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i had so many ideas for fics so I decided to make an account harry styles stan // she/her

[makeyuomine]

⭐️ masterlist ⭐️

this is an ongoing masterlist of my work. will be updated periodically or as new work is posted.

SERIES

higher education

BLURBS/ONE SHOTS

tonight

the graduate

night out

everybody's lover

wedding night

tight

housewife

"tell me you hate me"

the paramedic

[makeyuomine]

higher education // harry styles

PARTNERS.

Summary: A moment of distraction in class leads to (Y/N) being paired with Harry for the upcoming midterm.

Word Count: ~2,400

Links below:

higher education master list

main master list

Tag List: @sassamanda77 @sstylezzz

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I was well into the semester by now, only a few weeks removed from orientation. Classes were surprisingly manageable, and—much to my own shock—I genuinely enjoyed my lectures. The people in my cohort were easy to be around, curious and driven in a way that felt refreshing rather than competitive. Everyone brought something different to the table, and being surrounded by so many thoughtful, motivated minds made the long days feel purposeful. For the first time, it felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

Harry had quickly proven himself to be incredibly intelligent. In every class we shared—which, it seemed, was most of them—he spoke with an ease that made it clear he wasn’t just keeping up, but genuinely thriving. He was well-versed in every discussion, effortlessly weaving in theory, research, and lived experience in a way that elevated the conversation rather than dominated it.

It was obvious he came from a solid educational and professional background. He spoke like someone who had already been in the field, who had seen the concepts we were learning play out in real life. He pulled more from the assigned readings than I ever did, making points I hadn’t considered, drawing connections I had completely missed. Each time he spoke, I found myself scribbling notes I hadn’t planned on taking.

I would be lying if I said it wasn’t a little intimidating. Not in a sharp, discouraging way—but in the quiet, self-aware sense that came from knowing we had arrived here from very different places. I had only just left undergrad, still finding my footing, with little more than academic ambition and hope to my name. Harry, on the other hand, carried himself like someone who already belonged here.

I watched him speak for what felt like the one millionth time today. He sat in the row directly ahead of me, off to the left side of the room, his chair angled toward the lecture podium. The position looked unconscious, like he’d settled into it without thinking, but it made him impossible to ignore.

He leaned back slightly as he talked, one arm resting along the back of his chair, the other gesturing only when necessary. There was something effortlessly masculine in the way he occupied the space…broad shoulders relaxed, posture open, completely at ease. His voice carried without effort, calm and steady, and when he paused to consider a point, his jaw would tighten just briefly before he continued. I watched him speak for what felt like the one millionth time today. He sat in the row directly ahead of me on the left side of class. His chair was positioned to the side in the direction of the lecture podium.

He talked somewhat slow, but still quick to deliver his point. The definition of his jawline becoming more prominent as he spoke. I watched as his hands moved as he elaborated on his words before setting on his lap as he now sat forward.

He spoke at an unhurried pace, measured but never dragging, each word deliberate as if he already knew it would land. There was an ease to it—a confidence that didn’t rush itself. As he talked, the line of his jaw sharpened, flexing subtly with each sentence, the muscle working beneath his skin in a way that made my attention snag without warning.

His hands moved when he elaborated, not excessively, just enough to underline his point. Long fingers, purposeful, cutting through the air before settling briefly against his notebook. When he finished speaking, he leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, hands coming together loosely in his lap. The shift in posture felt intimate somehow.

I was battling with myself internally. I couldn’t deny my utter attraction for Harry. Following the night of orientation, my interactions with Harry had been rather limited, by choice. Now was not the time to get distracted, especially by a mundane school crush. Somewhere I’ve been through countless times throughout my academic career.

I was battling with myself in a way that felt both familiar and frustrating. I couldn’t deny my attraction to Harry—pretending otherwise would’ve been pointless—but I also knew myself well enough to recognize the danger in letting it linger. Long ago, I had learned to be quiet with feelings like this, to let them bloom privately and go unspoken. I hadn’t come this far to lose focus now. My degree was the goal. Everything else was noise.

Since orientation night, I’d kept my interactions with him deliberately (hesitantly) minimal. A polite nod in passing. A brief smile if our eyes happened to meet. I never really lingered after class when he did, never really joined the conversations he seemed to effortlessly fall into. But this wasn’t about believing anything could happen between us, it was my way of protecting the discipline I’d fought so hard to build.

I’d been down this road before, distracted by crushes that lived entirely in my head, quietly siphoning my attention away from what mattered. I refused to let that happen again. This wasn’t high school or undergrad. This wasn’t a phase. This was my future.

And yet, with him sitting directly in front of me, the temptation felt constant. Immediate.

He was well within reach, close enough to observe without permission, close enough to test my resolve every time I told myself to look back down at my notes and not at him.

I tried to redirect my attention to my own screen, but my eyes betrayed me, drifting forward again—always back to him.

I’d begun to notice the smallest things, details I hadn’t meant to catalog but somehow had. The way he took notes, for one. He didn’t type frantically like everyone else, trying to capture every word off the lecture slides. His notes were short, concise…only noting what he thought was useful. Microsoft Word glowed faintly on his laptop screen, not Google Docs like the majority of the class.

Harry shifted in his seat again, rolling his shoulders back as if easing tension, then reaches up—slow, absentminded—and dragged his hand through his hair. His fingers sink in, combing through the thick strands before tugging lightly at the back of his head as he exhales through his nose.

Something in me snaps.

Heat floods my body all at once, sharp and undeniable, pooling low in my stomach. My breath stutters, and I still myself, terrified someone might notice the way my posture changes, the way my thighs press together without permission.

I force myself to look away.

But then leaned forward after, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them. Head bowed just enough that his lashes cast faint shadows against his cheeks as he listens. It’s intimate in a way it shouldn’t be—too quiet, too unguarded. Like I’m seeing him in a moment meant for someone else.

I wanted to touch him so badly.

The thought hit me fully, raw and urgent, as if my body had been holding it back all class and finally decided it couldn’t wait.

My mind wandered where it shouldn’t.

His hands lingered in my mind, wholly his, intimate and consuming. Long, strong fingers that could trace me slowly, exploring, gentle at first, learning every curve and contour. The thought alone made heat coil low in my stomach, a shiver threading up my spine, and my pulse spiked in a way I couldn’t control.

Beneath that softness, I pictured the firmness, the strength, the steady, confident heat of his hold. Every imagined movement made it impossible to look away, impossible to focus on anything else. His hands could easily cup me, press against me, cover my mouth if he wanted me quiet, tease and mark me in ways that made my breath hitch.

I could feel my thighs tighten, my skin ignite with the weight of the fantasy, my chest aching with the thought of him so close.

His hands would be large enough to cup me without effort, strong enough to cover my mouth if he wanted to keep me quiet, to grip my throat as his palm traced and teased. I pictured them marking me, claiming me with greed, leaving no doubt that I was his—hands skilled, confident, and certain. Almost certainly experienced enough to—

“(Y/N), your thoughts on the matter?”

My body felt ice cold from head to toe, a lingering shock from the fantasy that still hummed beneath my skin, even as my cheeks flared impossibly hot, betraying me completely in the middle of class.

“Y/N?” The professor’s voice cut through the fog in my brain, sharp and expectant.

I blinked, scrambling to orient myself, to remember what was happening—or what question had just been asked. My mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. Words hovered on the edge of my tongue, but none of them made sense. My chest tightened, and my hands rested uselessly on my notebook, as if touching it might magically summon the right answer.

“I, uh…”

Harry’s head turned ever so slightly, catching my gaze.

Then, without hesitation, he spoke. “I can take this one,” he said evenly, his voice directed toward the professor, though his eyes stayed on me.

The professor raised an eyebrow, surprised for a moment, then nodded. “Go ahead, Harry.”

Relief swept through me, sudden and disorienting, though the embarrassment stayed put. By the time he finished, the professor had moved on to the next student. Harry’s gaze flicked to me then, as if he were telling me something telepathically. Just a brief, assessing glance, as if he were clocking something slightly out of place.

Still grateful, still flustered, I offered him a small, timid smile, hoping it would say thank you clearly enough. He didn’t smile back, but he didn’t look away right away either.

The lecture wrapped itself around logistics again—this time, the midterm project. Not an exam after all, but a paired assignment, worth thirty percent of our final grade. Partners weren’t assigned. We were expected to choose. A low murmur spread through the room at that, chairs shifting as people instinctively glanced around, already calculating who would be competent, who would be convenient. I wrote the details down carefully, forcing my attention to stay put.

When class finally ended, the scrape of chairs and the rush of movement broke the tension. I stood before I could talk myself out of it and stepped into the aisle beside him. He was packing up slowly.

“Don’t worry about it,” he murmured. “Just be good and listen, yeah?”

The quiet authority in his tone was calm, almost innocent, but it carried something firm beneath it . The words landed like a correction.

I nodded before I meant to, my voice failing me as a stammered. The motion itself surprising me..my body seemingly reacting before my mind could catch up.

His expression hinted at quiet amusement at my flustered state, the kind of restrained smile that made him seem all the more in control.

His gaze settled on me, and I felt the weight of it in a way that made my pulse spike. Then he spoke again, pulling me back from my embarrassment, which only the two of us seemed to notice.

“About the project,” he said casually as he slid his laptop into his bag. Harry leaned just slightly closer. His voice lowered, reserved just for me. “You should partner with someone you trust to keep up.”

I searched his face for clarification, for the punchline, but there wasn’t one. Just quiet certainty. Like he was expecting me to understand what he meant.

“I—” My voice failing me again, thinning out before I could recover it. He waited, unhurried, like he knew I’d get there on my own.

“We’d work well together,” he said simply, eyes steady on mine.

I blinked, baffled. Us? My mind immediately raced through every possible reason why that made no sense. He was sharp, confident, seasoned—so far ahead of me in every discussion, every idea, every instinct. How could I possibly keep up?

“Oh,” I squeaked, clearly not expecting to even be considered as his partner.

“You’re… sure?” I asked, voice small, hesitant, as I fumbled to find the words. “I mean… I don’t know if I’d—if I could really—You’re so far ahead of me, and, well… I’m not sure I’d be a suitable partner. Someone else, someone more experienced… someone who actually knows what they’re doing—”

I kept going, rambling more than I intended, heat rising, cheeks burning, as I explained why pairing with me made no sense.

“I’m sure,” he interjects gently, like it wasn’t something up for debate. He held my gaze, expression calm, assured.

The certainty in his voice made my breath catch. Not because he was loud or forceful, but because he wasn’t. He stood there, completely settled in his decision, giving me nowhere to push back without feeling like I’d be the one overcomplicating it.

“Oh,” I murmured, “Okay.”

My head dipped in a small nod before managing a more certain one, my gaze dropping to the floor as warmth crept up my neck.

