldiers bursting through the door, hands grabbing him and dragging him away before he can even speak.
He swings his legs off the bed and stands slowly, when he steps into the kitchen, you’re already there.
Of course you are, you’re sitting at the table with a cup of tea, another one already poured across from you.
You glance up when he enters.
“You look…tired” you say
He exhales softly. “I didn’t sleep.”
“Nightmares?”
He pauses, then nods once.
“Sit,” you say, gesturing toward the chair.
He sits.
The tea is still warm, he wraps his hands around the cup like he’s trying to ground himself and you watch him quietly for a moment, studying the dark circles under his eyes, the tension still lingering in his shoulders.
Then you lean back slightly.
“I’ve been thinking.”
Harry stiffens immediately.
“That sounds dangerous…” he mutters.
“It is, but for real this time”
He waits.
You tap your finger once against the table.
“First problem” you say. “The gold.”
Harry’s head lifts.
“What?”
“The gold you stole, or i mean…it was probably yours but…you know what i mean”
His stomach drops.
“But that can be my problem”
“It’s currently inside my house.”
He opens his mouth.
You raise a hand.
“Which means it’s currently my problem too.”
Harry straightens.
“No.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“No?”
“You don’t need to be involved in this,” he says firmly. “You’ve already done enough. If they find out you helped me…”
You wave the concern away like it’s an annoying fly.
“Too late.”
“That’s not…”
“You hid under my vegetable stall while soldiers searched the market,” you interrupt. “We passed the point of ‘not involved’ yesterday.”
He presses his lips together.
Still, he tries again.
“You shouldn’t risk anything for a man who showed up a week ago.”
You stare at him….Then you sip your tea…Then you completely ignore that statement.
“The gold needs to disappear” you continue calmly.
Harry stares at you, slightly stunned.
“You’re not even going to argue with me?”
“No.”
“You should.”
“I’m busy.”
“With what?”
“Thinking.”
He rubs his forehead.
“This isn’t your responsibility.”
“And yet here we are.”
He lets out a frustrated breath.
“You could get into serious trouble.”
You shrug.
“So could you.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I’m the one they’re looking for.”
You lean forward slightly.
“And you think they won’t question the woman who suddenly had a strange traveler living in her house when the prince disappeared?”
Harry stops and you nod once.
“Exactly.”
Silence settles between you for a moment.
“…Where is the gold?”
“In my bag.”
You stand and walk toward the door.
“Come on.”
He follows you to the room, you crouch beside his bed and take the bag, heavy. Inside, wrapped in cloth, are several small heavy pouches, You unwrap one and gold coins spill into your palm, gleaming even in the dim morning light.
You whistle softly. “That’s… a lot.”
He nods. “It was meant for my journey.”
“That journey seems a bit cancelled”
He sighs again.
“So what’s the plan?”
You lean against the wall, arms crossed.
“We get rid of it.”
“How?”
“We exchange it” you clarify.
He frowns.
“Where?”
“I still have to think that part, now, we stay quiet, low profile,” you continue. “No market for a while. No wandering through villages asking questions.”
He nods slowly.
“That was already my plan.”
“Yeah right”
You walk back to the table.
Harry follows.
You sit again, finishing your tea.
Then you add casually,
“Stop looking so terrified, they won’t search here…at least for a while.”
“You sure”
“Not entirely but…we plan as we go”
He hesitates before speaking again.
“You really don’t have to do this.”
You look at him over the rim of your cup.
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
You pause.
That’s a harder question.
Finally you shrug lightly.
“I don’t know, I'm still trying to figure that out myself.”
Author's Note: As mentioned, Harrys is employed, so it's time for me to get to work. Here's my take on a Zane Lowe interview.
Word Count: 7.4k
---------------------------
The garden had been dressed to look effortless.
That was the first thing you noticed when you arrived, pram in one hand, coffee in the other, your son not yet asleep but drifting dangerously close to it beneath the muslin shade. The setup was all soft edges and careful light—two low chairs angled beneath the reach of an old tree, cables hidden beneath rugs, cameras positioned to catch late afternoon sun as though no one had spent the last hour discussing where the shadows would fall.
It looked natural in the way expensive things often did. The crew moved around quietly, not rushed, just practiced. Someone adjusted the back of one chair by half an inch. Someone else stepped away from a monitor and nodded in approval. A production assistant smiled as she passed you, her gaze dipping to the pram with the kind of immediate softness that seemed to happen whenever your son was involved.
Harry, currently in discussion with two people from Apple Music and somebody who kept saying the word palette, looked up across the lawn and found you straightaway. He smiled. Not big. Not performative. Just enough to say you alright? You lifted your coffee slightly in response. His mouth twitched.
He looked unfairly good, which was irritating mostly because he hadn’t seemed to try particularly hard. His trousers were tapered and dark, skimming neatly over polished loafers, and the shirt he’d chosen was half-unbuttoned in that very specific way that only seemed to work on him—something patterned, something a bit odd and a bit brilliant, like he’d wandered through the seventies and come back with the best piece he could find. No rings. No polish. No extra fuss. Just clean lines, soft curls, and the sort of ease that people spent years trying to manufacture. You were still looking at him when a warm voice appeared beside you.
“Hi,” Zane Lowe said, holding out a hand. “Really nice to meet you.”
He had the exact same energy in person that he did on camera: calm without being sleepy, attentive without being intense. The kind of person who made eye contact like he meant it.
You shifted the coffee into your other hand and shook his. “You too.”
He glanced toward Harry, then back at you, his expression quietly amused. “Big day.”
You laughed. “You can say that again.”
“Has he always been like this before interviews, or is today special?”
You looked over at Harry, who was now listening intently while someone talked him through framing. “Depends,” you said. “Do you mean the pretending-he’s-completely-fine part or the last-minute mental rearranging of every thought he’s ever had?”
Zane laughed properly at that. “So we’re in good company, then.”
“Oh, definitely.”
He tipped his head, studying you for a second as if pleasantly surprised by how quickly the conversation had found a rhythm. “And how’re you feeling about the album finally being out in the world?”
There was something about the way he asked it that didn’t make you feel like you were being politely included. He sounded genuinely interested, which made it easier to answer honestly.
“Relieved for him,” you said. “And proud. He’s worked really hard on it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. He kept saying he was nearly done, which, in musician language, apparently means somewhere between five months and two years.”
Zane smiled. “That’s incredibly accurate.”
“I know. Tragic.”
He laughed again, then nodded toward the pram. “And is this the bubba?”
Your whole face softened at once. “Yeah. This is him.”
Zane leaned just enough to peer inside, his voice automatically lowering. “Look at that.”
Your son was right on the edge of sleep now, lashes resting against round cheeks, one hand wrapped around the soft ear of a rabbit comforter that had seen better days.
“He’ll be two soon,” you said.
“No way.”
“In two months.”
Zane looked back up, eyebrows raised. “That’s such a good age.”
“That’s what everyone says right before he throws a cracker at them.”
“Also fair.”
You smiled, rocking the pram gently with one hand. He watched for a second, and there was something observant in it—not invasive, just present. Like he could already see the shape of the story without needing it announced to him. Then his eyes landed on your coffee cup, where Harry had scribbled a treble clef on the cardboard sleeve earlier to make your son laugh. Zane caught it immediately.
“Hold on,” he said, pointing. “Did you do that?”
You glanced down. “Oh. No, that was him.”
“But you noticed what it was.”
“Well, yes.”
“A lot of people wouldn’t.”
You gave one shoulder a small shrug. “Occupational hazard of knowing just enough to be annoying.”
Zane smiled. “Oh, so we’ve got another musician on our hands?”
That made you laugh. “Barely.”
“Barely usually means yes.”
“Barely means I know enough to tell him when he’s made something unnecessarily complicated.”
“Which, I imagine, is useful.”
From across the lawn, Harry’s voice floated over.
“It’s deeply unhelpful, actually.”
Both you and Zane turned. Harry was heading toward you now, one hand pushed into his pocket, the other lifting in greeting to Zane as he approached. His expression had that loose pre-interview brightness to it, the one that sat somewhere between calm and anticipatory energy.
“Don’t listen to him,” Harry said. “She’s ruthless.”
“You say ruthless,” you replied, “I say someone in this marriage has to protect the bridge from becoming six minutes long.”
Zane barked out a laugh.
Harry stopped beside you, leaning slightly to look into the pram before anything else. “He asleep?”
“Nearly.”
“Mm.”
He reached down and adjusted the little blanket that had twisted near your son’s shoulder, careful not to wake him.
Zane looked between the two of you, smiling. “See, this is already excellent. We haven’t even sat down yet.”
Harry straightened. “That’s because she’s the interesting one.”
“That’s not what the call sheet says,” you said.
He glanced at you, and there it was—that look. Quick, private, familiar. The one that always seemed to happen in the space between words.
“You alright?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah. You?”
He inhaled, exhaled. “Yeah.”
You raised an eyebrow.
He gave in immediately. “Bit restless.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“I know.”
“You know because?”
He tilted his head. “Because I’ve got my wife here to critique my answers in real time?”
“Exactly.”
Zane grinned. “This is what I mean. You can feel it.”
Harry looked at him. “Feel what?”
“The fact that none of this”—he gestured lightly toward the setup, the cameras, the whole machine of it—“exists in a vacuum for you.”
Harry’s eyes flicked to you, then to the pram. “No,” he said simply. “It doesn’t.”
One of the producers called them over then, and the moment loosened.
“Right,” Harry said, stepping backward. “Time to talk about songs and pretend I haven’t overthought every answer in advance.”
“You definitely have,” you said.
“Absolutely,” Zane agreed.
Harry pointed at both of you. “Great. Love the support.”
Then he bent and kissed the side of your head in passing—quick enough to keep it private, natural enough that it clearly wasn’t for anyone else’s benefit—and followed Zane toward the chairs. You sat just off-camera after that, close enough to be there, far enough to stay out of frame. The pram settled beside you, and with the low murmur of production around him, your son finally slipped all the way asleep. Harry glanced over once while someone clipped a mic to the back of his shirt.
You smiled. He looked down, smiling to himself. Then the cameras rolled.
“So,” Zane said, settling back into his chair with that ease he always seemed to carry into interviews, “it’s really good to see you.”
Harry crossed one ankle over his knee, then uncrossed it again, a restless little movement that only someone who knew him well would clock. “Good to see you too.”
“There’s a lot to talk about.”
“There usually is with you.”
Zane laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is.”
Zane nodded, glancing briefly toward the garden around them before returning to Harry. “I’ve been spending time with the record, and what struck me first is that it sounds incredibly free. Not careless, not loose in a messy sense. Intentional. But there’s a freedom to it. Like you’ve stopped trying to force songs to mean something before they’ve had the chance to breathe.”
Harry smiled, the kind that meant he felt understood. “That’s probably the nicest way anyone’s put it.”
“But is it true?”
“Yeah,” Harry said after a moment. “I think it is. I used to approach making music in a way that was… maybe a bit obsessive.”
Zane lifted his eyebrows. “Only maybe?”
Harry laughed. “Alright. Definitely. I think when I was younger, and for a long time really, I had this idea that the only way to make something good was to disappear into it completely. Like if I wasn’t giving it everything—every hour, every thought—then maybe I didn’t want it enough.”
Zane nodded. “That can get romanticised, that mindset.”
“Yeah,” Harry said. “And it can be a bit toxic as well, I think. Because the song always wins in that arrangement. It always asks for more. There’s no natural end point.”
You watched him as he spoke, struck again by how different he sounded now compared to years ago. Not less passionate. Just less consumed by the performance of being consumed.
Zane leaned forward slightly. “So what changed?”
Harry was quiet for a second. Then he looked over at you. When he answered, his voice had softened.
“My life did,” he said.
Zane followed the glance, though only for a beat. “Say more.”
Harry rubbed his palms once on his trousers. “I think I just got to a point where music stopped being the only great love in my life.”
There it was. Simple. Clear. True. Zane didn’t rush him.
Harry went on. “And that’s been really freeing, actually. Because I love making music. I probably always will. But it’s not the love. It’s not the thing everything else has to orbit around anymore. There are people in my life now who matter more than whether I get the second verse right that day.”
Your throat tightened a little at that.
Zane smiled in that small, knowing way he had. “That’s a profound shift for an artist.”
“Yeah,” Harry said. “It is. And I think it made the work better.”
“How?”
“Because I stopped trying to bleed for it all the time.” Harry’s tone was light, but the thought underneath it wasn’t. “I stopped treating suffering or overextension like proof that I cared. Now it’s more structured. Healthier, probably. I can work really hard, and I do, but there’s a shape to it. There are limits.”
Zane nodded. “What kind of limits?”
Harry smiled. “Well, for one, I’m not staying in the studio until three in the morning out of pride anymore. There were days making this record where I’d leave because I wanted to be home in time for bath and bedtime. Or because I knew if I stayed another four hours, I wouldn’t actually be sharper the next morning, I’d just be tired and annoying.”
That got a laugh from the crew.
Zane grinned. “So fatherhood imposed good boundaries.”
“Yeah. And not in a restrictive way. In a clarifying way.” Harry glanced toward the pram, then back. “I want to be there when he goes to sleep. I want to be there for dinner if I can. I want the rhythm of my life to include those things, not squeeze them in around work.”