His mouth curved, satisfied but restrained, as if he’d known the answer all along.

He extended his hand, casual enough that it took me a second to register the gesture. A handshake. Professional. Normal.

I hesitated before taking it, my fingers sliding into his palm, and then I inhaled sharply as his grip closed around mine. He used the motion to draw me just a fraction closer, the shift subtle but unmistakable.

“Let’s get together soon,” he murmured, voice low, meant only for me.

The words brushed against my ear, intimate in a way that had nothing to do with proximity and everything to do with intent. Before I could respond, his thumb pressed something small into my palm as he released me, his hand gone as quickly as it had claimed mine.

And then he was already stepping away, leaving me rooted in place, heart racing, fingers curled around whatever he’d slipped to me.

I looked down only after he disappeared into the hall.

A folded note.

Inside was what I presumed to be his phone number, and beneath it, a short line that made my stomach flip.

Partners should stay in touch. Call me. We’ll make it work.

I stood there for a moment longer than necessary, the note still warm in my hand, wondering how he’d managed to plan three steps ahead without ever letting me see him do it.

[makeyuomine]

higher education au // h.s.

ORIENTATION DAY.

Summary: (Y/N) and Harry meet at the orientation of their grad program.

Word Count: ~3,000

Author's Note: Happy 2026! Starting the new year a bit inspired after a few months of well, none of it. Let me know what you guys think of this!

Links below:

higher education master list

main master list

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Panic. Just internal panic.

Of course I was running late; I was late for everything. And today, of all days, was orientation for my graduate program. I’d finally bit the bullet and applied, fully expecting rejection letters and polite thank-yous for my interest. Instead, I’d been accepted into every single program I applied to, a fact that still felt unreal.

I zoomed in on the faculty email pulled up on my phone, fingers pinching and dragging across the campus map as I tried to orient myself on what felt like an impossibly massive university. Thankfully, the parking structure I’d chosen was close—closer than I deserved, honestly— and when I emerged, slightly out of breath, I could already see the check-in table ahead. It was draped in a crisp tablecloth stamped with the university’s logo and department name.

My hand trembled as I wrote my name and information on the check-in sheet, the letters coming out slightly sloppy despite my effort to steady them, and the faint shake lingered as I smiled at the woman assisting and reached for the name tag she already had laid out for me.

The last one.

“Thank you,” I said, the words soft, almost swallowed by my nerves.

She smiled kindly, but my attention had already shifted past her, up toward the large room ahead. The entire building was made of glass, all clean lines and transparency, which meant I could see exactly how full the room already was. Rows of seats, nearly all occupied.

My stomach dropped.

The only entrance was at the front.

I was going to be that person.

Heat crept up my neck as I imagined every head turning, the interruption obvious and unavoidable. I took a quick breath in, then out, before opening the door and stepping inside.

I avoided eye contact instinctively, scanning the room for an empty seat as quickly and discreetly as possible. Seconds stretched longer than they should have, my heart pounding loud enough that I was convinced someone could hear it.

Then, relief.

An empty chair, tucked near the center aisle. The rows were spaced wide enough that I didn’t need anyone to stand, didn’t need to murmur apologies as I passed. I slid into the seat, shoulders relaxing for the first time since I’d parked the car.

My pulse still raced—from the rushed walk, the internal spiral, the brief but unforgettable embarrassment—but I forced myself to focus as orientation continued.

I’d arrived just in time for the faculty and staff introductions, having missed the portion where students introduced themselves. Curriculum requirements followed. Expectations. Study abroad opportunities. A light lunch was provided. Then, finally, a tour of the university, or at least the portion of campus our department occupied.

We gathered in the quad just outside the classroom, waiting as our tour guides—incoming second-years—debated routes and landmarks. It didn’t take long to realize just how expansive the campus truly was.

I looked around in quiet awe as trees swayed overhead, their leaves whispering in the breeze. Buildings stood in striking contrast to one another, historic stone beside sharp, modern glass. People pointed out random facts as we walked, bits of institutional lore passed down like secrets.

Eventually, the group came to a stop in the center of the plaza that housed the libraries.

We began to reassemble into a loose half circle, bodies shifting as our guides stepped forward to speak. I adjusted my stance, folding my arms loosely, gaze drifting without much thought as I took a small step back.

And promptly bumped into someone.

I stumbled slightly, the surprise stealing my balance for half a second...and then hands were on me. One settled at the small of my back, firm and steady, while the other caught my forearm with careful precision, grounding me before I could fully falter.

“Hey—I’ve got you,” he said softly.

I looked up.

And found myself face-to-face with the most handsome man I had ever seen.

The realization hit all at once, sharp and disorienting. He wasn’t just handsome; he was here. In the same program. Which meant he’d likely seen me slip in late, flustered and breathless, trying not to draw attention to myself. The thought sent a wave of heat through me, equal parts mortifying and unsettling.

The moment stretched, suspended between us longer than it should have.

His hands were still on me— steady, grounding —as his gaze moved over my face, unhurried and attentive, like he was taking me in properly now that he had the chance. He didn’t look surprised. If anything, he looked… pleased. His expression softened, lips curving into a small, easy smile—not practiced, not performative—as if he were genuinely glad I’d quite literally stumbled into him.

It sent a quiet flutter through my chest, unexpected and inconvenient in the most distracting way.

His hands didn’t leave me all at once.

First, his grip on my forearm loosened, fingers sliding away with careful restraint. Then his hand at the small of my back lingered for just a second longer than necessary, steady and grounding, intentional, like he wanted to be sure I was balanced before letting me go, before stepping back and giving me space.

I smiled back at him before breaking eye contact, turning to take my place in the half circle as if nothing had happened, as if my pulse had not quickened, as if his hands had not just memorized the shape of me.

But now, painfully aware of his presence, I found it impossible not to glance in his direction as the tour continued.

He listened intently as our peers spoke, attention focused and thoughtful, like he was actually absorbing every word. His eyes were the kind of green that caught the light without trying, striking but warm. Short curls, almost waves, sat perfectly tousled, as if he hadn’t bothered to tame them and they’d fallen into place anyway.

A light blue button-up, sleeves casually rolled. Black pants. Worn-in black Vans that told me he walked everywhere. The faintest glimpse of tattoos slipped out from beneath his cuffs when he shifted, just enough to suggest there was more beneath the surface. A black crossbody bag rested easily against his frame, sunglasses tucked away.

He looked effortlessly put together. Like he hadn’t tried at all, and that was exactly the point.

I was mesmerized. Not just by how he looked, but by the quiet gravity of him. The kind of presence that didn’t demand attention, yet seemed to collect it anyway.

As if he could feel my attention shift, our eyes found each other again. And again. Each time a fraction longer than the last, enough to make my breath catch, enough to make me wonder if he was aware of exactly what he was doing.

Sometimes he held my gaze without blinking, calm and unhurried, like distance didn’t exist at all. Like he was learning me from across the space, storing the details away quietly.

Then, without urgency or apology, he would look away and refocus on the tour.

The restraint almost felt deliberate.

The tour didn’t last much longer, eventually ending at the student center designated for our department. The energy shifted as we spilled into the open space, conversation loosening as excitement and nerves intertwined. Phones came out when someone suggested starting a group chat for questions, reminders, and resources.

As everyone clustered in small groups to add to each other, I found myself drifting toward a few peers who seemed easy to talk to, their laughter and easy camaraderie pulling me in. Across the room, Harry had naturally fallen into a different group of similar size, his presence commanding their attention without effort.

Some time passed. As the groups settled and students began drifting toward the exits, I leaned into my small cluster, trying to follow along with the conversation. Then he walked in, and the room seemed to shift. My group fell silent almost instinctively as he approached, everyone’s attention drawn to him before he even spoke.

He stopped at the edge of our cluster, letting his gaze sweep over the students with quiet authority. “Hey,” he said, voice calm and easy. “I’m Harry.” He extended his hand to the first person in our group, shaking it with a firm, controlled grip, his eyes meeting theirs briefly.

One by one, he moved down the line, shaking hands with each of us, confident but careful. I watched, heart skipping, and suddenly felt a pang of confusion when he walked past me. Did he just skip me on purpose? The thought hit harder than it should, my chest tightening as I straightened instinctively, trying not to show it.

And then he turned back. He shook my hand last.

His gaze held mine for a moment before he began to speak.

“Me and the guys are heading to the Pub not far from campus,” he said smoothly, letting his eyes sweep over the group.

“Thought some of you might want to come along.”

And then he looked at me. Just for a moment, but long enough.

The group murmured excitedly, a few people nodding toward the idea of heading to the bar. Conversations started to pick up again, laughter bubbling under the surface, and then all eyes seemed to shift toward me.

i froze, slightly confused. Everyone was waiting for my answer.

“Um…” I murmured, my gaze flicking up toward him. His eyes found mine immediately. Expectant, yet not demanding.

One of the students in my small cluster leaned toward me with an encouraging smile. “Come on, you should totally go,” she said lightly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Harry’s voice followed before I could even respond. “Yeah, go,” he said quietly, his gaze still locked on mine.

I hesitated for only a moment longer, then let a small smile slip through. “Okay,” I said, and suddenly the tension seemed to ease as everyone gathered their things.

We moved out together, the energy light and buzzing, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that Harry’s eyes were still on me as we walked to the Pub.

♡ ♡

The bar smelled of polished wood and hops, music low enough that conversation could flow without shouting. I found myself laughing along with the group I had clustered around, feeling lighter than I had in weeks. People were starting to loosen up, some leaning against the bar, others perched on high stools, drinks in hand. A few were from out of state, trading stories about why they had ended up here; others worked full-time and were juggling classes at night, and a couple were attempting complete career changes that left the rest of us wide-eyed in admiration.

When someone asked how long I’d been out of school, I hesitated for a second, then shrugged with a smile. “About a year since I graduated,” I said. “I took some time to work, figure out what I really wanted, and then finally decided to apply and start school again.” The group responded with nods and friendly smiles, and I found myself genuinely enjoying the exchange, laughing at stories and sharing a bit about my ambitions.

I was flushed from the drinks, warm and slightly buzzed, but perfectly stable. And then I noticed him.

Harry stood a few feet away, a glass of beer in hand, talking to a small circle of students with that same calm confidence he carried on campus. He was easy to watch, solid, attentive, yet somehow casually magnetic. It was in the way he tilted his head when someone spoke, the slight nods of encouragement, the small, almost imperceptible gestures that made it obvious he wasn’t just listening, he was engaging.

Over the course of the night, I learned a little more about him without ever actually speaking to him. He was thirty, already working full-time in the field, with an established career that most of us could only dream of. The decision to pursue the degree now wasn’t out of necessity but intention, and he had reasons that spoke to ambition, to growth, and to challenges he wanted to tackle despite already being successful. He didn’t just have charm; he had competence.