“And that changes the music?”
“Completely,” Harry said. “It changes the way I write, the way I record, the way I think about touring. Everything.”
Zane uncrossed and recrossed his legs, settling in. “You said something interesting there—that music isn’t the love anymore. And I wonder if that’s part of why the record sounds so relaxed in its own skin. There’s no desperation to prove itself.”
Harry laughed softly. “Yeah. I think desperation is the word. There was a time when every song felt like it had to justify the space it took up. Now it’s more like—if it’s good, brilliant. If it takes time, fine. If it doesn’t work, I’ll go home and try again tomorrow.”
“And were you able to do that before?”
“Not really,” Harry admitted. “Before, if something wasn’t working, I’d grip it harder. I’d stay with it too long. Make everyone else stay with it too long.” He smiled sheepishly. “Now I’m much better at recognising when I’m pushing past the point of usefulness.”
“And your wife helps with that?”
At that, Harry laughed properly and looked over at you. “Massively.”
You lifted your brows as if to say finally.
Zane caught the exchange at once. “In what way?”
Harry shook his head, smiling. “She’s very good at telling me when I’m being indulgent in a way I’ve dressed up as artistic.”
“Important distinction.”
“Very important distinction,” Harry agreed. “And she has great instincts. She listens emotionally but not sentimentally, if that makes sense.”
“It does.”
“So there were definitely songs on this record where I’d play something for her and she’d go, ‘I think you’re hiding in that a bit,’ or, ‘That’s clever, but I don’t believe you yet.’ Which is annoying—”
You laughed under your breath.
“—but useful,” Harry finished.
Zane smiled. “The best collaborators usually are.”
Harry nodded. “Yeah. She’s not in the room for every part of it, obviously, but she influences the music because she influences me. The same is true of family, friends, all of it. The record comes from the life, and the life is very full now in a way I’m grateful for.”
Zane sat with that for a beat. “And during your time away, was that what you were doing? Filling up the life?”
Harry’s expression changed then. Softer. Less performative. The honest face.
“Yeah,” he said. “Really, yeah.”
“What did that look like?”
Harry smiled to himself. “Pretty ordinary, in the nicest sense. Being with my family. Being with friends. Learning how to be in those spaces without letting work swallow all of it. I think for a long time, even when I was technically off, some part of me was still at work. Thinking ahead, carrying songs around, feeling guilty if I wasn’t making something.”
Zane nodded. “And you unlearned that.”
“I’m still unlearning it,” Harry said. “But yeah. I’m better at it. Better at being where I am. Better at letting a day just be a day. And weirdly enough, that made me more excited to make music, not less. Because when I came back to it, I was coming back as a whole person. Not an emptied-out version of one.”
The silence after that was brief, but full.
Then Zane smiled. “Let’s talk songs.”
Harry huffed a laugh. “Go on, then.”
“There are a few on here that feel like they belong to that exact shift you’re describing. ‘Velvet Afternoon’ feels very lived-in to me. There’s domesticity in it, but not in a boring way. It’s romantic without trying too hard.”
Harry ducked his head, smiling. “That one started in the kitchen, actually.”
“Did it?”
“Yeah. I had the melody first, and then I wrote half the lyrics while making lunch and trying to stop a small person from feeding a grape to the dog.”
Zane laughed. “Perfect.”
“And then there’s ‘Gold Light Coming In,’” he continued. “That track feels like opening the curtains on a life you trust.”
Harry’s face softened again. “That’s probably what it is.”
“So is that the emotional centre of the record?”
Harry thought about it. “Maybe. Or one of them. I think the album’s interested in joy, but not in a naïve way. More like—what does joy look like when you’ve earned it a bit? When it’s built, not borrowed.”
Zane smiled slowly. “That’s beautiful.”
Harry shrugged lightly, though he looked pleased. “There are still songs with teeth on it. It’s not all domestic bliss and string sections.”
“Good,” Zane said. “I’d be worried if it was.”
Harry grinned. “There’s one called ‘Night Drives & Cheap Stereo’ that’s a bit messier.”
“Oh, I loved that one.”
“Yeah, that one’s got more movement in it. More impulse.”
“But even there,” Zane said, “you don’t sound lost.”
Harry glanced at you again before answering.
“No,” he said quietly. “I don’t think I am anymore.”
A few seconds later, your son made a soft sound in the pram and shifted beneath the blanket. Not crying. Just stirring. But the sound carried in the hush. Your stomach dropped immediately, and you reached for the handle, already half-rising, but before the panic could settle on your face fully, Harry looked over, eyes warm rather than alarmed, and Zane followed the sound with an easy smile.
“Is that your little one?”
Harry’s expression changed at once. Not dramatically. Just completely.
“Yeah,” he said.
And just like that, the conversation began to turn.
Zane smiled, glancing toward the pram and then back at Harry with the kind of look that said he’d just watched something important happen in real time.
“The whole room shifted when he made that noise,” he said lightly. “Or maybe you did.”
A quiet laugh moved through the crew, but Harry just smiled, looking over at the pram once more before settling back in his chair.
“Yeah,” he said. “Probably did.”
Zane tipped his head. “That’s what I’m interested in, actually. Because there’s the romantic version people talk about when they talk about becoming a parent—your heart expands, your perspective changes, all of that—and I’m sure that’s true. But there’s also the physical reality of it. The instinct. The wiring. I watched your whole body respond just then.”
Harry let out a breath through his nose, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. It’s immediate.”
“In what way?”
Harry paused for a second, not because he didn’t know, but because he clearly wanted to get it right.
“I think…” He glanced down, rubbing his palms once over his thighs. “I think it changes your nervous system before it changes anything else.”
Zane nodded slowly, encouraging him on.
“There’s this physical awareness that wasn’t there before,” Harry continued. “Even when he’s asleep, even when I know he’s fine, some part of me is still listening for him. I know that sounds a bit intense, but it’s true. You become aware in this very animal way. You’re tuned in all the time.”
You looked down at the pram automatically, like your body had answered the same call.
Harry noticed.
His eyes softened.
Zane folded one leg over the other. “That sounds exhausting.”
Harry laughed. “It can be. But it’s not unpleasant. It’s just different. It’s like…” He searched for it. “It’s like a part of you has moved outside your body. You’re suddenly walking around with your heart in somebody else.”
The words landed hard.
Zane sat back a little. “That’ll do it.”
Harry smiled faintly, then shook his head. “And it’s not just worry, either. I don’t want it to sound like becoming a dad is just becoming anxious forever. It’s more that everything feels more vivid. More consequential. You feel joy more sharply. Fear more sharply. Time, definitely. Time changes the most, maybe.”
That made Zane lean in. “Say more about time.”
Harry looked out toward the line of trees at the edge of the garden, blinking once into the light before turning back.
“I think before, time felt endless in a way that let me be a bit careless with it,” he said. “Not careless exactly. But I treated it like there’d always be more. More nights, more energy, more chances to fix things later. And then you have a child and you start to feel time passing in front of you.”
Zane nodded.
Harry smiled a little, though there was something almost pained in it. “You notice the size of their shoes changing. Or a word they couldn’t say last week and can say now. And it does something to you. It makes you aware that life is happening whether you’re present for it or not.”
The garden had gone very quiet around them.
Even the crew seemed to be moving more softly.
“And that changed your priorities,” Zane said.
“Completely.”
“How?”
Harry let out a little laugh, but it wasn’t dismissive. More like he was amazed by how total the answer was.
“In every boring grown-up way possible,” he said. “Sleep. Food. Health. Schedules. Things I used to feel a bit invincible around, or at least willing to ignore, I don’t feel that way anymore. Because I want to be around a long time. I want to be well. I want to have the energy to get on the floor and play and to be present and to not burn myself into the ground for a thing that can wait until tomorrow.”
Zane smiled. “That’s not boring at all. That’s profound.”
Harry shrugged slightly. “It feels boring when you say it out loud.”
“It feels like wisdom when I hear it.”
That drew a laugh out of Harry.
But he nodded. “I do think it’s changed my idea of what strength is. I used to think pushing through everything was strength. Not sleeping, not stopping, saying yes to everything, proving how much I cared by how exhausted I was. And now I think strength is probably closer to consistency. Being there. Being reliable. Staying well enough to keep showing up.”
You swallowed hard at that.
Because that, more than anything, felt like the truest version of what had changed.
Zane caught it too.
“So success changes as well,” he said.
Harry didn’t hesitate this time. “Yeah. Massively.”
“What is success now?”
Harry looked over at you, then the pram, then back to Zane.
“It’s much less abstract,” he said. “I think for a long time success was very tied to scale. How many people heard it, how big it got, whether it travelled. And I’m still grateful for all of that. Of course I am. But now…” He smiled to himself. “Now success is also whether I made it home in time. Whether I was actually there for breakfast instead of physically present and half-dead. Whether the people I love feel cared for by me.”
Zane nodded, his expression warm. “That’s a beautiful correction.”
“Yeah,” Harry said quietly. “It feels like one.”
A beat passed.
Then Zane said, “And does that shift affect the art itself? Not just your schedule or your boundaries, but what you make, and why you make it?”
Harry sat with that a moment.
When he answered, his voice was lower.
“Definitely. I think once you have a child, you become aware of legacy in a way that’s less ego-driven. Or at least I did. Before, legacy could feel like this big scary concept—what do I leave behind, how am I remembered, all of that. And now it’s much smaller and much more real. It’s, ‘What kind of things am I making in the years that he’ll one day look back on?’”
Zane nodded immediately. “That’s it.”
Harry kept going, more sure of himself now that he’d found the thought. “Like, there’s part of me that wants the music to last because I want him to have it one day. Not in a heavy way. I’m not writing songs with a speech about legacy in mind,” he said with a smile. “But I do think, if he hears this in ten or fifteen years, I want it to feel honest. I want it to sound like his dad was paying attention. To life. To love. To the world around him.”
Your eyes stung again. You hated that Zane Lowe was apparently going to make you cry in a garden.
Zane smiled softly, as if he could sense the emotion hanging just beyond the frame. “So the music becomes part of the archive of a life.”
“Yeah,” Harry said. “Exactly. And I think that makes you braver, weirdly. Or it did for me. Less interested in posing. Less interested in trying to make something cool for the sake of it. You want it to endure emotionally, not just aesthetically.”
“And do you hear that in this record?”
“I hope so.”
“I do,” Zane said. “There’s play in it, but there’s also care. There are details on it that feel domestic in the best possible way. Actually—there’s a sound on…” He tipped his head, thinking. “‘Blue Electric,’ I think? In the left channel, tucked right at the back, there’s this little kind of metallic tinkering, almost toy-like. I heard it and thought, that doesn’t sound accidental.”
Harry’s face lit up at once. You knew that look. That was his someone noticed face.
“Oh, yeah,” he said, smiling wider. “That’s him, actually.”
Zane blinked. “Is it really?”
“Yeah. He came into the studio one afternoon when we were doing percussion bits, and there were all these little shakers and chimes and bits lying around, and he just went for them.”
Zane laughed. “Amazing.”
“So we recorded it,” Harry said. “Mostly because it was funny at first. He was just banging about very confidently, making what he clearly believed was a massive contribution.”
“He probably was.”
“He absolutely was,” Harry said. “And then later we listened back and there was this tiny bit of rhythm in it that was actually quite beautiful. Completely accidental. Or maybe not accidental, depending how generous you’re feeling.”
You smiled to yourself. You remembered that day. Harry crouched on the studio floor in socks, your son delighted by every noise he could produce, the engineer trying very hard to maintain professionalism while a toddler enthusiastically attacked a tray of percussion instruments.
“So you kept it in?” Zane asked.
“Yeah. We chopped it up a bit, moved it around, built it into the track. It’s subtle. You’d never know unless someone pointed it out. But I love that it’s there.”
Zane’s smile had gone soft again. “That’s incredible, man.”
Harry shrugged, though he was clearly pleased. “I like the idea that he influenced the record without knowing. That there are pieces of our life in it that aren’t announced, they just live there.”
Zane glanced toward the pram. “That’s going to be a cool thing for him one day.”
“Yeah,” Harry said, following the glance. “I hope so.”
“And that must change the feeling of the studio, too,” Zane continued. “Because studios can become temples to seriousness if you let them. And children are not serious in that way.”
Harry laughed. “No. Not at all.”
“So what happens when that energy enters the room?”
“I think it saves you, a bit,” Harry said honestly. “Or saves me, anyway. Because you can get very precious in a studio. Very self-important. Very convinced that the snare sound is the defining issue of your life.” He smiled. “And then a toddler wanders in and tries to eat a tambourine, and suddenly you remember that none of it is that deep.”
That got a bigger laugh from everyone.
But then Harry’s face settled again.
“And that’s useful,” he said. “Not because the work doesn’t matter. It matters a lot to me. But because it helps you hold it correctly. It’s work I love. It’s not a god.”
Zane repeated it quietly. “It’s work I love. It’s not a god.”
Harry gave a small nod. “Yeah.”
There was a pause there, the kind Zane always knew how to leave alone.
Then he said, “How does that philosophy carry into touring? Because touring is its own machine. It can swallow every other rhythm if you let it.”
Harry leaned back, more comfortable now that they’d hit the deeper current of the conversation. “I think before, it was easier to treat touring like this separate universe where normal life paused. And now I’m just not interested in that. I don’t want to build a version of work that asks me to step outside my real life to do it. So even the conversations around the tour have been different. Scheduling, breaks, time off, where I am on certain dates. Not because I’m less committed to performing, but because I’m more committed to the life I’m performing in service of.”
“That’s a line as well.”
Harry smiled. “Feel free to steal that one.”
“Oh, I will.”
“Touring used to be this thing I gave myself over to completely,” he said. “You build your life around it, and everyone around you kind of has to accept that for a while, it’s the centre. And I just don’t want to do it like that anymore.”
“Because of him?”
“Because of him. Because of her. Because of us.” Harry’s voice was steady. “I still love performing. I love it deeply. But I’m more thoughtful now about what a tour asks not just of me, but of the people who love me.”
Your chest tightened at that.
Zane nodded. “And what does thoughtful look like in practice?”
“Less brute force, probably. More design.” Harry smiled faintly. “Better spacing. More time in between runs. More consideration of where we are and for how long. I don’t want to disappear into two years of movement and wake up having missed too much. So it’s not just, ‘Can we do this?’ It’s, ‘Can we do this well? Can we do it in a way that still lets me be a husband and a dad, not just a person who drops back into those roles when the schedule permits?’”
“That’s a huge distinction.”
“Yeah,” Harry said. “And I think the audience deserves that version of me as well, honestly. A version that’s lived. A version that hasn’t hollowed himself out to get there.”
Zane smiled at that. “So there’s an argument that the boundaries make the art stronger.”
“I think so,” Harry said. “I think they protect the part of you that the art comes from.”
That line sat there, and you could almost see Zane filing it away.
Then he leaned back a little, his tone shifting from fatherhood into something adjacent to it.
“There’s another layer to this, though,” he said. “Because on this record, you’re clearly writing from inside a very established relationship. A marriage. A family life. And that’s interesting, because a lot of pop music—and a lot of public imagination around pop music—still treats love as valuable mostly when it’s unstable. When it’s breaking, or burning, or impossible. But this record isn’t doing that.”
Harry smiled. “No.”
“So what is it like, writing from inside something lasting? Does it feel exposing in a different way?”
Harry let out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I think it does.”
“How?”
He glanced over at you then, and this time he smiled before he looked away, as if the answer was already there and he just had to catch up to it.
“I think when you’re writing about a life you actually come home to, there’s a different responsibility,” he said. “Not in a censoring way. Nobody’s checking my lyrics before I put them out,” he added, glancing at you again.
You gave him a look that made Zane grin.
“But there is a kind of tenderness to it,” Harry continued. “Because you’re not writing about an idea of someone. You’re writing around real people. Real mornings. Real arguments. Real joys. And those things belong to more than just you.”
Zane nodded. “So how do you navigate that?”
“Carefully,” Harry said simply. “And with respect. I think songs can hold truth without telling on anyone. That’s important to me. The emotional truth matters more than the literal detail. I don’t feel any need to turn my life into evidence just because I’m making art out of what I feel.”
That felt very him. More importantly, it felt very this version of him.
Zane sat with it, then asked, “Does your wife hear everything first?”
Harry laughed. “Not everything first.”
“Oh?”
“No, because some things are too unfinished to survive her face.”
That pulled a laugh out of you before you could stop it.
Zane turned slightly toward your side of the setup. “There’s a great off-camera energy here, by the way.”
“There usually is,” Harry said dryly.
Then he smiled again and continued, more seriously, “But yeah, she hears a lot. Enough that if something feels emotionally off, I usually know before she says anything, just based on whether she goes quiet in a certain way.”
“That’s intimacy.”
“Yeah,” Harry said softly. “I think so.”
Zane’s voice gentled. “And marriage?”
Harry’s expression shifted again—not guarded, but reverent, almost.
“What about it?”
“How has marriage itself changed you? Beyond romance. Beyond companionship. What has it asked you to become?”
That one landed differently. You could feel it.
Harry drew in a breath and let it out slowly.
“I think marriage asks you to be honest when it would be easier to be elegant,” he said at last.
Zane smiled immediately. “That’s very good.”
Harry huffed a small laugh. “It’s true, though. I think you can be charming your way around things for a long time in life. You can be elusive. You can stay a bit hidden inside your own performance. And marriage, if you’re lucky and if you’re doing it properly, doesn’t really let you get away with that.”
He glanced at you again. Your face warmed.
“It asks you to be knowable,” he said. “Consistently. On boring days. On difficult days. It asks you to keep choosing openness over convenience. And I think that’s changed me for the better. It made me less interested in mystery for mystery’s sake.”
Zane nodded. “And more interested in depth.”
“Yeah,” Harry said quietly. “Much more.”
For a moment, nothing moved. Then, from the pram, there came a soft sleepy rustle and the faintest little sigh.
Harry’s eyes went there instantly.
So did yours.
Zane noticed, and smiled to himself, like the conversation had just made its own point all over again.
The interview carried on after that. Not in any dramatic way—just the natural drifting of conversation once it had already reached the places it meant to go. Zane asked about a few more songs on the record, Harry told a story about a late-night demo that had almost been scrapped entirely, and there was a stretch where they spoke about touring logistics that had the crew smiling quietly to themselves.
From where you sat just outside the camera frame, it all felt calm. Harry looked relaxed.
Every now and then his eyes flicked toward you, or toward the pram, almost unconsciously. The same way someone glances at the horizon when they’re walking—just making sure it’s still there.
Eventually the conversation slowed. Zane leaned back in his chair slightly, hands resting loosely on his knees.
“Well,” he said, glancing toward the crew, “I think that’s a beautiful place to leave it.”
Harry nodded, a small breath leaving him like he hadn’t realised he’d been holding it.
“Thanks for doing it,” Zane added.
“Thanks for having me,” Harry said.
Behind the cameras someone said, “And… cut.”
The garden shifted all at once. Crew members began moving again. Someone stepped forward to unclip Harry’s mic. A producer checked something on a monitor while another person quietly started gathering cables from the grass.
Harry stood up. The first thing he did was look for you. You were already watching him. He smiled—that small crooked one that always felt a bit too private for a filmed setting—and crossed the grass toward you.
“You alright?” he asked when he reached you.
“Yeah,” you said, standing up from the chair. “You were great.”
He huffed softly. “That’s kind.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.” He glanced down into the pram. “He sleep through it?”
“Like a professional.”
Harry leaned over slightly to peek inside. Your son was still curled on his side, cheeks flushed from sleep, one tiny hand tangled in the corner of the blanket. Harry’s whole expression softened.
“Champion,” he murmured.
You smiled, watching him adjust his stuffed toy a little more securely into the pram. For a moment it was just the three of you. Then Harry straightened again.
“Hey,” he said.
You looked up. “Yeah?”
He rubbed the back of his neck in that way that meant he was about to ask something he thought might be mildly inconvenient.
“What?” you said immediately.
He laughed.
“Nothing bad.”
“That’s what people say before something bad.”
“It’s not bad.”
You waited.
He sighed, smiling.
“Zane was wondering if he could ask you a couple questions.”
You blinked.
“Why?”
Harry shrugged.
“Because you’ve got opinions.”
“That sounds threatening.”
“It’s not threatening.”
“I’m not part of the interview,” you said.
“You’re part of the life the interview’s about,” he replied easily.
You narrowed your eyes.
“That sounded rehearsed.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It really did.”
Harry laughed under his breath.
“He just thought it might be interesting,” he said. “From your side of it. You know music, you’ve heard the songs while they were happening… you’ve got a perspective on the process.”
“Why would anyone want my opinion about your album?”
Harry tilted his head.
“Because you were there for half of it.”
“That doesn’t make me an authority.”
“You’re my wife,” he said simply. “Your opinion is already extremely authoritative.”
You snorted softly.
“That’s a dangerous philosophy.”
“It’s an honest one.”
You hesitated, glancing toward where Zane was now speaking with one of the producers.
“Just a couple questions,” Harry said. “Only if you want to.”
You sighed.
“Fine.”
Harry’s face brightened immediately.
“But if I say something embarrassing,” you added, pointing at him, “that’s on you.”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
“I live dangerously.”
You shook your head, but you were smiling. Harry leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to the side of your head before calling out, “Zane!”
Zane looked up from across the garden.
Harry gestured toward you.
“She said yes.”
Zane’s eyebrows lifted pleasantly as he walked over.
“Oh brilliant,” he said warmly. “Only if you’re comfortable, of course.”
“I’m slightly concerned,” you admitted.
“That’s a healthy starting point,” he said with a grin.
Harry moved beside the pram again while Zane pulled a chair a little closer, keeping everything loose and informal.
“So,” Zane said, settling in. “I’m really curious about your perspective in all this.”
“That’s dangerous,” you said.
“Possibly,” he agreed. “But you clearly know music. And you’ve been there while this record was being built. I think that’s fascinating.”
You glanced at Harry briefly. He was watching you with an amused sort of patience. Zane continued.
“What is it actually like watching someone build an album from inside everyday life? Because from the outside, people imagine studios and sessions and all that mythology. But I suspect the reality looks a little different.”
You laughed softly.
“It’s a lot less glamorous than people think.”
“How so?”
“Well,” you said, thinking about it, “there are moments where it’s exactly what people imagine. Big ideas, late nights, the kind of conversations about sound that make absolutely no sense to anyone outside the room.”
Harry nodded.
“That still happens,” he said.
“But most of it,” you continued, “is just… life happening around it. Harry humming a melody while he’s making coffee. Recording a voice note because he thought of a lyric halfway through folding laundry. Playing me the same thirty seconds of a song five times while asking if the third drum fill feels better than the second one.”
Zane laughed.
“That sounds about right.”
“And the thing is,” you added, “you start to see how much music is just observation. He’ll notice something tiny—a phrase someone said, a rhythm in the way our son bangs his spoon on the table—and suddenly that becomes part of a song later.”
Zane glanced toward Harry.
“Is that accurate?”
Harry smiled. “Painfully.”
Zane turned back to you. “When did Harry first start asking for your opinion on the music?”
You looked at Harry.
He shrugged slightly.
“Early,” he said.
“Too early,” you corrected.
Zane laughed. “Too early?”
“Yes,” you said. “Because the first time he did it I thought he was joking.”
“Why?”
“Because the song was barely a song,” you said. “It was like… a verse, half a chorus, and a very passionate explanation about what the bridge might eventually be.”
Harry laughed quietly beside the pram.
“And he looked at me like I was supposed to have a fully formed critique of something that didn’t exist yet.”
“That’s harsh,” Harry said.
“It’s true.”
Zane grinned. “So what did you say?”
“I think I said something like, ‘I like the bit that sounds finished.’”
Harry groaned.
“That’s brutal.”
“You asked.”
Zane was laughing now.
“So how did that evolve into the dynamic you have now?” he asked.
You thought about it for a moment.
“I think at first I was very cautious,” you said. “Because music is such a personal thing for him, and I didn’t want to accidentally say something that made him doubt something he cared about.”
Harry shook his head slightly.
“She never had that problem.”
You ignored him.
“But over time,” you continued, “you start to understand what someone actually wants when they ask for your opinion. He’s not asking for approval. He’s asking whether something feels honest.”
Zane nodded slowly.
“That’s a very important distinction.”
“Yeah,” you said. “And once I realised that, it got easier. Because I’m not trying to judge the song as a piece of work. I’m just reacting to it as a person who knows him well.”
“How does that show up?”
You glanced at Harry again.
“Sometimes it’s small,” you said. “Like, ‘I really love that line,’ or ‘that melody stayed in my head all day.’”
“And sometimes?”
“Sometimes it’s, ‘I think you’re hiding in that lyric.’”
Harry laughed.
“Which she has said.”
Zane looked delighted.
“What does that mean?”
“It means he’s being clever instead of honest,” you said.
“Ah.”
“And he knows when I say that what I mean is that the feeling is there, but he’s disguised it behind something more poetic than necessary.”
Zane nodded thoughtfully.
“That’s a very sophisticated kind of listening.”
“I think it’s just familiarity,” you said. “When you know someone really well, you can hear when they’re telling the truth and when they’re performing a version of it.”
Harry looked at you then. Not amused this time. Just quiet. Zane noticed that too.
“And has Harry ever disagreed with your notes?” he asked lightly.
You smiled.
“Oh, constantly.”
Harry laughed.
“Not constantly.”
“Regularly.”
“That’s more accurate.”
“But even when he disagrees,” you said, “the conversation is useful. Because it forces him to articulate why something matters to him. And sometimes that leads somewhere better than the original idea.”
Zane leaned back slightly.
“That’s an incredible creative partnership.”
Harry looked at the ground for a moment, smiling to himself.
Then one of the producers approached, a little apologetic.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said gently. “We were wondering if we could grab a few final shots for the end of the piece.”
Harry looked up. “What kind of shots?”
“Nothing intrusive,” she said quickly. “Just something atmospheric. Maybe the three of you walking through the garden. Maybe Harry helping your son walk. We wouldn’t show any faces. It’s more about the feeling of it.”
Harry looked at you.
You glanced down at the pram, then back up.
“That’s fine,” you said.