The night continued with laughter, clinking glasses, and shared stories. No awkward moments, no interruptions—just the easy rhythm of a group finding its footing, people bonding over a shared curiosity about the program, about their lives, and about what had led them there. Time slipped by until I finally glanced at my phone and realized how late it had gotten.

“I left my car back on campus. I should probably head out.”

A few heads turned toward me, then a chorus of agreement followed. “Wait, me too!” one student said. “I completely forgot about my car.” “Same,” another chimed in, and before long, everyone was laughing at how they’d all lost track of time.

Harry leaned back in his chair briefly, then nodded. “I’ll be walking back too,” he said, grabbing his jacket.

♡ ♡

Outside, the night air was cool, carrying the distant hum of traffic and the easy chatter of students heading in the same direction. The group stretched out as we walked, conversations overlapping, laughter drifting in and out as people fell into loose clusters.

I had drifted a few steps ahead of the others without realizing it, close enough to still hear the overlapping conversations behind me, but walking on my own all the same. At some point, Harry ended up beside me.

I didn’t think much of it. We were all headed the same way, after all. Still, he stayed there, matching my pace without seeming to try, hands relaxed at his sides. I kept my attention forward, listening to the voices around us, though I couldn't help but feel him there in that quiet, peripheral way you feel someone standing close.

We walked like that for a moment, not speaking. When someone behind us laughed loudly, Harry glanced over his shoulder briefly, then subtly adjusted his path so he was closer to the curb, leaving me the inside of the sidewalk. I noticed, vaguely.

The sidewalk narrowed as we approached the crosswalk, forcing the group to compress. Someone bumped into me from behind, not hard, just enough to throw off my step for half a second. Before I could correct it myself, Harry slowed, his hand lifting slightly between us, hovering near my back without touching. I steadied on my own, and his hand dropped just as quickly, like it had never been there at all.

“Sorry,” someone muttered behind us, already moving on.

“It’s alright,” I said, more reflex than thought.

Harry glanced at me then, brief and assessing, as if confirming I was fine, before his attention shifted back to the streetlight ahead. When the signal changed, he stepped forward first, not pulling me along, not reaching for me, just positioning himself a pace ahead as we crossed. His presence formed a quiet barrier between me and the oncoming traffic.

On the other side, the group spread out again. Without comment, Harry matched my pace once more, close but never crowding, the space between us measured and deliberate. He asked me an easy question about one of the classes we’d mentioned earlier, his tone casual, like the walk hadn’t required any thought at all.

By the time we reached the parking structure, I was flushed. Part from the walk, part from the alcohol, part from the lingering awareness of Harry beside me.

The stairwell echoed as we started up, footsteps and laughter bouncing off the concrete. I was halfway up the first flight when my foot caught slightly on the edge of a step. Nothing dramatic, just enough to wobble.

“Careful,” Harry said, amusement lacing his voice. “That’s what happens after three moscows.”

Three. He was right. We’d spent most of the night in different pockets of conversation, crossing paths only in passing. I hadn’t thought anyone would been keeping track, especially him.

Still, I said nothing.

By the time we reached the next level, the group began to splinter off, keys beeping as people peeled away to different floors. One by one, they called out goodbyes and disappeared, until it was just the two of us stepping onto the same level.

My car sat, a white sedan tucked into the space near the center aisle.

Directly across from it was the car I took to be his, confirmed a moment later when it chirped to life at the press of the key in his hand. A black SUV was parked perfectly aligned with mine. Same aisle. Same row.

I started to turn to say goodbye, but when my gaze found his, he was already looking at me. For a heartbeat, his easy, confident composure faltered ever so slightly, just enough to catch me off guard. He cleared his throat and, as if on cue, shifted smoothly, asking, “You alright to drive?” His tone stayed casual, but his eyes never left mine.

I nodded, returning a knowing smile. “Yeah. I’m good. I sobered up on the walk.”

He studied me for a moment, deliberate and quiet, before giving a single, satisfied nod. “Good. Would’ve offered to wait with you—or drive you home otherwise,” he added softly.

I smiled widely at that, a flush rising in my chest. “Thanks,” I said, genuinely, before waving and walking to my car.

I settled into the driver’s seat, shutting the door with a quiet click, and took a moment to set up my map, scrolling through playlists until one felt right and waiting for the engine to warm.

When I glanced up, Harry was still in his car, phone in hand, the glow from the screen lighting his face in the dim interior.

I put the car in gear and pulled out slowly. A few seconds later his SUV followed, keeping a comfortable distance as we descended the ramps together.

As we reached the ground floor, he slowed for a fraction, giving me the space to pull ahead. Just before turning away, he lowered his window and gestured toward mine. I rolled it down a little, curious, and he leaned slightly, voice low and smooth, carrying a weight that made my chest flutter without me even realizing why.

“I’ll see you in class,” he said over the small space between us.

I nodded, smiling politely. He gave nothing more than a small, deliberate glance, but the air between us felt charged, unspoken, leaving something behind that lingered long after our paths diverged.

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Let me know what you thinkkkkkkk!

[makeyuomine]

higher education // harry styles

In this alternate universe, Harry Styles and (Y/N) are graduate students navigating ambition, discipline, and the quiet gravity of wanting someone at exactly the wrong time. Told through a collection of interconnected one-shots that jump through moments, memories, and missed chances, this mini-series explores restrained desire, soft dominance, and the slow burn of two people who choose patience over impulse, even as the tension between them becomes impossible to ignore.

masterlist

orientation day

partners

[makeyuomine]

the paramedic

Summary: You and your friend partied a little too hard, your friend more so. When things take a turn and the paramedics arrive, that’s when you see a calm, focused paramedic who immediately catches your eye.

Type: Blurb

Photo Credit: Pinterest

Author’s Note:

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Rebecca and I may have gone a little overboard at the party. We dared each other to take a shot every time a Pitbull song came on—Rebecca’s idea.

We hit five songs before one of us had to tap out. Rebecca didn’t. She was the life of the party, still going strong. But the mix of different liquors and nonstop dancing eventually caught up with her. It became clear she was showing signs of alcohol poisoning.

Drunk myself, I’m caught off guard by how quickly things turn serious.

“Call 911. Call 911,” I mutter under my breath.

The paramedics arrive within minutes.

While one checks on Rebecca, the other starts asking me questions.

“What is your name? What is your relationship to the patient?”

“How much has she had to drink?” “Did she eat or drink anything else recently?”

As he explains that Rebecca needs to be taken to the hospital for a full evaluation and treatment, I finally take a good look at him.

He’s stunning.

Tall. Green eyes. Curly brown hair. Tattoos. A deep voice. And a perfect smile.

Those were all the things I noticed as he spoke to me about Rebecca.

He mentioned the hospital we’d be going to, but I completely missed it—I was too distracted, watching his hands as he talked. Everything about him radiated this quiet, rugged confidence. It was incredibly attractive.

“You’re beautiful,” I blurted.

He paused mid-sentence, his eyes widening just slightly.

Heat rushed to my face. Being drunk always came with a sudden burst of courage I couldn’t quite control.

“Sorry—I didn’t mean to say that out loud—”

“That’s alright,” he said, unfazed, then smoothly picked up where he’d left off, explaining Rebecca’s next steps.

Even that was sexy. Unshaken. Calm. Professional. So grown. So sexy. Mature.

“Harry! I’ll ride in the back with her—her friend can sit up front.”

Harry nods and walks over to the passenger side of the ambulance. Without missing a beat, he opens the door and steps aside, gesturing for me to climb in.

I blink, surprised. I hadn’t expected that.

The ambulance is higher off the ground than I thought, but Harry quickly offers his hand to help me up. I take it without hesitation.

Once I’m in, he makes sure I’m buckled in properly, then checks in with his partner.

“All good?” he asks. With a nod from the back, he says, “Alright, let’s roll.”

It was mesmerizing to watch how traffic responded to the ambulance—cars effortlessly pulling aside as we flew through the streets.

I glanced to my left at Harry. The flashing red and blue lights danced across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw. His focus was intense, eyes locked on the road ahead.

“Come on, move,” he muttered, voice low, almost to himself.

He looked so effortlessly masculine—like he was built for this. Every inch of me ached for him.

In the quiet, I finally spoke. “Is Rebecca going to be okay?”

“I think so,” he said. “We see this kind of thing a lot. She’ll just need to rest and take it easy for a while.”

I didn’t want to feel relieved just yet. Not until Rebecca was out of the hospital.

Meanwhile, Harry being outrageously attractive was just… a lot to process.

“Did you call the ambulance?” he asked.

“I did. Yeah.”

“In your drunken state? That’s impressive,” he chuckled softly.

The buzz I had earlier was long gone. Between the shock of Rebecca’s condition, the adrenaline of the ride, and the fact that I was sitting next to a stupidly handsome paramedic I desperately wanted to climb like a tree—it all sobered me up fast.

A few more minutes passed before we pulled up to the nearest hospital. Harry’s partner jumped out, relaying Rebecca’s vitals and details to the ER staff.

Since I couldn’t go with her, I was left at the entrance, watching her disappear behind the sliding doors.

“Did anyone check you out?” Harry asked, turning to me.

“N-No?” I stammered, caught off guard again.

“Take a seat,” he said, motioning to a nearby chair.

I sat, and he knelt slightly to begin a quick assessment. As he leaned in to check my vision and take my pulse, a shiver ran through me. I could hear his steady breath—each inhale and exhale—and smell his clean, faintly spicy cologne.

His lashes were long, too.

He was absolutely, unfairly perfect.

His fingers lingered a second longer than necessary against the inside of my wrist as he checked my pulse. He cleared his throat and glanced down at his watch, jaw tightening like he was trying to shake something off.

“Pulse is elevated,” he murmured. I swallowed. “I wonder why.”

His eyes flicked up to meet mine—sharp, intense, electric. For a moment, neither of us said anything. The weight of the silence was suffocating, but not in a bad way. In the kind that makes your skin prickle and your stomach twist into heat.

He straightened, stepping back like he needed distance to breathe. “You’re okay. No signs of dehydration or shock, but I’d still take it easy.”

I nodded, even though I wasn’t listening to a word. My eyes were on the way his forearms flexed as he adjusted his gloves. Veins visible. Tattoos peeking beneath the edge of his sleeve. It was maddening.

“You’re very... attentive,” I said, unable to stop myself.

“I’m just doing my job,” he said, but his voice had that edge again—low and tight, like he was holding something back.

I stood slowly, trying to find my balance, but when I did, I was closer to him than I meant to be. Inches away. I could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, the slight parting of his lips as his breath caught.

He didn’t move. Neither did I.

We held each other’s gaze for a few seconds, neither one of us speaking. Something settled in the quiet—a kind of charged stillness. Not quite flirtation, not quite professional. Just… something.

Then, almost like he needed to break the moment, his eyes flicked toward the ambulance. “Wait here,” he said, voice lower now. Rougher.

He turned abruptly and headed back toward the ambulance. I watched him, confused at first, until he reached into the front seat and came back with a spare bottle of water.

When he returned, he pressed it into my hand—not roughly, but firmly. Like he didn’t trust himself to linger.

“Drink it,” he said.

I nodded, taking it from him, the plastic cool against my fingers.

“Thanks,” I said, my voice quieter than before.

He gave a small nod, but his eyes lingered on me just a second longer than necessary before glancing away.

I hadn’t expected him to stay.

After checking me over, I thought Harry would head out—back to the rig, back to his job, back to a life that had nothing to do with mine. But instead, he sat in one of the uncomfortable ER waiting room chairs across from me, his jacket shrugged off and resting on the seat beside him.

“I thought you’d be gone by now,” I said after a few minutes of quiet, eyes flicking toward him.

He looked up from his phone and gave a small shrug. “Shift’s pretty much over anyway. Figured I’d wait until there’s an update.”

"What about your partner?" I suddenly remembered.

"Clocked out the second medical staff took Rebecca. Left me the vehicle,"

Oh.

I didn’t know what to say to that. It was a kind gesture for him to stay, but it was not something I was used to. Especially not from someone who didn’t know me, who had no real reason to stay.

“Thanks,” I said finally, tucking my knees up in the chair. “You didn’t have to.”

“Yeah,” he replied, voice casual, “but it felt weird just leaving.”

We sat in companionable silence for a while after that. The waiting room was a blend of fluorescent lighting, low murmurs, and the occasional overhead announcement. I hadn’t realized how tired I was until I started to come down from the adrenaline.

I sat back in the stiff chair, exhaustion pulling at my eyelids heavier than I expected. Before I knew it, sleep was creeping in.

I felt the chair shift beside me, a warmth settling over my shoulders. I blinked open my eyes to find Harry draping his paramedic jacket over me.

The fabric was cool at first, then softened, wrapping around me like a shield. My short black dress left me exposed to the chill of the sterile room, but the jacket covered me comfortably—warm and just loose enough to keep me modest.

I looked up at him, still half-drowsy. He caught my gaze and offered a quiet, reassuring smile before settling back into his seat.

Eventually, a physician assistant came out and called for Rebecca's party.

Harry walks alongside me as we head to meet the physician assistant.

“She’s stable,” she said, smiling gently.

I glanced over at Harry as he stood next to me in relief, but his full attention was fixed on the physician assistant. His expression was serious, eyes narrowing slightly as he absorbed every word. There was something quietly reassuring about the way he listened—focused and calm—like he was ready to step in if needed.

“Granted, she is still a little out of it, but she’s doing okay. We’re going to keep her overnight for observation just to be safe.”

Rebecca was going to be okay.

When the physician assistant left, I turned to Harry. “So... I guess that’s it. She’s staying overnight.” I paused, the weight of logistics slowly settling in. “And I have no ride home.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t come in your own car?”

“No, we Ubered to the party... and, well, clearly didn’t think the night would end here.” I looked around the room, trying to figure out what my next step even was.

Harry stood up and stretched a little. “I’ve gotta bring the ambulance back to the station anyway, grab my car from the lot—it’s only a few blocks from here.”

I looked at him, surprised again. “Are you saying you’ll drop me off?”

“If you want,” he said with a small, easy grin. “I don’t mind.”

There was a brief moment where I hesitated, not because I didn’t trust him, but because I did.

I nodded. “Yeah... yeah, okay. Thanks. That’d help a lot.”

He picked up his jacket and gestured for me to follow. “Let’s get out of here.”

Outside the hospital, the night air was cool, a gentle contrast to the stale fluorescent lights inside. We made the short walk to the ambulance, and he opened the door for me, just like before.

“Hop in,” he said softly, holding the door wide.

I smiled, grateful for the familiar gesture. The ambulance was still higher than I recalled, but he was quick to offer his hand again, steady and sure.

Once I was settled inside, Harry leaned over and clicked my seatbelt into place. The small motion felt intimate in a way words couldn’t capture.

“All set?” he asked, his eyes meeting mine.

I nodded.

We pulled away from the hospital and drove the few blocks to the ambulance station. Harry parked and grabbed the keys, then led me toward his car—a large black SUV waiting in the lot.

As he started the engine and pulled away, I couldn’t help but notice the ease with which he handled the wheel—steady, confident.

The city lights blurred past as we drove through the quiet streets, the silence between us comfortable but charged, filled with everything neither of us had said yet.

We pulled up to my apartment complex, the familiar building coming into view under the soft glow of the streetlights. Harry stopped the engine, and the quiet hum of the city settled around us.

I turned to him, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Thanks for the ride.. and for staying with me tonight.”

He met my gaze, his eyes steady and unreadable for a moment. Then, just as I was about to open the door, he reached out and gently took my hand.

I froze, surprised by the sudden contact.

His eyes searched mine, like he was weighing something heavy in his mind.

Before I could say anything, he leaned in and kissed me.

The kiss was slow, deliberate—nothing rushed. At first, I was caught off guard, but then I melted into it, the tension between us finally unraveling.

When we pulled apart, his breath was warm against my skin, and his eyes were dark with something unspoken.

“I’ve wanted to do that all night,” he said quietly.

I smiled, heart pounding. “Me too.”

“I’d like to see you again,” he said.

My heart skipped. “I’d like that.”

Without breaking eye contact, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, going to the dial pad. He held it out toward me.

“Put your number in,” he said, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips.

I took the phone carefully, my fingers hovering over the screen before I started typing my digits. The phone felt warm in my hands, like it was somehow already charged with possibility.

When I finished, I handed it back to him. He glanced down, then tapped the call button.

The phone rang once—then twice—before I heard it ring softly in my pocket.

He looked up at me, that same easy smile playing on his lips. “Now you have my number too.”

I looked forward to seeing him again. I had a good feeling about him.

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[makeyuomine]

dm me any requests!! 💕

[makeyuomine]

“tell me you hate me”

Summary: You introduced Harry to your parents, but things haven’t been going well. When you go to check on him and apologize, it turns out you're the one who needs a moment to unwind.

Type: Blurb

Author's Note: This is very loosely based on a deleted scene from the movie, The Notebook. Enjoy!

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I knocked on the bathroom door.

“Someone’s in here!” Harry called out.

I opened the door anyway, relieved to find it unlocked. Slipping inside, I quickly shut it behind me before anyone could notice.

Harry’s drying his hands when his eyes meet mine. I lock the door behind me and start toward him. He leans back against the nearest wall as I begin to ramble.

“Tell me you hate me. I’m so sorry about my parents. They can be very difficult. I think they think I’m going through some kind of phase, which is insulting because I’m twenty-seven. Oh god, and my mother. I’m so sorry—”

He cups my jaw with quiet control, and I go still, the urge to speak slipping away.

His eyes linger on my mouth before meeting mine again. He exhales, steady and calm. “Stop worrying,” he says, voice low but certain.

“I’m happy to be here. I just care that you’re not stressing yourself out over it. Okay?” he asserts his voice so I know he means it.

The simple act makes my pulse quicken. His eyes keep flicking to my mouth.

“Okay,” I manage to whisper.

A few seconds pass before I speak up again, “And then my dad asked if you were into crypto, which I know he thinks is some sort of personality test, and my mom just kept staring at your tattoos, and I’m just—ugh—I should’ve prepped them better or maybe not said anything about how we met, not that there's anything wrong with it, I just—God, they’re so judgy and—”

A slow exhale leaves Harry as he leans in, his forehead coming to rest against mine.

He let out a quiet laugh. “What am I going to do with you, huh?” His hands explored slowly—one gripping my hip, the other brushing up to cradle my neck.

“What matters most to me is how you feel,” I said gently. “I just don’t want them to make you rethink being with me.”

Harry’s eyes widened, a flicker of both shock and concern passing through them. It was clear he hadn’t expected that to be weighing on me. He moved closer to me without hesitation, ready to comfort me.

“What? Baby, that’ll never happen.”

His hands cup my face.

His voice dropped to a whisper. “I love you,” then he closed the space between us with a kiss.

Almost immediately, our kiss grew stronger, and we had to pause to catch our breath. He leaned me back against the sink while my hands softly moved across his back and threaded through his hair.

He lifts me so I’m perched on the sink. His kisses wander from my neck down to my collarbone, then back up to meet my lips. I melted into him instinctively, fingers clutching at the front of his shirt. The kiss only deepened, messy and impatient. My body arched into his like I suddenly needed him closer—now.

My fingers slid down to the hem of his shirt, brushing against the skin just beneath. He doesn’t need me to spell it out—he knows exactly what I’m hinting at.

“We don’t have long,” he murmured, stepping between my legs.

“I know,” I whispered, breath catching as he leaned in to kiss me, slow and deep, one hand cupping my face while the other slid down my waist.

The faucet dripped faintly behind us, the only sound in the room besides our breathing. His fingers grazed the hem of my dress, hiking it up slowly, testing how far he could take it. I let out the faintest gasp as his hand slipped beneath the fabric, cool fingers tracing the edge of my panties.

His fingers teased the elastic of my panties, tugging gently. His eyes locked with mine, silently asking for permission. I felt my pupils dilate, mesmerized by the man before me.

I nod with almost too much enthusiasm.

He kisses me again before quickly pulling off my panties and slipping them into his back pocket.

“Gotta be quiet for me, yeah?” he said, lips brushing against my jaw. “Don’t wanna give your mum another reason to dislike me.”

I nodded quickly, teeth sinking into my bottom lip to hold back the sound threatening to escape when two fingers slid into me with practiced ease. I gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white, hips rolling forward on instinct.

He curled his fingers just right, slow and steady, his thumb brushing over my clit in tight, deliberate circles. I bit down harder, fighting the tremble in my thighs, trying not to whimper.

“Look at you,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to mine, “Taking it so well. So fuckin’ good for me, even here.”

My breath hitched as the heat coiled tighter in my stomach. I couldn’t even answer him, not without making a sound. My eyes fluttered shut, head falling back slightly as he picked up the pace, fingers plunging deeper, thumb circling faster.

The mirror was fogged slightly from the heat between us, even though the room was still and cool.

I’d barely caught my breath when I heard Harry let out a low, frustrated moan—raw and strained, like he was holding back too much for too long.

A beat later, he dropped to his knees in front of me, hands firm on my thighs as he pushed them apart, desire darkening his eyes.

“Harry,” I whispered, eyes wide, breath shallow. “We really—someone could—”

“I know,” he said, eyes locked on mine, voice low and calm. “That’s why you’re gonna keep quiet, yeah?”