“Yeah,” Harry agreed.
By then your son had begun waking properly, blinking up at the world with the soft confusion of someone who had slept through a very adult afternoon.
Harry lifted him from the pram.
“Hello, mate,” he murmured.
Your son squinted at him. Then smiled.
The cameras returned quietly.
Harry set him down on the grass and took both his little hands, guiding him forward as he wobbled across the lawn. The shots stayed low—tiny shoes pressing into the grass, Harry’s hands steadying him, sunlight catching the movement of curls.
Your son laughed when he nearly tipped sideways. Harry laughed too.
Another shot caught the two of you walking slowly along the garden path, Harry carrying him against his chest while you said something that made you both grin.
Another caught you brushing Harry’s back as you passed him.
Another caught you laughing.
Faces mostly hidden. Just pieces.
Eventually the producer called out softly, “That’s perfect.”
The cameras clicked off. The garden settled again. Harry picked your son up and kissed the side of his head.
Then he looked at you.
“How was that?” he asked.
You smiled.
“You did good, Dad.”
His grin was slow and warm.
And a moment later the three of you turned toward the house together, the quiet garden folding in behind you as the last of the cameras went dark.
Summary: Harry asks you to stop by during his Zane Lowe interview✨
“So—what’s something you learned about yourself during your break from music?” Harry purses his lips ever so slightly and squints his eyes as he tries to think of an answer to the question Zane just asked in his usual soft tone as the two of them sit across from one another at a table in a little cafe in Paris. “Doesn’t have to be groundbreaking I’m just curious if you found any new hobbies or—interests?” He adds with a chuckle as he notices the way Harry is still trying to think of an answer that would help people get an idea of what he was really up to during his time away without invading his privacy, a thin line that up until now Harry has expertly known how to tiptoe around and redirect conversations to avoid actually crossing it.
But much like everything else about this album, this interview feels different as if suddenly Harry doesn’t see the harm in giving out more intimate details of his life so people might have a better understanding of what this album is all about. That’s why he did something very unlike himself and went ahead and told Zane that there might be someone joining the two of them to discuss the album and what life has been like during his step back from music. Zane didn’t have any objections, instead feeling grateful that Harry trusted him enough to do something different and allow him to speak to whoever it is that’ll be joining them in their conversation.
“Uh I found myself clubbing quite a bit—I didn’t think I’d enjoy it as much as I did or—do.” He answers with a smile as he runs a hand through his hair, Zane just nods and acts as if he doesn’t notice the way Harry’s eyes glance towards the door of the cafe before bouncing over and meeting his. “I like the environment of a dingy club dance floor I think I’ve spent a lot of time on a stage that I never really got to appreciate the feeling of—of that togetherness you get when you’re just enjoying a band and letting yourself feel the music.” He explains as he tries to keep the real reason why he likes a dance floor so much from bubbling up and spilling out of his mouth. But he knows by the way he feels the corners of his mouth twitch upwards that his face is more than likely giving himself away so he rubs his lips together to hold off the need to smile at the thought of you, the girl he’s madly in love with and met in the middle of an overcrowded dance floor at a small club in London while you were visiting some friends almost three years ago.
The same girl he knows will be arriving any minute now.
“That’s an addictive feeling isn’t it? The freedom you have on a dance floor just being able to let it all out to some sick beat—” the sound of a bell jingling has both men pausing and looking over at the door and Harry can’t be bothered to stop the grin that spreads across his face as he slides out of the booth.
“Do you know how many cafes are on this street?” Your voice is breathy as if you were in a rush but still holds your usual gentle playfulness that has Harry letting out a laugh as he walks over to you. “Like really next time just give me the actual address or better yet just send a car.” He just nods as he places a hand on the side of your face, his thumb lightly brushing over your cheekbone as he takes in your slightly flustered appearance.
“Did you run here? Why are you all-”
“Run here? No I didn’t run here you’re the only one out of the two of us who doesn’t see running as a form of physical and psychological torture.” Your words get muffled by the cozy material of his sweater as he pulls you into his chest making you let out a sigh as his arms wrap around your shoulders so he can press his lips to the top of your head. “It’s called walking with a purpose and—” Harry quirks a brow as you pull away from his comforting embrace so you can look around, he follows your stare when he sees your eyes go big and your mouth snap shut in the middle of your explanation.
“Harry.” He can’t help but laugh at your very sad attempt at whispering once you look away from the camera that’s aimed directly at the two of you and back up at him, having no clue he has on a mic pack that’s tucked into the back of his jeans letting everyone in the room hear what you’re saying, even when you’re trying to whisper.
“Why are you whispering?” He whispers back with a laugh making you send him a glare as his hands drop down to your waist, giving you a loving little squeeze as you try to take in the situation you just walked into.
“You’re in the middle of—something and you told me to meet you here for lunch you jerk.” You tell him with a small swat to his chest that has the man behind the camera holding back a small laugh as he turns to pan over to Zane who is watching the two of you with a look of fondness and understanding in his eyes.
“Baby relax—It’s just an interview no big deal.” The casual tone of his voice has you letting out a groan as you rest your forehead on his chest while his hands start to run up and down your arms trying to soothe your worries away with each pass of his palms down the soft material of your sweatshirt. “I want you here,” he says softly as he places his hands on either side of your face so he can gently lift your head so you’re looking up at him. “I want you to be apart of this with me.” His lips are pressing against your forehead before you can even fully process the words that just came out of his mouth.
“You want—but this is for your album? I—why do you want me here when—I have nothing to do with kissing and discoing or well I mean—kissing maybe but discoing? No.” Zane laughs at your very obvious anxious ramblings while Harry just stands there and keeps his hands softly holding the sides of your face, his eyes locked on you as your hands reach out and mindlessly mess with his cross pendant. “I just—you really want me here?” You ask quietly as your hands wrap around his wrists making Harry smile and nod.
“I wouldn’t have an album if it weren’t for you so I think it’s only right that you sit in during at least one interview.” He explains as he leans in so he can bump the tip of his nose against yours.
“Fine but can I get some coffee first? Maybe a croissant or two?” Harry lets out a chuckle before pressing his lips against yours in a quick but sweet kiss.
“Already waiting for you at the table.” He informs you with a smug grin as he pulls away, you let out a sigh of relief as your hands fall to his chest while his slide down to your shoulders.
“Now I’m not like answering any questions right? I’m just here for moral support?” You ask as Harry uses his hold on your shoulders to turn you towards the small table he was just sat at with Zane.
“Feel free to jump in at anytime—do whatever you’re comfortable with.” Zane answers as he reaches a hand out. “Nice to finally meet you by the way—I’ve heard a lot about you.” Harry looks over at you as you smile and shake his hand before someone comes over with a spare mic pack as Harry moves out of the way and slides into the booth across from Zane.
“It’s lovely to meet you as well I’m a massive fan.” You tell him after getting your mic sorted, Harry smiles as you slide in next to him letting him drape an arm over your shoulders as you lean into his side. “Whatever he’s told you about me is probably only half true—he loves to embellish things to make them seem more dramatic.” Zane laughs while Harry lets out a scoff in an attempt to hide his own laughter.
“Good thing I got most of my intel from Niall then.” Your laugh has Harry’s face morphing into a small pout as Zane gives you a playful wink.
“Thank god—he’s a good one you can trust him.” Harry ignores your playful pat to his chest and rolls his eyes as he leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head as you get more comfortable in your spot.
“I’ll have to remember that but—before you arrived Harry was talking about how much he loves a dance floor.” You just nod as Harry hands you a cup of coffee that you take without even looking at him something Zane takes notice of because of the normalcy of it. But he also sees that there’s another layer hidden underneath the simple act of Harry handing you something and you having no hesitation in accepting it, it shows that you trust him and his ability to give you whatever you need in any given moment even if it’s just a cup of coffee. This gives him a small glimpse into your relationship together and it has him smiling as he leans back and gets comfortable on his side of the booth.
“Oh yeah he loves to get lost in the music on a dingy little dance floor.” You say with a smile after taking a sip of your coffee. “Anything can happen on a dance floor I mean you can bump into an old friend or-”
“Or meet the person you want to spend the rest of your life with.” Harry says cutting you off as he moves his arm so he can place a hand on the top of your denim covered thigh, you look over at him with a look that he’s seen a thousand times that has him biting back a grin because it’s one you give him when he says something that has the potential to make you cry, it’s a warning type look mixed with a loving sort of adoration because the words he just said are sweet but you’re not really in the mood for water works.
“I think that’s what I sort of wanted this album to be able to do—get people onto a dance floor or somewhere they can just feel free to be themselves and let loose because well—unexpected but amazing things can happen to you when you allow yourself to just…feel.” Harry adds trying to move the conversation along in a way that won’t have you turn into a sniffling mess, Zane looks away from Harry and over at you as you busy yourself with tearing off a piece of croissant that’s resting on a small plate on the table.
“I have to just say that Harry’s dancing has improved so much I mean— he’s come a long way from the aggressive shoulder shrugs haven’t you?” Harry lets out a groan as he runs a hand over his face while you fight off a laugh as you look up at him while Zane is chuckling to himself.
“Thank you love for bringing that up.”
“You are very welcome.”
“I take it you were a fan of One Direction then?”
“Oh she’s still a fan—she’s in the top what? One percent of the listeners in her end of the year wrap thingy that Spotify does.”
“That’s—that’s impressive so you were familiar with Harry when you two met?” You just nod as Harry looks down at you with a warm smile.
“Yes I knew who he was when he got a little carried away on the dance floor and ended up tossing his sunglasses at the back of my head.” Harry has a slight look of embarrassment on his face as you tell Zane the beginnings of the story of how the two of you met.
“I didn’t toss them they just flew off my head and I apologized like ten times I felt so bad.”
“He did apologize a lot but I told him it was fine he just needed-”
“She told me I needed one of those chains that keep people’s glasses around their neck that you see a lot of uhm—older people using for their reading glasses.” He says finishing your sentence for you making you just nod as Zane takes in the sight of Harry effortlessly reaching over and pulling the small plate your croissant is on closer to him so he can pick a piece up and hand it to you so you don’t have to reach so far for it all while never causing any awkward pauses in the conversation, enjoying the domesticity of the moment between the two of you that again reveals just a bit more of how the two of you are behind closed doors.
“Who asked for whose number?” Zane asks as you finish chewing your bite of food, Harry raises a brow as he looks down at you making you just roll your eyes before looking over a Zane.
“I did because well putting aside the fact I knew who he was—I mean come on—he’s fit as a fiddle and covered in tattoos and sings some of my favorite songs why wouldn’t I shoot my shot? The worst thing he could’ve told me was no.”
“But he clearly didn’t tell you no.”
“No he didn’t—thank goodness.”
“So the two of you met at a club so that’s a big inspiration for the album but what was it that had you really wanting to step back into the studio?” Harry gives your thigh a soft squeeze as Zane asks a follow up question that easily keeps the conversation flowing and natural sounding while also shifting gears to segway into discussing the album.
“I honestly wanted to have something to look back on and be able to feel and remember what I was going through in this portion of my life—a lot of things have happened to me over the last few years and I think using music and lyrics as a form of a diary of sorts is how I cope with all of it—the good and the bad.”
“So this album is more personal than people might expect?”
“Yeah I think—I think it might be the most personal one yet but it’s a nice mixture of being able to dance through the darker heavy bits while also letting yourself sit and enjoy the bright and happy moments as well.” You place a hand over Harry’s that’s resting on your thigh and lace your fingers through his so your palm is flat against the top of his hand so you can give it a squeeze.
“I think this album is going to surprise people.” Harry looks down at you as you tilt your head up to meet his gaze. “It’s different in the way it sounds but it’s the same in the sense that he left a piece of him in those songs—same way he does with every album and I just can’t wait for the world to get to see and hear this new side of him.” Harry gives you a smile and before he can stop himself he’s leaning down and placing a kiss to your lips that makes the producer sitting behind the camera let out an audible awe as he pulls away.
“Sorry I forgot where I was for a moment.” He says with a laugh as you look over at Zane who just gives the two of you a causal shrug before saying something that has you erupting into a fit of laughter.
“I mean it is called kiss all the time—disco occasionally.”
“Oh that was smooth.” Harry says with a laugh as you get yourself under control so the two of you can continue talking about all things music and the other activities Harry got into on his break. Zane laughs when you make faces of partial disgust while Harry gushes over his love of running, only nodding and smiling when he mentions his fondness of a good croissant before a long run. The interview is relaxed and Zane leaves the cafe excited for people to watch it and learn a bit more about Harry who besides being an incredible artist is also your boyfriend who likes to hold your hand and randomly kiss you in the middle of a conversation when he thinks you’re being overly adorable and also just so happened to write songs about you that are on an album Zane thinks is going to really make an impact on people and let them feel closer to their favorite artist than ever before.
A/N: This is my first time writing dadrry, let me know what you think!
WC: 4.4k words
CW: Good ol' fluff and a little bit of angst bc of parental illness and the hospital setting.
Summary: After a medical procedure, Harry and your children visit you in the hospital. You spend some quality time together and reminisce on heartfelt family moments. There's a lot of hand-holding.