Before I could answer, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the inside of my thigh, just above the sensitive skin where his fingers had been moments before. My fingers tangled in his hair, already bracing myself for what I knew was coming.

He dragged his mouth higher, tongue tracing over me, slow and teasing. I bit my lip hard, stifling the moan building in my chest.

His tongue dove in, warm and wet and steady, flicking over my clit with just enough pressure to make my hips jerk. His hands slid under my thighs, anchoring me to the counter as he worked me open with his mouth.

I looked down at him through half-lidded eyes…his lashes long, his jaw flexing with every movement, eyes fluttering shut in focus. Like he was starving for it. Like this was all he wanted.

“God, Harry,” I whispered, barely audible.

His only reply was a groan against me, deep and low, sending vibrations through my core that made me nearly cry out. My hands tightened in his curls, and I had to slap one over my mouth, terrified someone outside might hear.

He sucked gently, then flicked his tongue in circles, fast and perfect, and I could feel myself falling apart.

“Come on, baby,” he murmured against me, the vibration almost too much. “Give it to me. Just like that.”

He inserted his fingers again, the amount of pleasure tripling in an instant. The overhaul of bliss was almost too much to handle. I wanted to scream so badly.

All while his tongue circled my clit, wet and deliberate. I gasped, the sound muffled by the back of my hand as I bit down to stay silent. His fingers were slow at first, curling up and stroking along that aching spot deep inside, while his mouth moved in tight, teasing circles that made my stomach tighten.

It didn’t take long. Between the thrill, the risk, and the way he knew my body, I was teetering on the edge in seconds.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, barely audible. “Come for me. Quietly now.”

I clenched around his fingers as the orgasm tore through me, sharp and unstoppable, like a wave breaking too fast to brace for. My legs trembled, barely holding me upright, and the only thing keeping me from crying out was the pressure of my teeth biting down on my lower lip.

My hands stayed glued to the sink, fingers gripping the porcelain so tightly they ached. Every nerve in my body felt like it had been lit from within—my skin buzzing, my breath catching, my chest rising in frantic, shallow bursts.

Somewhere below me, I heard Harry groan—low, guttural, rough with restraint. The sound of it made everything more intense. Like he was unraveling right along with me, undone by the way I came against his hand. He didn’t stop, didn’t ease up, just watched me ride it out with a dark hunger in his eyes and that moan still echoing at the back of his throat, like it physically pained him not to take more.

My legs were still trembling when his mouth finally lifted from me, lips slick and parted as he looked up, eyes dark and dazed like he’d just tasted something he wasn’t ready to give up.

But it was the slow pull of his fingers that did me in all over again.

He eased them out of me carefully, fingers soaked, glistening with a mixture of me and him and everything that just happened between us. I shivered at the sudden emptiness, but his gaze never left mine, not for a second.

He held them up slightly, watching the way my wetness clung to his skin in the dim bathroom light, then turned his wrist and slowly brought them to his mouth.

My breath hitched.

He parted his lips and slipped both fingers inside, sucking them in deep, tongue swirling around them as if he were still tasting me. His eyes fluttered shut briefly, savoring it, every trace of me, like I was his favorite thing in the world.

When he finally let them slide out of his mouth with a quiet pop, he licked the remaining shine off his knuckles, slow and deliberate. His voice was low, ragged.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he murmured, thumb dragging across his lower lip like he couldn’t believe it either.

I just stared, lips parted, chest still rising and falling unevenly as he stood between my knees, a soft smirk tugging at his mouth now.

I could feel my cheeks flush, still trying to steady my breath, but all I could do was reach for him—still buzzing from the way he’d unraveled me, like he’d enjoyed every second of it just as much as I had.

Harry reached for me at the same time. His hands were still warm from where they’d been on me, his mouth crashing into mine before either of us could say a word.

The kiss was messy. Hot. Desperate.

He tasted like sin and satisfaction, and when his tongue slid against mine, it felt like a match striking—igniting something all over again. His hands gripped my waist like he wasn’t done, like if we had even a few more minutes, he’d drag me back down with him and finish what his mouth had started.

But eventually, we both slowed—our breathing uneven, lips swollen, foreheads pressed together.

A few beats passed before Harry let out a breathy laugh, his thumb brushing lightly across my hip.

"You look flustered, baby," he teased, his voice low and smug. I swatted at his chest with a laugh, already well aware of what I must look like.

He smirked and helped me tidy up—straightening my clothes, smoothing down my hair, stealing a few soft kisses in between, each one gentler than the last. His hand brushed mine as we made our way to the door, the tension finally giving way to something lighter.

"Let's go have some fun."

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Thanks for reading!

[makeyuomine]

housewife

Summary: You’re a 1950s housewife and Harry just got back home from a long day of work.

Type: Blurb

Inspired by this song.

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The door creaks open at half past five, right on time. I’ve just pulled the roast from the oven, the scent of rosemary and butter filling the house, but it’s not the dinner I’m thinking about. It’s him.

I’ve been waiting for him all day.

Not just in the way a wife waits for her husband to walk through the door and kiss her cheek. No — this was different. This was the kind of waiting that settled deep in my bones, that ached low in my belly, that made me restless with every passing hour.

Some days are just like this. Some days I need more than a kiss. More than a hello and a smile. Today, I needed to be satisfied — in that way only Harry can. The kind of satisfaction that comes from being seen, touched, taken apart slowly, thoroughly, completely.

Harry steps into the kitchen, looking every bit the man of the house in his white button-down, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, hair slightly tousled like he’s been tugging on it all day. His eyes land on me—pearls around my neck, apron tied around my waist, heels clicking on the hardwood as I cross the room—and something in him shifts.

I see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way he tosses his keys aside like suddenly nothing matters more than what’s right in front of him.

“God, look at you,” he breathes, grabbing me by the waist and pressing me into the wall like he’s starved. “My perfect little wife…”

He gives me a deep kiss.

“I missed you, baby,” he’d say between kisses.

“I missed you, too, Harry.”

“One second,” he says as he steps back and detours to the record player in the living room to select his music. Harry never went an evening without playing a tune. The music begins to play as he walks back to me.

His hands are rough from work, but they’re gentle with me—trailing up my thighs, slipping beneath my dress like he already knows I’ve been waiting for this. I hum against his mouth, curling my fingers into his hair as he kisses me deep and slow, like he needs the taste of me to unwind from the day.

He doesn’t even make it to the bedroom. The roast sits forgotten in the other room as he lifts me onto the hallway credenza, sending a framed wedding photo clattering to the floor.

“Oh, no…” My eyes flick to the broken frame, but Harry cups my cheek and draws me back in, kissing me slow before whispering, “Leave it. Just focus on me.”

“Been thinking about you all fucking day,” he growls against my skin.

“You wait here all day for me dressed like this, lookin’ like a wet dream…” His laugh is low and wicked, and his belt’s already undone.

“I missed you so much,” I moaned in excitement.

His slacks hit the floor with a heavy thud, belt still looped halfway through the waistband as he kicks them aside. His eyes never leave mine—not once—as he steps between my legs, hands sliding up my thighs, rough from the day’s work but gentle with me.

“You wore the lace ones, didn’t you?” he murmurs, already tugging at the hem of my dress. “The ones I like.”

He bunches the skirt up around my waist, revealing soft ivory lace barely clinging to my hips. He lets out a slow, reverent curse. “Christ, baby…”

His fingers hook into the band, knuckles grazing my thighs as he pulls them down, slowly—like he wants to savor the moment. The panties drop to the floor, forgotten like the rest of the world, and he tosses them aside like he’s unwrapping his favorite gift.

I’m already soaked. He closes the space between us. I feel him like himself up between my thighs.

“This what you wanted?” he breathes, voice rough, eyes dark. “Waitin’ all day for me to come home and fuck you like this?”

He rubs the head of his penis against my clit.

I nod, lips parted, heart racing. “Yes, Harry….Please.”

He thrusts into me in one smooth, deep stroke, stealing the air from my lungs. My hands fly to his shirt, nails digging into the soft cotton stretched over his back as he begins to move—slow at first, savoring every inch of me, then faster, harder, like all that restraint he holds out in the world finally crumbles in our hallway.

“Oh!” I cry.

“So good…” he moaned.

The credenza shakes under us with each thrust, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing in the quiet house. His tie swings loose from his neck, his jaw clenched tight as he drives into me again and again.

I slip his button-down from his shoulders, then lift his white undershirt off, revealing every inch of his bare skin.

His muscles tensed, every line of him looking mouthwateringly good. He glanced down at where our bodies met before lifting his eyes back to mine.

“Fuck—so tight,” he groans, forehead pressed to mine. “Always so fuckin’ perfect for me.”

My legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his lower back as he picks up the pace, hips snapping forward, deep and desperate. The kind of rhythm that has my eyes rolling back and my cries muffled against his shoulder.

His hips don’t stop moving, each thrust strong and deliberate as the credenza rocks beneath us. I’m breathless, already on the edge, but then his hands drift higher—up my sides, over the curve of my ribs—and reach for the buttons of my dress.

“I need to see you,” he pants, eyes dark and hungry. “Need to see those perfect tits bounce while I’m inside you.”

He fumbles a little, still buried deep in me, trying to undo the row of buttons stretched tight across my chest. I help him, fingers trembling as I work from the top while he works from the bottom. We meet somewhere in the middle, eyes locked, heat radiating between us.

My dress parts open, exposing my brassiere—soft satin, pale, delicate. He groans like he’s seeing it for the first time, even though he knows it by heart. His hand cups one breast over the fabric, thumb teasing my nipple through the material.

“Fuck, baby… look at you.”

I reach behind me and unhook the clasp, letting the straps fall from my shoulders. The cups slip down, baring my breasts fully. They spill free, full and soft, nipples peaked from arousal and the cool air brushing my skin. His breath catches.

“Fuck me,” he murmurs, transfixed. “You’re unreal.”

All the while, he never stops moving inside me—slow now, deep and grinding, like he wants to feel every shiver his gaze sends through me. One hand grabs my waist, holding me in place as he thrusts, while the other cups my bare breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak.

I arch into him, whimpering as he leans down, capturing one nipple with his mouth. He sucks gently, tongue flicking, groaning low as he feels me clench around him.

I moan, feeling lost in the pleasure. He moves to the other breast, lavishing it with the same attention, hips never faltering, fucking me slow and worshipful.

I arch my back against the wall, offering him a better view, a better angle. Without hesitation, Harry buries his face between my breasts, dragging his mouth along the soft curves like he’s starving for the feel of me. He glances up at me, eyes dark, before rising just slightly—only to take one into his mouth again, slow and greedy.

I don’t look away, not for a second. I watch him take me into his mouth, and he watches me fall apart for him. Then he pulls back, slipping out of me completely.

Before I have the chance to ask what happened, he’s on his knees.

Harry’s mouth finds my center—and I can already tell he’s not coming up until he’s wrecked me.

“You’re dripping,” he groans.

His tongue slides over my clit, slow and deliberate, and I arch off the floor with a cry. He just grins, pleased with himself, then does it again—firmer this time, circling, teasing, until I’m grinding up into his face.

He flattens his tongue and drags it from my entrance all the way up, groaning into me like he’s the one being fed. Then he sucks my clit into his mouth, just enough pressure to make my legs tremble. I swear I see stars behind my eyelids.

My hands tangle in his hair, tugging, desperate for more. He hums at the feeling—like he likes it when I get rough—then slips a finger inside me, curling it just right.

The wood is cool beneath me, smooth under my thighs, but it does nothing to steady me.

I’m perched on the edge of the credenza, dress hiked up to my waist, legs spread wide while Harry kneels between them. His hands grip my hips, keeping me in place — though barely — because the way his mouth is working me, I’m shaking so hard I can feel myself slipping.

“Oh—Harry…” I gasp, fingers curling around the edge of the furniture, knuckles white with effort. My heels dig into the polished drawers beneath me, searching for anything to ground me as his tongue swirls over my clit with maddening precision.

He groans into me, the sound vibrating through my core, and I swear I jolt forward a full inch.

“Don’t run from it,” he murmurs against my skin, licking a long, slow stripe up my center. “Take it, baby.”

“I’m gonna fall,” I whisper, breathless, desperate.

“No, you’re not.” He tightens his grip, pulling me closer, practically anchoring me to the edge. “I’ve got you.”

But I don’t feel stable at all. I feel like I’m going to fly apart. My back arches, my thighs tremble, and I’m holding on for dear life while he feasts on me like it’s the only thing he’s craved all day.

My fingers claw at the credenza’s edge, wood creaking beneath the pressure as he sucks my clit into his mouth and moans like he loves the way I taste. My hips buck forward, and I let out a strangled cry.

“Oh—Harry—please, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growls, licking me harder, rougher, almost punishing in how perfect it feels. “You’re gonna come right here. Right on the edge. Right in my mouth.”

I’m a mess. Wet, shaking, hips rolling in rhythm with his tongue and fingers. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t let up. He stays right there, determined, obsessed with my pleasure. Like nothing else matters but pulling me apart and licking up every bit of it.

“You gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he murmurs, kissing my inner thigh. “All over my mouth?”

“Yes—yes, Harry—please…”

My whole body seizes, back arching, thighs closing around his head as I come with a cry that echoes through the hallway. And Harry doesn’t stop. He moans into me, licking me through it, like my pleasure is the thing he’s been craving all day.

I’m still shaking from the first orgasm, legs spread wide on the rug, dress bunched up around my waist, chest rising and falling as I try to catch my breath.

But Harry’s not done.

Not even close.

He picks me up off the credenza and takes me against the wall.

He closes the space between us, licking his lips, chin slick from where he’d buried himself between my thighs. His eyes are dark, wild, and his cock is hard, flushed, already leaking as it presses hot and heavy against my entrance.

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, stretching me open while I’m still sensitive, still fluttering from the orgasm he gave me with just his mouth and fingers. I gasp, nails digging into his arms, and he drops his forehead to mine.

“Shit, baby—so tight,” he pants, bottoming out with one deep thrust.

“Oh,” I whisper, breathless. “Harry, please…”

He starts to move—long, slow strokes at first, dragging himself almost all the way out before thrusting back in deep, filling me to the hilt. I cry out, clutching at his shoulders, completely at his mercy.

“You’re still so wet from coming,” he groans, one hand gripping my hip while the other slips between us to rub my clit again. “Gonna make you come again, sweetheart. Gonna fuck you until you you’re screaming my name.”

His rhythm builds, faster now, rougher, hips slapping against mine as the sound of our bodies fills the hallway. His cock hits that perfect spot over and over, the edge rushing back up so fast it steals the breath from my lungs.

I moan his name over and over, and it only spurs him on.

He leans down, mouth on mine, kissing me hard as he pounds into me. His thumb circles my clit, pressure perfect, and I fall apart around him again—tightening, squeezing, crying out into his kiss as I come hard, body clenching him like I never want to let go.

That’s all it takes.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—I’m gonna—” he chokes out, thrusts turning sloppy as my orgasm milks him. With one final, deep stroke, he groans loud, spilling inside me, forehead pressed to mine as his whole body shakes.

He stays there for a long moment, buried deep, our bodies tangled, breath mingling in the space between us.

“I’ll never get tired of this,” he murmurs against my lips. “Of you.”

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

[makeyuomine]

tight

Summary: It’s you and Harry’s first time, except you run into an unexpected issue.

Type: Blurb

Author’s Note: a million thank you’s to everyone who’s taken the time to read my writing! I appreciate all your likes, comments, reblogs, follows, everything! stay safe!

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Harry and I had been together for nearly four months. We’d been taking things slow—my choice, and something Harry respected. As tempting as it was with him, I wanted to wait until I truly felt ready.

Today was that day.

We had just gotten back from a friend’s dinner party, and Harry was making a quick stop at my place before heading home.

I walk into my room, the soft swish of satin trailing behind me. The black dress was perfect, hugging every curve and parting at the thigh with a dramatic slit. My heels clicked softly against the hardwood as I walked over to the mirror, reaching behind to undo the zipper.

It didn’t budge.

I tried again, fingers fumbling at the small tab just between my shoulder blades. Still no luck.

Sighing, I called out, “Harry? Can you help me with this? I can’t reach the zipper.”

His footsteps padded softly down the hall, and when he appeared in the doorway, his gaze skimmed over me — slow, like he wasn’t in any rush to look away. “Yeah,” he said, voice lower than usual as he stepped behind me.

I felt the warmth of him before I felt his hands, one gently brushing my shoulder as the other found the zipper. His fingers hesitated for a second, and then slowly, he tugged it down. The sound of the zipper lowering filled the quiet between us.

His knuckles grazed my spine with every inch he unzipped, sending a shiver through me.

The dress loosened around my chest, sliding effortlessly off my shoulders. I caught it with my hands, but the satin was too slippery, and it fell into a puddle at my feet.

Now I stood in nothing but my black underwear — delicate lace that suddenly felt much more revealing under his eyes.

I didn’t turn around, but I felt him pause. Felt his gaze linger.

He exhaled, a quiet, shaky breath against the back of my neck.

“Christ,” he murmured.

My cheeks flushed, but I didn’t move to cover myself. There was tension humming in the air, thick and charged.

I turned my head slightly, just enough to see him over my shoulder.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Y-Yeah, sorry,” he coughs.

I turn around, stepping out of the dress completely. Harry’s eyes widen at the sight of me in just my underwear. Since we’ve been taking things slow, his reactions to seeing my body are always tinged with surprise. He’s seen me naked before, but we’ve never actually had sex.

I grab hold of his shirt and give it a gentle tug, pulling him closer. Rising onto my toes, I press a kiss to his lips.

“I think I’m ready,” I whisper.

His eyes widen further in surprise—clearly, he hadn’t seen this coming. But the look on his face said it all: he was more than pleased.

Which brings us to now—Harry hovering above me, his thick length teasing at my entrance. His eyes are filled with admiration, and I can feel the heat of him enveloping me.

As he begins to ease into me, a sharp discomfort pulses at my entrance.

“Wait, ow!” I gasp.

He stops immediately.

“Are you okay? I wasn’t even in yet,” he says, his voice laced with concern.

He wasn’t even in yet? Then why did it feel like he’d already hit a wall?

“I’m okay,” I say softly, looking up at him. “It just felt… weird. Like a sharp kind of pressure.”

Harry’s brows crease with concern, his body still hovering just above mine. His hand cups my cheek gently, thumb brushing along my skin.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs.

I nod. “Yeah. Just try again. Slower this time.”

He leans in, pressing a kiss to my temple before shifting his hips, carefully lining himself up. I hold my breath, bracing, as he begins to ease forward. But the moment he pushes in even a little, the same discomfort flares, making me tense.

I let out a small gasp, and he stills immediately.

Harry pulls back slightly, his gaze searching mine. “That’s it,” he says quietly. “We’re not rushing this.”

“I want to try again,” I whisper, eyes meeting his.

Harry hesitates, searching my face for any hint of uncertainty. “Are you sure?”

I nod, more firmly this time. “I want you. I trust you.”

His lips press softly to mine, warm and reassuring, before he shifts to hover above me again. But then he pauses, something flickering in his expression — a thought.

“Let me try something first,” he says, voice low and careful, as if giving me room to change my mind.

I nod again, breath caught somewhere in my throat as his hand glides down between us. His fingers slide through the slick heat between my thighs, and then slowly, he eases one inside.

We both react at the same time.

“Fuck,” he breathes, brows drawing together. “You’re so tight.”

I tense instinctively. I exhale slowly, letting my head fall back against the pillow, trying to breathe with him.

He starts again, this time slower, coaxing his finger deeper as I loosen around him. When he adds a second, I gasp — not in pain, but from the fullness, the stretch. The way he curls his fingers just right.

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod, eyes fluttering. “Mhmm.”

His confidence grows as he works his fingers in and out, each stroke more fluid, more deliberate. He watches me the entire time, reading every breath, every twitch, every sound I make. When he finally adds a third, I can feel how much easier I’ve opened up to him — how good it feels to be touched like this by someone I’ve fallen so hard for.

My hips move with him, instinctively chasing more of that pressure, that sweet burn of being stretched just right.

“I’ve never felt like this before,” I whisper, breathless. “It’s so—Harry, I…”

His lips find mine again, but this time there’s fire behind it. The air between us is thick with want, but still grounded in care.

“I think I’m ready,” I say, voice soft but sure. “I want to feel you.”

His fingers slip out gently, and he positions himself above me once more. This time, when he presses into me, there’s no resistance — only heat, slickness, and the slow, overwhelming fullness of him finally sliding deep.

I gasp, both of us stilling for a moment to take it in.

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod, eyes fluttering. “Better than okay.”

My hips move with him, instinctively chasing more of that pressure, that sweet burn of being stretched just right.

His thumb begins circling soft, patient strokes over my clit as his finger gently works inside me, easing the tension. His touch is slow, attentive, and deeply focused on me—on how I feel, how I breathe, how I respond.

“I’ve never felt like this before,” I whisper, breathless. “It’s so—Harry, I…”

His lips find mine again, but this time there’s fire behind it. The air between us is thick with want, but still grounded in care.

His fingers slip out gently, and he positions himself above me once more. This time, when he presses into me, there’s no resistance — only heat, slickness, and the slow, overwhelming fullness of him finally sliding deep.

I gasp, both of us stilling for a moment to take it in.

He leans down, foreheads brushing. “You feel incredible,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper.