The faint smell of antiseptic and strong filter coffee fills the room as the late-afternoon sun peeks through the blinds, striping the off-white walls in bands of muted gold and shadows. The coffee in the paper cup on the windowsill has long been forgotten, as the pollen from the flowers in the vase right beside it now dots the surface of the black liquid.
Harry sits beside the bed, his hand resting in yours, thumb rubbing slowly along your knuckles as you sleepily take a sip of your favourite rooibos tea. You’re more relaxed now than you were earlier that day; your breathing is much steadier and your body is no longer holding onto the fear and anxiety from the last few weeks.
There's a steady hum all around you. It's the high-pitched and steady tone of the machines monitoring that everything is still stable after this morning. After what felt like the longest morning of both yours and Harry's life.
Harry's thumb stills against your knuckles and his gaze drifts past you to the door. His small frown and nervous expression settles into something soft and relieved as he takes in the person lingering in the doorway.
You don't notice the third presence at first, still feeling a bit fuzzy after your procedure.
“Hey,” a familiar voice says quietly.
The gentle tone is one you recognise instantly, causing you to turn your head to the door and smile contentedly. It's your youngest son, shoulders slightly hunched and hands stuffed in the pockets of the brown suede leather jacket his father wore when he was 19, the age your son is now.
Harry carefully watches him nervously look around, unsure whether or not to step fully into the private room. Your youngest has always worn his heart on his sleeve and right now Harry can see the unmistakable worry in the green eyes that mirror his own, despite the careful smile he’s giving you.
“Hey Ant,” Harry gently says with a tired smile. “Come in, you don't have to stand all the way over there.”
With a little more confidence, Anthony moves closer to your bed. His movements are slow and deliberate, as if each footstep may disturb the peace and quiet.
“Dad said you were awake,” he says, looking over to Harry and then to you. “I thought I’d come say hi before you doze off for the night.”
“I'm glad you did,” you reply sleepily. You shift slightly to sit up a little against the pillow and reach out your free hand towards him. “It's good to see you, bug. Did you come straight from class?” You ask.
Anthony (or Ant, as the family affectionately called him, even though he towers over everyone) has been interested in history and ancient cultures ever since Harry gifted him a book on Pompeii after the volcanic eruption for his thirteenth birthday. After following his father around the world on tour during school holidays, Anthony was fascinated by all the places he had seen; each museum, ancient ruin, unfamiliar city and ancient rituals were something for him to marvel at. With Harry’s encouragement and his own ambition to deepen his knowledge, Anthony decided to study archaeology.
He nods silently in response to your question, brown curls bouncing slightly from the movement.
For a moment, none of you speak.
Harry's hand is still in yours, grounding you. It's a sight that Anthony is all too familiar with, having seen his parents hold hands more often than not while growing up. His parents’ hands always manage to find each other in crowded rooms, across dinner tables or in quiet moments just like this. It's become a silent language of reassurance for as long as he can remember - not only between Harry and you, but also him and his sister.
Anthony watches your joined hands for a beat. Something soft settles in his expression as he looks at you and places his hand in your waiting one. His fingers curl around yours and squeeze.
“You feeling okay?” he asks quietly. The question carries more care than those three simple words can ever suggest.
“I feel alright,” you respond. “Bit tired, but alright.”
“That's… good.” Anthony nods, absorbing the information as though it's something fragile he doesn't want to break.
The three of you sit there for a moment, quietly tethered by your hands and the weight of the moment.
A small chuckle breaks the loaded silence as Anthony looks over to the sunflowers perched on the windowsill in a simple glass vase.
“I’m assuming the flowers are from Robin.” He says, nodding towards the fresh flowers that had been placed in your room earlier that day.
You snort softly, “You know your sister. Said the room needed more colour to aid in mum’s recovery. Apparently the white walls are ‘emotionally offensive.’”
Harry shakes his head, fondly reminded of your daughter’s attention to detail when it came to decorating. “Your sister’s been redecorating rooms since she was six. Remember when she rearranged the playroom because of the bad ‘foo shoo’?”
All of you chuckle at the memory of a six-year-old girl mispronouncing the word ‘feng shui’ after hearing it in an old lifestyle TV show.
While the three of you joke about Robin’s fixation on perfect floral arrangements, Anthony’s eyes focus on the bright petals. They seem unapologetically yellow and bright, turned towards the light as they bring a brightness to the sullen atmosphere a hospital room can bring about. Then his gaze drifts back to you and Harry, your hands still linked together. Anthony’s expression softens as he takes in the gesture between two people who are so in love that it seems only natural for some form of physical contact to occur without them realising it.
And suddenly he’s fifteen again, hunched over his Geography textbook at the kitchen counter, his worksheet half-finished.
The kitchen smells faintly of the garlic and ginger from the curry you’d had for lunch, while the soft clanking of plates fills the comfortable silence. You’re standing at the sink, rinsing the cast-iron pan while Harry empties the dishwasher beside you.
It’s late afternoon - that golden hour where the sunlight spills through the window and perfectly catches the flower bouquet on the counter. Anthony’s trying to concentrate on filling out the latitude and longitude lines of different locations, but the quiet rhythm of his parents’ mundane task distracts him.
Just as he looks up, you laugh at something Harry seems to have said under his breath. Your laugh is warm, genuine and slightly high-pitched as your head falls back at your husband’s teasing tone. You shake your head at him and splash a little water in his direction, which he dodges easily, flicking the teatowel in your direction in retaliation.
Harry steps closer to you, briefly resting his head against yours. You don’t move away; instead you instinctively lean into him, still rinsing the pan as if the movements between you two are second nature. As you go to set the heavy pan on the drying rack, Harry’s hand automatically wraps around yours on the handle to help you and he places a small kiss on your temple.
The clean dishes are long forgotten now as Harry’s arm settles around your waist, his thumb absently tracing circles through the fabric of your t-shirt. You continue talking about wonderfully ordinary things: groceries, weekend plans, the neighbour’s dog’s incessant barking. It’s the kind of conversation that doesn’t need to be important for it to mean something.
Anthony’s pencil gently slips from his fingers onto the counter. He tells himself he’s taking a break, but really he’s watching the way the two of you orbit each other with small, practiced gestures. There’s no performance to your interaction, just a steady closeness woven into every movement. Harry leans down to murmur something which makes you smile again and you try to lean even further into him, your shoulder pressing against his.
It looks… easy. Almost effortless, even though Anthony knows that relationships take work. He sees two people who choose each other over and over again, no matter what.
When Harry glances over at his son and catches him staring, he doesn’t say anything or pull away from you. He simply offers a knowing smile with a small twinkle in his eye before he turns back to the now-dry pan; as though Anthony’s been allowed to witness something private and ordinary at all once.
The memory settles warmly in his chest as the kitchen fades and Anthony returns to the present. He returns to the soft light, the steady rhythm of the beeping machines and the sight of your hands still folded together. The tattooed cross on Harry’s hand moves ever so slightly as his thumb continues its absent tracing.
“I remember…” Anthony starts, voice soft and his eyes flickering between your joined hands and faces. “You two have always been like this.”
“What do you mean, Ant?” Harry asks him curiously.
Shrugging, Anthony explains, “Just… close? Not in a big, showy way. Just…” he gestures vaguely towards your hands. “That, you know? All the time, just automatic.”
Harry’s mouth curves upwards in a fond smile. “Automatic.” he repeats, contemplating Ant’s words.
“Yeah, it never felt like effort. Even when things were busy or loud or stressful. I just thought that’s how parents are, you know?” Anthony leans a bit closer to your bed, continuing his confession. “I realised that not everyone has that and I’ve always thought that… if I ever get lucky enough to have something like that, I want it to look like you two in the kitchen. Just choosing each other while doing the dishes.”
The room suddenly feels warm and full from your son’s revelation
“We’re glad you were watching.” Harry teases as you smile at your boy, trying hard not to let a tear roll down your cheek.
“Was hard not to,” Anthony acknowledges. “It always felt… safe. Like no matter what else was going on, the two of you always felt like being in the eye of the storm. Steady and calm.”
Nonchalantly, Harry pretends to brush something out of his eye at Anthony’s kind words. “Well,” he says lightly, “It’s good to know that all those years of domestic dishwashing theatre paid off.”
“Yeah, real award-winning stuff, Dad.”
“We rehearsed,” you murmur sleepily. “Years of serious commitment to the bit.”
There’s a brief silence before Anthony speaks up again.
“So, what happens now?” He briefly looks at the machines and then back at you. “Recovery-wise, I mean.”
You gently squeeze his hand. “Now we rest,” you reassure him with the same calm voice that once soothed scraped knees and anxious stomachs before an important exam. “The worst part is over, so now we take it one day at a time. Let the body do what it knows to do.”
One day at a time.
The words land deep in Harry’s chest and suddenly he’s taken back to a particular moment from many years ago.
The warmth of summer and the smell of freshly cut grass coats the air around you. The garden is alive with the sound of carefree laughter after the school year has come to an end and the children can finally sleep a bit longer in the mornings.
You’re crouched near the flower beds, your hands covered by the dirt-smudged garden gloves. Two small bodies flank yours as you show Anthony and Robin how to hold a sunflower stem without snapping it. All curls and concentration, Anthony frowns at the sunflower larger than his tiny face. Robin is right beside him, determined to pick the one with the brightest petals, narrating her every move as though she were the host of a critically acclaimed gardening show.
“Mummy?”
“Yes, bug?”
“When we planting the tomatoes?” A six-year old Anthony asks.
“In a moment, bug. We just have to finish up the flowers first.” You reassure the child.
“Mummy, can I have a flower for my room, please? They’re marvelous!”
“Of course you can, love.” You say with a laugh, impressed with Robin’s correct usage of the word. She recently took it upon herself to learn as many new words as she could during the summer. She’s gotten off to a good start and you’re curious to see how many new words she’ll retain by the end of the summer holidays.
After a while, the three of you have moved to a different spot in the garden, while four small tomato plants are waiting to be planted. While you’re digging holes deep enough for the plants, your two children patiently let Harry reapply sunscreen to their faces.
“Alright. You ready?” You ask them excitedly.
Harry’s watching the scene of you three kneeled beside the vegetable patch unfold as though it were something sacred, not to be disturbed. You glance up at him from under your floppy hat as he takes in the dirt on your cheek and the pure joy on your face.
“Gentle,” you whisper as you guide their tiny hands around the fragile roots.
Once the tomatoes have been planted, Anthony innocently asks: “Will we have tomatoes tomorrow, Mummy?”
“Not yet, bug. We have to wait a little while. Take it one day at a time. That’s how things grow.”
This is it, Harry thinks as a certainty settles deep in his bones. This messy, sun-soaked moment, this is the life.
“What are you smiling about? You look like you’re about to burst into song.” You joke, pushing the brim of your hat up a bit.
He shakes his head and takes a step closer to you. “Just… taking it all in,” he says softly. “Feels like everytime I blink, they grow another three centimetres.”
Glancing over at the two children occupied with placing the name tags in the soil, your expression softens.
“Then don’t blink,” you murmur. “Stay right here with us.”
His hand reaches for your shoulder as he pulls you closer to him. You lean in without thinking and smile to yourself, enjoying the quiet moment. The thunder of small, determined feet on the lawn and an excited squeal catch your attention.
“Mummy, mummy! Look!”
Robin barrels towards you with a daisy pinched between her thumb and index finger. She stops in front of you and Harry, breathless with triumph as she holds out the small flower to you.
“It’s for you,” she declares. “For showing us how to plant the tomatoes.”
You beam at her as though she’s just handed you a bar of solid gold.
“Oh wow! Thank you so much, my angel.” You say, gratefully accepting the small stem. “I’ll put it right here, so I don’t lose it.”
Harry and Robin watch you tuck the flower behind your ear, dirt-smudged glove and all. “Do I look prettier now?” You ask as you strike a pose, causing Harry and the children to laugh.
The garden feels louder and brighter, full of the chaotic sounds associated with childhood. As the sun sets, Harry realises that this is love. It’s not always the grand moments or gestures that people write songs about. It’s sunflower petals stuck to sweaty cheeks, it’s dirt under fingernails.
It’s you saying, one day at a time.
The golden hue of that summer sunset fades as the hospital room returns in its place. The sunlight that has fallen through the blinds is starting to disappear, making the room feel a little cooler. Outside the room, there’s a hum of footsteps and muffled announcements calling specific doctors to another unit.
Harry blinks, grounding himself in the feel of your hand still wrapped in his.
One day at a time.
Anthony notices the slight change in the air before either of you says anything. He watches Harry with the same quiet attentiveness he always had and looks at your joined hands again before directing his gaze at his father.
“You went somewhere,” he says knowingly.
“Yeah,” Harry admits, a huffy laugh escaping his mouth as he shakes his head. “I was thinking of that summer when you and your sister helped your mum plant those tomatoes. You had asked if they would grow overnight.”
Anthony’s face scrunches in embarrassment. “Seems like waiting was never really my strength.”
“No, it wasn’t.” You reminisce, voice thick with sleep and fondness as you think back to when you didn’t have to reach up to hug your youngest. “You used to stand over those plants almost every day waiting for the first tomatoes to come in.”
“As if to say, ‘Grow faster, I’m watching you.’” Harry adds.
“Well, in my defence, you made it sound like magic! You put a few seeds in the dirt and suddenly you’re making pasta sauce with tomatoes from the garden. It was a miracle we managed to harvest at least a few tomatoes.”