He moves slowly, deeply, like he wants to feel every inch of me — and God, I feel every inch of him.

I can feel him pressed against places I’ve only ever imagined in the dark, places I didn’t even know could feel like this. Deep. Full. Hot. Like he’s everywhere at once — buried so far inside me, I swear I could feel his heartbeat echoing through mine.

I’d imagined this moment before — more times than I could ever admit. Late at night, behind closed eyes, with nothing but my hands and the thought of him. But this… this was nothing like I pictured.

It was better.

Raw, overwhelming, electric. Real.

Harry moans above me — guttural, desperate — and the sound alone makes me clench around him without meaning to.

“Fuck,” he groans, dropping his head into the crook of my neck. “You’re so tight.”

His voice is wrecked, like the pleasure is too much for him to process. And yet, for me, it’s just enough.

“I can take it,” I whisper, breath shaky as my hands slide down his back. “I want all of you.”

He lifts his head, eyes locking with mine — dark and blown wide, reverent like he can’t believe this is real. Like I’m real.

He starts to move again, slowly, rhythmically, and the friction makes my entire body arch beneath him.

Harry’s hips move in a steady rhythm, but then he slows, shifting slightly so his chest brushes against mine. His eyes flick down, dark with want, before he lowers himself, trailing kisses along my collarbone.

And then—he reaches my breasts.

He groans softly, almost like he’s overwhelmed, and brings his mouth to one, lips wrapping around the soft skin. The moment his tongue flicks over my nipple, I gasp, arching into him.

“God,” he breathes against me. “They’re perfect.”

He sucks gently, then with more purpose, his hands cradling the weight of them like he’s trying to memorize every curve, every inch. I can feel the heat of his mouth, the damp trail he leaves behind as he presses wet kisses all over—his cheek brushing, his nose nudging as he loses himself in it.

It’s not just lust—it’s worship.

He rubs his face against the softness, his lips brushing everywhere like he can’t get enough, groaning low in his throat as he does. I run my fingers through his hair, tugging gently, and he hums in response, almost blissed out by the closeness.

The air between us thickens, charged with heat and want. I’m gasping, breath coming in short, ragged bursts as his lips and hands move over me, setting fire to every nerve.

Each moan that slips from my lips seems to echo in the quiet room, mixing with the deep groans and low moans spilling from Harry’s throat. His body presses harder against mine, every movement deliberate and aching with desire.

“Ah—” I gasp, arching into him, fingers tangling in his hair as his mouth finds that sensitive spot that sends a shiver rippling down my spine.

He groans, a raw, guttural sound that vibrates through me.

My moans grow louder, matching the intensity of his groans as we move together, lost in the electric rhythm of our connection.

Every sound—my gasps, his moans, the subtle creaks of the bed—fills the space, a symphony of shared pleasure neither of us wants to end.

The tension inside me coils tighter and tighter, each movement sending waves of warmth rippling through my body. I’m gasping now, breath shaky, every nerve screaming in bliss. Then, suddenly, it crashes over me — a shuddering, breath-stealing release that makes me clamp down around him without thinking.

Harry’s breath hitches sharply, his eyes darkening as he feels the tightness, the way my body instinctively wraps around him. “Fuck,” he groans, voice rough and raw. “You’re so tight… so damn good.”

His hips jerk involuntarily, the sensation pushing him closer to the edge. I can feel him trembling beneath me, the heat of his own pleasure spilling over.

“God, you feel incredible,” he pants, voice thick. “That’s it, baby. Keep squeezing me like that.”

The way I’m holding him — tight, needy, desperate — sends him spiraling. He lets out a guttural moan, muscles clenching, and then his body shudders, trembling as he reaches his own release.

We stay locked like that for a moment, his heavy breaths mixing with mine, the aftershocks pulsing through us both.

He leans down, forehead resting against mine, eyes filled with awe and something softer. “You’re perfect,” he murmurs.

Harry lets out a final, shaky breath before slowly pulling out of me, careful and gentle, as if he doesn’t want to hurt me.

I gasp softly at the shift, instinctively clenching around nothing, already missing the stretch of him inside me.

But even with him gone, the ache remains — a tender fullness left behind. I bring my legs together slightly, and that’s when I really feel it… how much he stretched me. I’m still sensitive, still tight, still molded around the shape of him.

“Easy,” Harry murmurs, eyes filled with concern and awe as he watches me shift under the sheets. “You okay?”

I nod, flushed and breathless. “Yeah,” I whisper, voice airy. “Just… feeling everything.”

He smiles, brushing the damp hair from my forehead. “You’re so tight,” he says again, almost to himself, in that same dazed, reverent way he said it before. “I could feel every part of you.”

His words send a warm rush through me — not just from desire, but from the intimacy, the honesty of it all. He stretched me in more ways than one tonight. And somehow, even in the afterglow, I still feel like he’s a part of me.

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

[makeyuomine]

wedding night

Summary: It’s your wedding night and Harry can’t wait to get his hands on you.

Type: Blurb

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The door shut softly behind us, sealing off the world we’d just come from—the music, the toasts, the chaos of the day—leaving only silence and us.

I stood in the middle of the honeymoon suite, hands twisting the delicate lace of my veil, still perched in soft waves over my hair.

The moment we stepped into our suite, his hands were on me, sliding under the fabric of my wedding dress.

The dress slipped off my shoulders and pooled at my feet, leaving me standing in nothing but the white lace lingerie set I’d chosen just for him. It clung to my skin like a secret, sheer and delicate—made just for his eyes and pleasure. The soft veil framed my face and cascaded down my back, the fabric making me feel both fragile and fierce.

He leaned against the closed door, eyes dragging over me like a slow burn. The black suit he still wore, tie loosened and collar unbuttoned, made him look dark and delicious, like sin wrapped in silk. His curls were slightly tousled from dancing, lips parted, eyes heavy with desire.

“Fuck me,” he whispered.

He took a step closer, his black suit sharp and almost too formal against the softness of my lace. His hands came up, trembling just a little, as they hovered before finally settling on my hips.

“You look…. You’re..” he was at a loss for words.

“Holy fuck…” he spoke again as he loosened his tie.

I swallowed hard, feeling the heat radiate off him, the tension thick enough to taste. I’d never seen him so flustered.

His hands were still on my hips, his gaze drinking me in like he couldn’t believe I was real. I ran my fingers down the lapels of his black suit jacket, smiling softly as I watched his jaw clench.

“I had it custom made,” I whispered, voice just barely audible over the pounding of my heart. “Just for tonight.”

His eyes flicked up to mine—dark, heated, hungry. That was all it took.

He crashed his mouth to mine, all restraint snapping. His hands moved up, one cradling the back of my head, the other gripping my waist with a desperation that made my knees weak.

The kiss was deep and filled with need. His tongue slid against mine like he was claiming me, just how I wanted. My fingers curled in his jacket as I melted into him, already trembling.

His lips were everywhere—soft, warm, and intentional. He started at my neck, slow and lingering, brushing kisses along my skin. I tilted my head back, moaning softly as his mouth found the hollow of my throat.

I shivered beneath him, fists tightening as his lips traveled lower, down the slope of my shoulder, across the delicate bone he exposed when he pushed the lace strap aside with his nose.

He kissed the top of my chest, right above the line of my bra, and whispered against my skin, “I’m gonna make you feel as good as you look, baby..”

I whimpered—quiet and aching—because I knew he’d follow through with his promise. He always did. I was already falling apart and he hadn’t even touched me properly yet.

I felt his hand trail down the curve of my hip, slow and deliberate, fingers hooking under the waistband of my panties. The lace dragged across my skin, and I lifted my hips instinctively, letting him slide them down.

He didn’t rush.

He kissed the inside of my thigh as he pulled them off completely, then balled the lace in his fist and looked me right in the eyes with a smirk that made my stomach clench.

Without saying a word, he shoved the panties into the pocket of his suit trousers.

My eyes widened. “Harry…”

He rose to his feet, his eyes never leaving mine as he led me slowly to the bed. In just a few steps, we were on the bed, Harry’s body pressing over mine in one fluid motion.

He touched me with such familiarity. He knew my body like no other, perhaps more than myself.

Tender. Rough. Delicate. Heavy.

He kissed down my chest, my torso, my thighs, and stopped at my center.

“Please… open your legs for me, Mrs. Styles.”

I moan almost immediately in response. I didn’t expect that. It felt so good.

Mrs. Styles.

I open my legs at a timid pace, never being able to kick that initial shyness. I think it’s because I loved the way he worked to draw me out of it.

He grins at my shyness, never kicking the thrill he gets from that.

His fingers trail lightly down the inside of my thigh, warm and steady, never rushing. He doesn’t push—he never does. Instead, he waits, kneeling between my knees with patience written all over his face.

I exhale shakily, biting the inside of my cheek.

He leans in and kisses the bend of my knee, soft and slow. Then the inside of my thigh.

He whispers something I barely catch, “You’re so beautiful like this.”

His hands slide up again, coaxing gently, his thumbs brushing the delicate edge of my hesitation.

And then I do it—not all at once, not without nerves—but I let my legs fall a little wider.

His smile is reverent, not smug. Like I’ve given him something sacred.

“Mmh,” I hear him moan at the sight of me.

His gaze lingers between my thighs like it’s something sacred, something he’s been waiting for, but never entitled to. The weight of it makes me shiver.

“You don’t know what that does to me,” he says, voice low and rough now. His hands settle on my inner thighs, thumbs tracing idle circles like he’s memorizing me.

I swallow hard. “Show me, baby.”

He leans forward and presses a kiss right at the top of my thigh, so close I twitch. He notices.

“Still shy,” he whispers against my skin. “Still fucking sexy.”

Then he moves lower—mouth dragging lazy, open-mouthed kisses until he’s exactly where I want him. He doesn’t dive in. He waits. One hand stays on my thigh, grounding me. The other parts me even further with slow, practiced care.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, breath warm and maddening.

“It’s not,” I whisper. “It’s not enough.”

That’s all he needs.

His tongue slides through me with devastating precision, and my hips jump despite myself. I try to close my legs again—out of instinct, out of habit—but his hands catch me gently, holding me open.

“Let me see you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Don’t hide from me. Not tonight.”

And something in me gives.

The shyness doesn’t vanish—but it melts into something else. Something hotter. He licks me again, slower this time, like he’s savoring me. I moan—quiet, breathless—and his grip tightens just slightly.

“That’s it,” he says against me.

His mouth is relentless, but never careless. Every stroke of his tongue is deliberate, tasting me like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. I can feel how much he wants me in the way he holds me open, the way his hands tremble just slightly against my thighs.

My breath catches as he sucks gently at that spot that makes my legs shake, and I gasp—louder than I expect. Embarrassment rises fast, but he pulls back just enough to look up at me.