“That was because you tried to water them three times a day, Ant.”
“It was dedication, Dad.” Anthony rolls his eyes at his father’s comment.
“It was drowning, bug.” You counter gently.
“Hey-”
“And yet, they survived. Much like your houseplants now, right?” Harry interrupts, trying to keep the atmosphere light.
“Low blow, Dad.” Anthony says, pretending to be deeply offended.
“Knock, knock!” A bright and familiar voice says from the door.
Robin bursts into the room like a summer breeze with her tote bag slung over her shoulder, curls slightly windblown and eyes immediately finding yours.
“You’re still awake, good. I brought you your favourite-”
She’s distracted by the flowers on the windowsill.
“Oh good, they’re still upright. I was worried Ant would have knocked them over by now.”
“I’ve been sitting still for the last twenty minutes, Robin.” Anthony scoffs, lightly rolling his eyes.
“Statistically suspicious for you to sit still for so long,” she replies, crossing the room towards your bed. She leans down carefully to press a gentle kiss to your cheek and softly hums. “Hi. You look good. How are you feeling now?”
“I feel alright,” you tell her as she takes a step back from the bed. “Bit tired.”
Robin nods, resting her elbow on her brother’s shoulder as she stands next to him. “Thought as much. You okay with us staying a bit before visiting hours are over?”
“Of course, angel. You all being here is necessary for my recovery, Doctor’s orders.” You grin at your daughter.
“Perfect. Oh, before I forget…” Robin moves towards her tote bag on the overbed table at the foot of the bed and starts to rummage through it, “I brought you those dried mango strips you like… and…” She continues to dig through the organised chaos. “A new word puzzle book to help pass the time and keep your brain sharp while you're stuck in here.”
“Oh, thank you, angel.”
Robin beams as she places the items within reach. “My pleasure. And before you ask Dad, I made sure that the snacks were okay for Mum to eat.”
Freeing his hand from yours, Harry raises both his hands in an act of surrender. “I'm sure you know what you're doing, bub.”
As you fall into easy conversation with your children, Harry takes in the scene unfolding in front of him - you flipping through the puzzle book, Anthony perched on the edge of the plastic chair, also interested in the puzzles and Robin unpacking enough recovery snacks to last at least two months.
The room feels full. Not with fear or with uncertainty anymore, but with the familiar noise of love and being present. Harry lets himself sit in it, in this bright and ordinary love; it’s the kind of medicine that doesn’t come in a pill bottle.
“That’s not really necessary, is it Rob?” Anthony notes as he watches his sister attempting to rearrange the snacks in an aesthetically pleasing way.
“Presentation matters, Anthony.” Robin rolls her eyes, staying focused on the colourful packages.
“This reminds me of how you reorganised the spice rack.”
Robin straightens, immediately defensive. “It needed a system.”
“It had a system,” Anthony argues back.
“A chaotic system, yes,” she shoots back. “Alphabetical order makes sense.”
“It only makes sense when you put the labels back on the jars. We had to smell-test everything for the better part of a week. Remember the chicken?" Anthony shudders at the memory of eating a chicken breast that was seasoned with cinnamon instead of coriander.
Robin flings a serviette in Anthony’s direction, missing him entirely. “Excuse you-”
“Hey, behave. Both of you.” Harry quietly warns his children, trying to keep the peace for the benefit of your recovery.
Robin looks down with slight indignation, but it slowly melts into a soft grin. Anthony looks unbearably smug for half a second before he cracks, laughter slipping out despite wanting to take his father’s words seriously. The mock battle between the two dissolves into the easy kind of quiet only siblings can fall into after years of affectionate teasing.
As you watch them with a tired fondness, you reach out to stroke Harry’s shoulder lovingly. “That cinnamon chicken was… memorable. I don’t think we’ll ever forget that dinner.” Your voice is soft yet amused.
This time, it’s Harry who can’t help but laugh as he shakes his head. “I mean, we survived the ‘Great Spice Incident’ despite the label mix-up; that’s what matters. Most importantly, we lived to tell the tale."
“Ugh, you’re all so dramatic,” Robin groans, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “It was one unlabeled jar.”
“It was several unlabeled jars.” Anthony corrects immediately.
“No risk, no fun, right?” Robin winks, trying to put a positive spin on the mishap. “Where’s your sense of adventure, brother bear?”
The sound of your children’s bickering feels almost comforting rather than disruptive. It reminds you of when they were half the size they are now, legs swinging from the dining table chairs as they argued about meaningless things. It feels steady and familiar, replacing the tension from earlier.
The hour stretches on as the four of you fall into easy conversation.
*
Outside the window, the light shifts as the evening air has settled in. The orange hue from the streetlights falls through the glass and onto the floor. No one has the heart to say it out loud, but the awareness that visiting hours are coming to an end settles in. Anthony glances at the wall clock before looking back at you. His expression softens.
“We should probably let you rest, get settled in for the night.” He says quietly.
Robin nods, her tone gentler now. “Yeah, we don’t want to overstay our welcome on day one.”
“You could never,” you murmur and softly stroke your daughter’s hand. Your index finger catches on Harry’s rose ring he gifted her on her 18th birthday. “But I understand. Will you be back tomorrow?”
“Of course we will. Promise.” Robin whispers into your ear as she leans in carefully to wrap one arm around you in a hug that’s warm and lingering without disturbing any of the wires.
Next is Anthony, who sweetly pecks you on the cheek, “Get some sleep, okay. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
Anthony leans in carefully, wrapping you in a hug that’s warm and lingering without jostling you. “Get some sleep, yeah? We’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Alright. Thank you for coming,” you reply softly.
Harry takes the time to embrace each child, somewhat reluctant to let go. He makes sure to whisper his sincere thanks, leaving a peck on Robin’s temple and gently patting Anthony’s back. “Love you,” he adds, chest a little tight as he tries to hold onto his emotions.
“We love you,” Anthony says from the doorway.
“Very much,” Robin adds. “See you tomorrow.”
With soft footsteps and one last smile, they slip out into the hallway. The door closes behind them with a quiet click and the echo of their warmth and laughter settles in the air.
Harry leans back into the chair next to your bed. He holds your hand in both of his and for a moment, neither of you says anything. The rhythmic beeping of the machines fades into the background as Harry’s thumb traces lazy circles against your hand again. He’s not entirely aware he’s doing it, yet you say nothing, as it may be something that soothes him after all the uncertainty of the day. You watch the movement for a moment and feel the steady reassurance his thumb seems to imprint into your skin.
For a moment, neither of you says anything. The hum of the corridor fades into the background, replaced by the soft rhythm of your breathing and the distant murmur of evening settling into the building.
“They’re good,” you murmur.
He smiles down at your joined hands. “They are,” he agrees, a quiet pride in his voice. “They’ve got their mum’s heart.”
“And their dad’s good looks,” you tease.
“Yeah, yeah.” Harry relents. A small, tired laugh escapes him and settles into the space between you. He lifts his gaze to you, his eyes soft and filled with relief, saying I’m here.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been as afraid as I was this morning.” He admits quietly.
“Ditto.” You reply softly, squeezing his hand. “But now the worst part is over and we take it one day at a time.”
Harry leans in to kiss you gently on your forehead, before leaning his forehead against your own. “One day at a time,” he echoes.
The evening sky continues to darken and the room grows softer. You feel the familiar pull of sleep settle in as your eyes start to fall closed, Harry’s comforting presence beside you as he watches you fall asleep. The last thing you remember is the steady warmth of your husband’s hand in yours, anchoring you as it always has.
Outside, the night sky settles over the city.
Inside, your hand rests in Harry’s like it has a thousand times before.
It’s not always the grand gestures and public declarations, but the gentle certainty of you choosing each other in the small, ordinary moments. Through the noise and the quiet of life, through the years in which things have bloomed and withered and bloomed again. There is a steady knowledge between you that whatever grows next will be met with the same words as everything else has.
Summary: You keep crossing paths with Harry, a painter whose life is always in motion. From the start, there’s a quiet pull you can’t ignore....but every time something real feels possible, the timing is wrong.
A/n: Hello, my loves! it's been a long time, but as you all knew, i went to war, and i actually came back alive!? and not only won the war, i'm going to Harryween?? OKAY. Here's this piece i had hidden for months now, the beautiful @maudie-duan helped me a lot polishing this! so thanks to her!!! I THINK this is not my best work but maybe someone will enjoy it
Word count: 6.3k
Warnings: Slow burn but moves a bit faster towards the end.
.
It all started at an art gallery.
It was around six, that soft, in-between hour when the city began to exhale after work. The low hum of conversation floated through the white-walled space, glasses clinking somewhere near the back. You’d been invited by a friend from your office, “It’s the first exhibition of a friend, he’s pretty talented,” Ezra had said.
So you tagged along. Why wouldn’t you? There was nothing waiting for you at home.
Thank God it was casual. You were still in your work clothes, comfortable but put-together, the kind of look that said you cared, but not too much. At the marketing agency, you were known for never sitting still, always shifting in your chair, juggling projects, ideas, people. You didn’t plan on being impressed. You thought, some amateur art, a free glass of wine, sure.
But this wasn’t amateur.
This was emotion on canvas, every brushstroke intentional, every color holding something unsaid. It was raw and beautiful in the kind of way that made the room fall quiet for a second, even if it didn’t.
You weren’t exactly an art person, but you knew this wasn’t just some guy who liked painting.
“Amazing, isn’t it? We met in college,” Ezra said beside you.
“More than amazing,” you murmured, eyes still on the piece in front of you. “It’s museum-worthy! You better keep in touch with him!”
You both laughed softly before moving along, weaving between people until you found a quiet corner. From there, you watched as a small crowd gathered around the artist, the man behind the work, waiting for your turn to say hello.
You didn’t know it yet, but this was where everything would begin.
After a few minutes, he said goodbye to a man, and then it was your turn. Ezra went straight in for a hug, and so did he.
“Man… this is next level. So impressive, so amazing,”
“Thanks, thanks a lot for coming. It means so much,” Harry replied, breaking the hug. “This is Bella.”
“Hi,” said Bella. Big blue eyes, soft red hair, she looked like a million dollars, but in that effortless, old-money kind of way.
“And this is Y/N, a colleague from the office,” Ezra said.
“A colleague? And here I thought all those late nights checking schedules were special,” you said with a chuckle, making them both laugh. “Nice to meet you. I’m very impressed by your talent.”
He offered his hand, and you took it. It felt electric, and for a second, the world seemed to stop. You quickly let go, though, you knew better than to act weird with someone’s boyfriend.
“Thanks for coming. It truly means a lot,” he said. “I was nervous at first…I had this dream where the place was empty but I just sold two more pieces.”
“Wow! That’s great news!” said Ezra. “I’m glad I’ve got a Styles original right in my Semiotics class notebook, back when you were bored out of your mind.”
“Better keep it. You never know,” Harry said with a small smile. “Can’t give you a big piece for free, but…” He reached into his pocket and pulled out two enamel pins shaped like swallows. “I can give you this, a small gift for being here today.”
His paintings that night were all of swallows, though abstract, you could feel how free they were, even if they were trapped on a canvas.
“Thanks” you said, your eyes inspecting the pin, and quickly went to place it on your totebag
After some quick small talk, the gallery began to close. Harry grabbed a bottle of wine from the back and invited you and Ezra over to his apartment. You hesitated for a moment, but ended up going.
You got to know Bella a bit more, she worked for her dad’s company, something related to accounting, or so you understood. She was nice, a little quiet. You couldn’t help but wonder how she and Harry fit together, not out of jealousy, just pure curiosity.
Harry talked a bit about his life, and he and Ezra shared some college stories that made them both laugh like no time had passed. Bella eventually had to leave, which left the three of you, Harry, Ezra, and you, talking about nonsense, like whether aliens were real.
At one point, while Ezra was deep into explaining some bizarre conspiracy theory, your eyes met Harry’s. It wasn’t like in a movie, no dramatic music, no slow motion, but there was something there. A quiet, almost uncomfortable awareness.
For a split second, you wondered If this strange, subtle pull meant something....
Is it possible to have a connection with someone who still feels like a stranger? someone you’re inexplicably curious about...
It felt like standing in that awkward in-between of all the what ifs, a thing hard to ignore, And maybe he felt it too, because the look lingered just a second longer than it needed to, like you were both silently asking the same question: If this isn’t a pull, then what is it?
Eventually, the night died down. The wine was gone, and it was getting late. Ezra ordered an Uber for the two of you, and soon it was time to say goodbye to Harry. You both felt again that strange, lingering feeling,but that was it. The night ended. Neither of you exchanged numbers; that would’ve been weird, considering he had a girlfriend, and there wasn’t really any reason to stay in touch…
The Uber ride was quiet. Ezra scrolled through his phone, half-drunk and sleepy, but your mind was somewhere else. You kept replaying the night, his laugh, his eyes, that small pause before saying goodbye.
You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t. But when you got home and saw a small smear of red wine on your sleeve, all you could think about was the warmth of that room, and how something about it felt... unfinished. But you went back to your life, just now knowing the existence of a very great artist named Harry Styles.
🎨
Months passed. Life went on, meetings, emails, coffee that never seemed strong enough. The night at Harry’s gallery had faded into one of those memories that feels almost like a dream, too vivid to be forgotten but too distant to hold on to.
You were visiting a client that afternoon, one of the hotels your agency had recently taken on. The lobby smelled like polished wood and expensive candles, every detail begging to be photographed for their social media feed. You were halfway through your mental checklist when something on the far wall caught your eye.
It was a painting.
A woman, head slightly tilted, shoulders soft, her face blurred into a haze of muted color. The strokes were bold, but gentle, the emotion almost tangible. And you knew instantly whose work it was.
Harry.
You stepped closer before you even realized you were moving, your eyes tracing the chaos of paint that somehow still made sense. The longer you stared, the stronger that familiar pull became, like a thread tugging from somewhere deep in your chest.
“Beautiful piece, isn’t it?” said a voice behind you. The client’s tone was casual. “Local artist. Apparently his work’s in high demand lately.”
You smiled faintly, eyes still fixed on the painting.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I’ve seen his work before.”
10 months later
You’d forgotten the shape of his voice, the exact green of his eyes, but sometimes, late at night, his paintings, the smudged face, the blur of swallows' wings, the feeling it left you with.
Work had been relentless, but good. You’d reconnected with an old friend, Clara, who ran a small creative workshop downtown. The kind of place filled with mismatched mugs, soft jazz, and paint stains that would never come out of the floorboards.
That Saturday, she’d begged you to come by.
“It’s just a casual open day! You don’t even have to paint, just come hang out, Lucas can come too!” she’d said, waving a flyer over coffee earlier that week.
So you went…because why not?
The room smelled faintly of acrylic and wood polish, people laughing softly over their canvases. You were helping Clara rearrange some supplies when she suddenly lit up.
“Oh, right! my friend’s coming to teach the beginner class today. He’s really good, used to have his own exhibits and everything. You’ll love him.”
You smiled, barely paying attention as you sorted brushes into jars.
“Yeah? What’s his name?”
She grinned, distracted by a group coming through the door.
“Harry, umm…Harry Styles.”
Your hands froze.
For a second, everything around you went blurry, the chatter, the clinking glass jars, even the light streaming through the tall windows. You turned, slowly.
And there he was.
Same soft curls, same focused eyes scanning the room, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he greeted Clara with a familiar warmth. He looked good. He looked well.
He didn’t notice you right away, but when he finally did, when his gaze found yours across the room, it felt like time folded in on itself. He smiled when he saw you, that kind of smile that starts small but reaches his eyes before he can stop it.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, walking over, paint already smudged on his fingers.
“Me neither,” you replied, trying not to sound as thrown off as you felt. “Clara’s a friend. She kind of guilt-tripped me into coming.”
He chuckled, soft and low. “Sounds like her.”
The first few minutes were easy, small talk, polite laughs, the kind of catching up that tiptoed around everything that wasn’t being said. But curiosity had a way of slipping through, and before you could stop yourself, the question came out.
“So… how’s Bella?”
He paused, brush still in his hand. Then he looked up, his expression unreadable for a second before softening.
“We broke up,” he said simply. “A while ago, actually. It was… for the best.”
“Oh,” you said, and even though you weren’t sure what you were supposed to feel, something fluttered in your chest...quickly followed by guilt.
Because you had someone now, Lucas.
It wasn’t serious, not really, but it was something. Comfortable, safe. Someone who texted you good morning and never made your heart race in a way that felt dangerous.
“That’s…umm, I’m sorry,” you said quietly, eyes flicking down to the palette he was holding.
He smiled faintly. “Don’t be. I think we both knew we were done before we said it out loud.”
There was a pause, not awkward, just heavy. You nodded, trying to focus on the canvas in front of you, on the way the afternoon light hit the jars of paint.
The class went on, sunlight shifting across the tables as everyone got lost in color and brushstrokes. You weren’t really painting… more like pretending to, adding small, careful lines to a corner of your canvas while stealing glances at him.
Harry had a way of teaching that was soft. He didn’t take over or correct too much, just guided people, steady and kind. Every time he passed by your side, you felt your pulse jump, even though neither of you said much.
“Not bad,” he murmured once, stopping behind you. “You’ve got a nice sense of balance.”
You turned, meeting his eyes for a second too long. “I think that’s a very polite way of saying you’re not terrible.”
He laughed, really laughed, and the sound made something tighten in your chest.
You didn’t even notice the door open until Clara’s voice echoed across the room.
“Oh! Hey! You made it!”
You looked up, and your heart dropped.
There he was, Lucas, walking toward you with that easy smile that once made you feel calm. He leaned down to kiss your cheek, arm slipping around your shoulder like it belonged there.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, nodding politely to Harry. “Just wanted to see how it was going.”
Harry straightened, polite but distant, wiping his hands on a rag. “Hi. Harry.”
“Lucas,” he replied, shaking his hand. “So you’re the artist.”
“Something like that,” Harry said, his tone even, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes
You forced a smile, the air suddenly feeling heavier. “Baby, this is Clara’s friend, he’s teaching the class today.”
“Right,” Lucas said, glancing at your half-finished painting. “Didn’t know you could paint.”
“I can’t,” you said quickly, and Harry’s lips twitched like he was holding back a smile.
For a moment, silence stretched between the three of you, polite smiles, careful gestures, unspoken things weaving in the air.
And though you stood beside Lucas, your heart was somewhere else entirely, in the warmth of Harry’s laugh, in the memory of brushstrokes that once made you stop and stare.
The class ended the way good afternoons always do, quietly, without ceremony, like no one wanted to be the first to admit it was over, people rinsed brushes, laughed about their crooked lines, exchanged numbers with strangers they’d just met over shared palettes. Clara was buzzing, already talking about future workshops, while Harry thanked everyone individually, patient and warm until the room slowly emptied.
You lingered near the sink, washing acrylic from your hands long after it was gone.
Harry approached, drying his own hands on a towel.
“Thanks for coming,” he said, softer now that there was no audience. “It was… nice seeing you again.”
“Yeah,” you replied. “It really was. You’re great at this, by the way. Teaching, I mean.”
He smiled, a little shy. “I like it. Keeps me grounded.”
There was a pause, one of those almost-moments that could tip either way if someone dared to push it. But neither of you did.
“Well,” you said, glancing toward the door where Lucas was chatting with Clara, “I should probably…”
“Of course,” Harry nodded. “It was good to see you.”
“Good to see you too.”
No hug this time. Just a look that said more than either of you were willing to admit. Then you grabbed your bag and walked out, that same unfinished feeling settling back into your chest like it had never left.
.
Months passed again.
Life reshuffled itself the way it always did.
Lucas got the email on a Tuesday morning…
An acceptance letter, followed by the word scholarship, followed by Australia...
You were proud of him. Truly. It was a big deal, the kind of opportunity you didn’t say no to.
But you knew, almost instantly, that you wouldn’t go. You didn’t want to start over on the other side of the world. You didn’t want to build a future out of time zones and video calls and “maybe next year.” And Lucas, kind and practical as ever, didn’t want that either.
So you did the adult thing. You talked. You cried a little. You ended it gently, honestly, before resentment had a chance to grow.
You hugged him goodbye at the airport weeks later and meant it when you wished him well.
Still, when you got home, the apartment felt too quiet.
.
It was a Thursday evening when you finally said it out loud.
“Hey,” you told Clara, trying to sound casual as you stirred your coffee. “This might be weird, but… do you still have Harry’s number?”
Clara raised an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across her face “Oh,” she said. “That Harry?”
You sighed. “Please don’t make it a thing.”
“I’m absolutely making it a thing,” she replied, already unlocking her phone. “But yes. I do.”
You hesitated for half a second when she sent it to you.
Then, before you could overthink it, you typed.
“Hey. It’s Y/N! Clara gave me your number. Hope that’s okay.”
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
“Hey. Yeah, of course! Good to hear from you!”
No explanations. No awkward justifications. As if this was always going to happen, and you were both simply catching up to it.
You talked about small things at first, work, how Clara was doing, how weird it felt that the year was already flying by. He told you he’d sold a few more pieces, that he was painting less swallows now and more people. You told him you’d finally learned how to cook something other than pasta.
It was easy. Natural. Then, casually, like it wasn’t something that would shift the air between you, he mentioned it…
“I’m actually moving soon. Paris.”
You paused, fingers hovering over the screen.
“Paris?”
“Yeah. Ten months. Masterclass program. Kind of a now-or-never thing.”
You smiled to yourself, heart doing that familiar, dangerous flutter.
“Wow. That’s incredible, very you!!!”
“Is it?”
“Yeah. It really is 💛”
There was a beat.
You set your phone down, the room feeling colder somehow.
.
Eight months later, Clara felt less like an old friend and more like part of your weekly routine. You had slipped into an easy rhythm together, coffee after work, long walks that turned into dinners, voice notes sent back and forth about nothing and everything. She’d become one of those people who knew when not to ask questions, but also when to ask the right ones.
Harry was still there, too…not physically, but consistently. Messages that came and went without pressure. Photos of half-finished canvases, Parisian streets at dusk, the occasional voice note sent late at night when time zones blurred. You never labeled whatever it was. You didn’t need to.
So when Clara brought it up, it felt almost inevitable.
They were sitting on the floor of her workshop, backs against a table leg, sharing takeout from mismatched containers.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said, way too casually.
You glanced at her. “That tone is dangerous.”
She grinned. “Harry says hi, by the way”
Of course he did. “Tell him I said hi back.”
“Weeeell,” she continued, dragging the word out, “he also said we should go visit.”
You froze. Just slightly. Enough for her to notice.
“Visit,” you repeated.
“Paris,” she clarified. “He’s there anyway, I’ve always wanted to go, and he offered his place!”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Absolutely not.”
Clara blinked “That was fast.”
“I’m serious,” you said, already listing reasons in your head “It’s impulsive. Expensive. And weird.”
“Weird how?”
You hesitated. “Just..weird…”
She studied you for a moment, softer now. “You know nothing has to happen, right?”
You exhaled slowly. “That’s kind of the problem.”
She didn’t push. Just nodded, changed the subject, let the idea sit there like an unopened envelope.
That night, you lay in bed scrolling through photos Harry had sent weeks earlier, rain on cobblestones, a corner café he loved, a blurry shot of the Seine at night. You imagined the smell of the city, the sound of his voice without a screen between you.
You told yourself you were being ridiculous.
You told yourself no, again and again.
Until one afternoon, weeks later, you caught yourself opening a flight search tab without really deciding to.
You closed it.
Opened it again.
When you finally brought it up, it was over coffee, like it was no big deal.
“So” you said, stirring your cup. “Hypothetically… when were you thinking of going?”
She smiled anyway. “Next month. Harry said the weather’s perfect. Not too cold yet.”
You looked down at your coffee “Okay,” you said quietly. “I’ll go.”
She squealed, grabbing your arm. “You won’t regret this.”
.
The flight felt unreal, like something you’d booked for someone else and accidentally showed up for.
Paris greeted you with gray skies and that soft, cinematic chill that made everything feel slower. Harry met you and Clara outside the building where he lived, scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, curls slightly longer than the last time you’d seen him on a screen.
“Hey” he said, smiling wide as he pulled Clara into a hug first, then you, brief, warm, careful.
“Hi” you replied, suddenly very aware of how close he smelled like clean laundry and something woody underneath.
His apartment was bright in that very Parisian way, tall windows, uneven wooden floors, a few canvases leaned casually against the walls like they belonged there by accident.
“I hope this is okay” he said, opening a door down the hall. “It’s small, but it’s cozy.”
The guest room was just that: a bed, a tiny desk, a window that looked out over rooftops and chimneys. Clara squealed immediately.
“This is perfect,” she declared, already dropping her bag. “I’m never leaving.”
Harry laughed.
The first days unfolded gently. No pressure. No big moments, just the city doing what it did best.
Mornings meant coffee from the corner café, standing at the bar like locals, Clara enthusiastically butchering her French while the barista smiled patiently. Afternoons were long walks, along the Seine, through narrow streets that smelled like bread and rain, Harry pointing things out like he’d quietly fallen in love with the place.
You talked about everything and nothing. Art, work, the strange comfort of being somewhere unfamiliar together. Sometimes you walked side by side in silence, not awkward, just easy.
One evening, Harry cooked something simple, pasta and wine poured into mismatched glasses. Music played softly in the background. Clara teased him about becoming very European.
Another night, he took you to a small restaurant he loved, the kind of place that didn’t have a menu in English and felt like a secret. You watched him talk to the waiter in careful French, hands moving as he spoke, and felt that quiet pull again.
Midway through the week, he mentioned a gathering.
“Some friends are getting together tomorrow night,” he said casually. “Nothing big. You’re welcome to come if you want”
Clara was in immediately. “Absolutely.”
The apartment belonged to one of his friends, warm, crowded, music spilling out into the hallway. People laughed loudly, switching between languages, glasses constantly being refilled. You stayed close to Clara at first, but she quickly drifted.
“Okay…” she whispered to you, eyes wide, “that guy over there?”
You followed her gaze to a man speaking animatedly in French-accented English.
“I’m in love,” she said. “I don’t care what his name is.”
You laughed. “You’ve been here three days.”
“Exactly.”
She was gone within minutes, deep in conversation, smiling like she’d forgotten the rest of the room existed. That left you standing near the balcony doors, watching the city lights flicker beyond the windows.
Harry joined you, handing you a drink.
“She okay?” he asked, nodding toward Clara.
“Oh, she’s thriving” you said. “Paris is working exactly as intended!”
He smiled, leaning against the wall beside you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The music hummed through the floor. Laughter echoed from the other room.
“I’m glad you came,” he said finally.
You looked at him. “Me too.”
“I was a little worried it might be awkward,” he admitted. “Seeing each other again….”
“And is it?” you asked.
He shook his head slowly. “No. Just… familiar. In a good way.”
Your eyes met, and this time you didn’t look away right away. The noise around you faded, replaced by the quiet awareness of how close you were standing.
Somewhere across the room, Clara laughed loudly, the sound grounding you back in the moment.
Harry cleared his throat lightly. “Do you want some air?”
You nodded.
The balcony was small, just enough space for the two of you. The city stretched out below, glowing and alive. Cold air brushed your skin, but you barely noticed.
Harry rested his forearms against the railing, eyes tracing the line of rooftops instead of looking at you. You’d noticed he did that when he was thinking, putting space between the thought and the words.
“Funny, isn’t it,” he said quietly, “how timing works.”
You nodded. “Or doesn’t…”
He smiled at that, small and almost self-aware. “Yeah. That.”
A beat. Then, softer, almost incredulous, “Sometimes I think about how early this started.”
You blinked slightly. “Early?”
He glanced at you with a smile “That night at my apartment,” he said. “When we barely knew each other. I remember thinking… that’s odd. Feeling like I already knew you somehow.”
Your chest tightened, a quiet shock blooming there. “I thought I was imagining it,” you admitted. “And then at the art class… it happened again. I kept thinking, there it is. That same feeling.”
He let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, equal parts relief and disbelief. “So we both knew,” he murmured. “From the start.”
“Apparently,” you said softly. “Just didn’t say it out loud.”
He shook his head slightly, like the realization still stunned him. “Sometimes I think about how different things might’ve been… if we’d met at another moment. Or if I’d stayed…”
You swallowed, heart thudding softly but insistently. “Do you ever regret it?”
He didn’t answer right away. Then, honestly, “I think regret implies certainty. I don’t know if I’ve ever been certain about anything…”
You turned slightly toward him. “Except art.”
He laughed under his breath. “Even that took a while.”
“Do you think you’ll go back?” you asked gently.
He inhaled slowly, like he’d been waiting for the question.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Part of me feels like I should. Like that’s where my life technically is.” He paused. “But another part of me… doesn’t feel done yet. With this. With being here.”
“With Paris,” you said, even though you knew that wasn’t all of it.
“But… something itches too,” he added, gaze steady now. “With someone I think I might’ve met at the wrong time.”
He looked away again, almost apologetic. “I don’t want to say anything that sounds like… expectations. Or rules. You know? I’d never want to ask someone to put their life on hold.”
You understood exactly what he wasn’t saying.
“And if I did go back,” he added, quieter now, “I think I’d want to do it differently. I’d want to take someone out properly. No almosts. No maybes.”
The city seemed to hold its breath.
You didn’t think. You didn’t weigh pros and cons or timing or fear. You just felt it, clear, undeniable, terrifyingly simple.
“I get it,” you said softly. Then, meeting his eyes fully, you added, “But I don’t need you to ask.”
He frowned slightly. “Ask what?”
You smiled, nerves buzzing under your skin. “For me to wait.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again, like the words had escaped him.
“I think… somehow… I already am,” you said. And then, with a small laugh that carried more courage than you felt, you repeated it clearer, firmer. “I can wait… a while.”
For a moment, he just stared at you, something raw and unguarded crossing his face.
“You don’t have to,” he said quietly.
“I know,” you replied. “That’s the point.”
The space between you felt different now, not uncertain, not unfinished. Just… chosen.
.
The last days in Paris slipped by too quickly, like the city was gently nudging you toward reality again, reminders tucked into every café visit, every late walk, every lingering look you tried not to overthink.
Your final night, the three of you stayed in. Wine bottles cluttered the counter, leftovers from the restaurant down the street spread across the table, Clara dramatically recounting her week-long “love affair” with accents, eye contact, and men who definitely thought she was mysterious. You laughed more than you had in months, the kind of laughter that left your stomach sore and your chest warm.
You kept catching Harry’s eye across the room. Little shared smiles. Private reactions. The quiet awareness that time was running out.
Later, when Clara disappeared into the guest room to pack, muttering to herself about airline baggage limits and emotional baggage, you and Harry lingered in the kitchen, the apartment dim and hushed. The hum of the fridge, the faint city noise drifting in through the window. Everything else felt suspended.
He stepped closer. Not abruptly, just enough that the air shifted, like the scene had narrowed to the two of you.
You could feel it…this was the moment the universe had been circling around! Every near-miss, every half-sentence, every stolen glance funneling into this exact second…
His hand brushed yours, barely, but it sent a current straight up your arm. You tilted your head up, heart hammering, breath shallow. He leaned in, slower than you expected, giving you time to pull away… but you didn’t.
“GUYS.”
Clara’s voice sliced through the space like a siren.
“I just realized I don’t have room for my shoes and I’m blaming both of you!! This is emotionally devastating!”
You burst out laughing, adrenaline dissolving into something dizzy and bright. Harry dragged a hand down his face with a soft groan. “Unbelievable timing,” he muttered, half amused, half defeated.
The moment scattered…. but the feeling didn’t.
Later, at the door, coats on, the city waiting outside like a held breath, he hugged Clara tightly. Then you.
This time, he didn’t pull away right away.
His arm lingered at your waist. Your forehead nearly brushed his shoulder. For a second, it felt like the rest of the world had politely stepped back again, like maybe the universe was giving you one quieter chance.
Neither of you said anything.
But neither of you let go.
.
One month later, your phone barely left your hand.
Texts turned into voice notes. Voice notes into calls. Calls into video calls that stretched late into the night, time zones dissolving like they’d never mattered.
He started it casually at first…
“Morning, baby,” he said one day, hair messy, still half-asleep.
You froze for half a second, then smiled so hard it hurt.
Soon it was love, slipped into sentences like it had always belonged there. Flower, said softly when you told him about your day. “Because you grow wherever you are,” he explained, like it was obvious.
You talked about everything, childhood memories, fears you hadn’t named out loud before, how familiar this all felt.
“It’s strange,” he said once, voice low through the screen. “Like we’ve done this before.”
You nodded. “Like we just… found each other again.”
“Exactly,” he smiled. “Like a past life finally catching up.”
Paris was still beautiful, he told you. Inspiring. Necessary.
“But,” he admitted one night, eyes serious, “this connection? It feels like destiny. And I don’t think I’m supposed to ignore it.”
Then, one evening, your phone rang unexpectedly.
Harry’s face filled the screen, nervous energy buzzing through him.
“Hey” he said. “I’ve been thinking a lot.”
Your heart started racing. “Okay…”
“I am coming back,” he said, clearly now. “Paris gave me what I needed…but you… this feels like something I’d regret for the rest of my life if I didn’t choose it.”
You gasped, one hand flying to your mouth.
“Harry—”
“I don’t know exactly what it’ll look like,” he continued. “But I know I want to try. Properly. With you.”
You laughed, breathless, eyes already burning.
“I’m so happy!!” you said, voice shaking.
He smiled, wide and bright and certain.
“I know,” he said softly. “That’s why I’m coming home.”
.When he said home, it didn't sound like an address. it didn't sound like a lease, or an apartment key, or even a city. It sounded softer than that. Certain in a way that didn’t need explaining.
.
At first, it scared you a little.
It was fast. Too fast, by every logical standard you’d ever trusted. But every time you tried to slow it down in your head, your heart refused to cooperate. It didn’t feel reckless. It felt… remembered. Like something finally clicking into place after being slightly off for years.
And then suddenly, it was real.
One month later, you stood in the airport arrivals hall, fingers clenched tightly around the stem of a single flower, the balloon tugging gently above your wrist. You hadn’t even been sure why you brought them, maybe because waiting felt unbearable without something to hold onto.
Your stomach flipped with every person who came through the doors. Families reunited. Laughter. Rolling suitcases.
Then you saw him.
Two large suitcases behind him, hair slightly longer, shoulders tense with exhaustion, and then his eyes lifted.
Found you.
The change was instant. He dropped the handles of his bags like they no longer existed and started running, weaving through people, calling your name without caring who heard.
You barely had time to breathe before his arms were around you.
No hello. No pause.
Just him holding you like he’d finally stopped falling.
And then his hands framed your face and he kissed you, right there, in the middle of the airport. Unpolished. Desperate. Real.
The world blurred into noise and motion around you, but all you could feel was him, warm, solid, finally here.
When he pulled back, foreheads touching, he laughed softly, breath shaky.
“Hi” he whispered, like he’d just remembered manners.
You laughed too, tears threatening, flower crushed slightly between you.
“You’re here!” you said.
He smiled, brushing his thumb under your eye.
“I know,” he replied.
You were still a little stunned, nerves buzzing under your skin, smiling like you couldn’t quite believe your own body was standing there. Your hands hovered awkwardly at his sides, like you didn’t yet trust that touching him was real and not something you’d wake up from.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
He leaned in, forehead resting against yours again, voice low and steady “Hey,” he said softly, thumb brushing your cheek. “Breathe.”
You laughed quietly, nodding, eyes still glassy. “Sorry. I just…”
“I know,” he interrupted gently, smiling. Then, a little more certain, like he was saying it to both of you, “Time’s on our side now. No more hiccups. No more almosts.”
You searched his face, looking for doubt.
There wasn’t any.
Just calm. Just choice.
And that was how it started.
Dates that felt intentional but effortless, late dinners where conversation spilled past midnight, walks that ended nowhere because neither of you wanted them to. Long nights curled up on the couch, his fingers absentmindedly tracing your arm while he talked about color and light and ideas that only made sense to him.
And then the painting…
At first, it was casual.
“Sit there,” he’d say. “Just for a second.”
But it kept happening.
Your shoulder. Your hands. The line of your jaw when you weren’t paying attention. He painted you laughing, thinking, half-asleep. Sometimes abstract, sometimes painfully detailed.
“I’m everywhere!” you teased once, looking at his studio.
He shrugged, unapologetic. “I paint what I like.”
You felt things you’d never felt before, not intensity that burned fast, not chaos disguised as passion, but something steady and deep and alive. A kind of love that didn’t ask you to shrink or rush or brace yourself for impact.
With him, you didn’t wonder where you stood.
You stood right there, next to him, choosing and being chosen back.
It felt unreal. It felt earned. It felt like a fairytale.
.
Months later, living together stopped feeling like a decision and started feeling like the default.
Your things blended slowly, his canvases leaning against walls you’d chosen together, your mugs slowly replacing his mismatched ones, toothbrushes side by side like they’d always belonged there. Mornings were sleepy and quiet; nights stretched long, full of conversation, music, and him painting while you sat nearby, legs tucked under you, reading or doing nothing at all.
It felt settled. Not dull, secure.
That afternoon, you were home before him, still in comfortable clothes, moving around the apartment. You heard the door open harder than usual.
“Love?” his voice called out, breathless.
You turned just in time to see him standing there, eyes wide, chest rising fast, jacket still on. He looked undone, not upset, not angry, just overwhelmed.
“What happened?” you asked, immediately concerned.
He dropped his bag by the door and crossed the space between you in three long steps, hands coming up to your face like he needed to anchor himself.
“I sold it,” he said. “The piece. The big one.”
Your eyes widened. “Harry! that’s amazing!!”
“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head, almost laughing. “You don’t understand. It’s… it’s the most I’ve ever sold anything for! By far! It was a lot of money!”
You smiled, pride blooming in your chest. “I’m so proud of you.”
He swallowed, eyes glossy now, thumb brushing your cheek like he was grounding himself.
“And this is not even about the painting…well it is…but…I’ve never felt like this before,” he continued, words tumbling out now. “Not this calm. Not this sure. With you, everything makes sense in a way it never has, when he agreed…i thought about you, I didn't think about the money, I thought about our future.”
He took a shaky breath, then dropped to one knee right there on the living room floor, between the couch and the coffee table you’d picked out together.
Your breath caught.
“I know it hasn’t been years and years, but somehow it has…we met a long time ago and i always felt something and now i know you did too…” he said, voice steady despite the emotion shaking through him. “But it’s been enough. Enough to know that this is different. That you’re different.”
“I don’t have a ring…yet. Cause I need to do this now!...Y/n I don’t want to imagine my life without you in it,” he said. “I don’t want to paint a future you’re not part of.”
Your eyes filled before you could stop them.
“So,” he said softly, looking up at you like the answer already lived there, “will you marry me?”
The world narrowed to that moment, to him, kneeling, hopeful and vulnerable and completely certain.
You didn’t hesitate.
“Yes!” you said, voice breaking as you laughed through tears. “Yes! Of course I will!”
He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years, standing quickly to pull you into his arms, pressing his forehead to yours, laughing, overwhelmed, home. And just like that, after one year and some months of feeling more than you ever had before, you both knew.
This was it.
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