“Don’t hold it in,” he murmurs, lips slick. “I want all of it—all of you.”

I reach down, threading my fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to tell him I need more. He smiles into me, groans low in his throat like my need is its own kind of reward.

But then he pulls back entirely.

He lines himself up, moving slowly, carefully—like he knows I’ll tense if he rushes. The stretch is real, thick and hot, and my breath hitches again as he starts to push in.

He groans—deep, guttural—like the feel of me around him might undo him on the spot. “So fucking tight,” he breathes. “Oh fuck.”

I can’t help the way my fingers clutch at his arms, digging in as he rocks forward another inch. He pauses, kisses my cheek, my jaw, the corner of my mouth.

When he bottoms out, we both just stay there—breathing each other in. He doesn’t move yet. He just lets me feel it, lets me adjust.

Then he starts to roll his hips, slow and deep, dragging pleasure out like a secret.

Every stroke pushes me open a little more. Every sound he makes coaxes another one from me. My shyness doesn’t vanish, but it no longer feels like something to fight. It’s just part of how he loves me—patiently, reverently, and with everything he’s got.

“Mmm,” I moan, fingers digging into his shoulders, “you feel so good.”

His eyes flick up to mine, like those words land harder than anything else. Like that simple truth is the thing that undoes him more than the heat, the moans, the friction.

“Yeah?” he breathes, his voice ragged.

I nod before pulling him to me and kiss him hard—needy, unfiltered—because there’s no room for pretending right now. He’s deep inside me, filling me completely, and I want him to know exactly how wrecked I am by it.

“You’re so good to me,” I whisper between kisses. “So fucking good, you don’t even know.”

His rhythm falters slightly, and I feel it—how much the words hit him. Not just the praise, but the truth of it.

He swallows hard. “Say it again.”

I hold his face in both hands, gaze steady despite the way my body’s shaking. “You’re good to me. You make me feel wanted. Safe. Insatiable.”

That last word comes out on a gasp as he thrusts deeper—rougher now, like I’ve lit a match inside him. His mouth crashes into mine again, desperate and messy and full of everything we haven’t said.

He’s already buried deep inside me, sweat slick at the base of his neck, breath hot against my collarbone. The rhythm is steady, controlled—but there’s tension beneath it, like he’s holding himself back.

I smile through the haze, tilting my hips up to meet him. “You fuck me like you’re made for me.”

“I am made for you, baby.”

His head drops against my shoulder, and I feel his entire body shudder. He groans—loud, needy—and then it’s like something inside him snaps.

He pulls back, just enough to look at me. His gaze is dark, intense, almost reverent.

I open my mouth to speak, but he moves before I can—grabs my thighs and pushes them up, deeper, tighter, until I gasp. His thrusts change, no longer slow or careful—they’re full, purposeful, desperate in the most delicious way.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice thick. “You love this? You love how crazy you make me?”

“Yes,” I gasp. “God, yes.”

He moans again—louder this time, rough around the edges—and he leans down, kissing me like he’s trying to climb inside me. His hips slam forward and I cry out, the pleasure rolling through me in waves.

I claw at his back, pulling him closer, dizzy from how good he feels. “Don’t stop. You’re making me—fuck—you’re making me feel…everything.”

His mouth finds my ear, and he groans right into it. “You should feel everything. You deserve that. I want you ruined by me—shaking and wrecked and knowing no one else could ever touch you like this.”

He’s still inside me when I shift, slowly, carefully. His hands instinctively guide me as I straddle him, knees braced on either side of his hips. We both groan at the change in angle, at the way it feels different like this—deeper in some places, more exposed in others.

His eyes drag over me, wild and reverent. “Holy fuck,” he breathes, chest heaving beneath me. “Look at you.”

I still wore my lace veil and bra.

I roll my hips slowly, testing, teasing, and his head falls back against the pillow with a choked moan. But it’s not just the pleasure that has him undone—it’s the sight of me.

He trails his fingers up my ribs, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of me. His eyes have been locked on it for minutes now, distracted by the way it clings to me, how the fabric stretches over my curves.

He sits up, both hands now at my back, unclasping it with practiced ease—but he doesn’t rush. He holds the band for a moment, breath ghosting over my skin. Then, gently, he slides the straps down my arms, one at a time, eyes flicking up to my face to make sure I’m okay.

I am. More than okay.

The lace slips away like a whisper, soft against my skin, and he exhales sharply when my breasts are finally bare before him.

“You’re unreal,” he says, sitting up on one elbow, the other hand running up my stomach to cup my breast.

I arch into his palm instinctively.

Then he leans in—slow, deliberate—and kisses the swell of one breast, then the other. Soft, open-mouthed kisses that make me gasp and roll my hips again. He groans against my skin, like the feel of me is something he can’t quite handle.

His hands come up to cup both breasts fully, thumbs brushing over my nipples, and I feel myself pulse around him from the sensation.

“You don’t know what this does to me,” he murmurs, voice muffled as he rubs his cheek against my chest, nuzzling me like he’s half-drunk on the feeling of skin against skin.

I cradle his head, fingers threading through his hair as he mouths at my nipple, sucking gently, then swirling his tongue over it again and again until my thighs start to shake.

I rock my hips slower now, keeping us both on that edge, and he swears under his breath again. His hands trail down to my hips, guiding my pace but never controlling it—letting me lead, letting me take him.

“I love watching you fall apart,” I whisper, leaning down to kiss his temple.

“Evil girl,” he grins before pulling me in for a kiss.

His hands grip my hips as I move over him, slow but steady, our rhythm deepening with every roll. The way he looks up at me—like I’m the most sacred thing he’s ever touched—only pushes me closer. His lips are still warm from where he’d been sucking on my breasts, now parted and panting, trying to hold back the storm building inside him.

“Just like that,” he groans, voice rough and reverent. “Don’t stop, baby—don’t stop.”

His hands slide up my back, then down again, like he needs to feel all of me—needs to anchor himself in the moment.

“Fuck,” he gasps, eyes locked on where our bodies are joined.

The tension between us sharpens, electric. Every movement, every breath is laced with need. His hips start meeting mine on instinct, thrusting up into me just right, just deep enough to make stars explode behind my eyes.

He’s still catching his breath beneath me, hands roaming up and down my thighs like he can’t stop touching me. But then he sits up, kisses me deeply, and murmurs against my lips, “I need you underneath me now.”

The way he says it — low, reverent — makes something pulse deep inside me.

He flips us gently, careful not to break the connection for more than a second, and settles between my legs.

His body covers mine completely, chest pressing against my breasts, his forearms braced on either side of my head. His hips nestle against mine, and when he slides back in — slow, deliberate — we both let out the kind of sound that comes from deep within.

His hips roll into mine with perfect rhythm — deep and slow, dragging pleasure out of both of us with every thrust. He kisses me through it, moaning into my mouth like the feel of me is driving him mad.

“Look at me,” I whisper, cupping his face.

His eyes meet mine instantly, glassy and dark, like he’s barely hanging on. He moans almost immediately.

His forehead drops to mine, and he starts to move faster, harder, chasing that last stretch of friction. Our breaths tangle, our bodies tense, and I feel it — the breaking point — approaching fast.

“I’m right there,” I gasp, nails digging into his back.

“Me too. Fuck, baby—me too,” he moans, driving into me with just enough roughness to tip me over the edge.

Pleasure crashes through me in waves, pulling a cry from my throat as I clench around him. He follows instantly, groaning my name as he spills inside me, his whole body shuddering against mine.

He’s still inside me, his weight more comforting rather than heavy, his chest rising and falling against mine.

His mouth finds my neck first — slow, open kisses that make me melt even more. Then my jaw. Then the curve of my cheek.

“You okay?” he whispers, his voice low, careful.

“Mhmm,” I manage to say.

He kisses the top of my shoulder, then the spot just above my heart, then the length of my collarbone like he’s trying to press pieces of himself into me.

I could only guess how undone I looked in that moment.

I couldn’t stop the blush that rose as it hit me all over again — Harry is my husband. And I’m his wife.

[makeyuomine]

everybody's lover

Summary: He always comes back. After every tour, every tabloid headline, every other girl—Harry always finds his way back to your doorstep. Will this night be the same?

Type: Blurb

Author’s Note: Hiiii! A few of you have been requesting to be added to my tag list. I’m going to be so honest with yall, I don’t have one and IDK how to make one?! Can someone please help/DM I’d really appreciate it!!

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Harry’s the kind of man who makes you feel like you’re the only girl in the room—until he leaves and proves you weren’t.

It's so easy for him.

The way he walks into a room like it belongs to him, the way strangers lean in just to hear him laugh. He is the kind of beautiful that doesn't try too hard, and the kind you don't forget.

Harry had just completed his European leg of the tour, fresh off the success of his fourth album. Although he wanted me to tag along for this half of the tour, I couldn't join. So I received most of my news of him via social media, like everybody else. So when the tabloids started posting photos of him with different women across Europe, I wasn’t surprised. I’d almost seen it coming. He did this every tour.

Somehow, he always found a way to pull me back in—soft words, tender promises, the kind that made you believe them without question.

He had a way of looking at me that made it feel like we were the only two people in the world, like we belonged to each other and no one else. And for a while, we really were. During his hiatus, when the world wasn’t pulling him in a thousand directions, we carved out something real.

"I miss you."

"Tour isn't the same without you."

"Baby, I need you."

He always knew just what to say during our regular calls—calm, reassuring, like nothing had changed. And I believed him. Because more than anything, I loved him—and he knew that. He held onto me just tightly enough to keep me there, using up every bit of my love until I was drained. As long as he got what he needed, that was enough for him.

Now that he was home on a break, the calls wouldn’t stop. Morning, night, in between—his name lighting up my screen like it never left. At first, I ignored them. I had to. I knew how this story went. But he was persistent, like always, wearing me down with sweet words and half-truths wrapped in that voice I could never fully shut out.

And then he showed up—unannounced, like he had every right to. Standing at my door with that look in his eyes, the one that always made my resolve slip.

There he was—tall, golden, eyes softer than they had any right to be. Like he wasn’t the one who left me behind. Like he hadn’t broken me again.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I said, but it came out cracked. My voice betrayed me before I could find my anger.

He stepped forward. “I had to see you.”

That was all it took. The dam burst.

“You’re a liar,” I snapped, shoving at his chest with both hands. “A liar and a fucking cheater—”

He didn’t flinch. He just let me hit him, barely moving as my fists landed weakly against him.

“You told me I was the only one—every time, you say that—and then I have to see you in someone else’s bed halfway across the world like I don’t exist!”

Tears blurred my vision, hot and unrelenting, and I kept pushing him even as my strength gave out. “You use me. You always use me.”

That’s when he caught my wrists—not hard, not rough. Just enough to stop me, to still me. His fingers curled around mine with infuriating gentleness.

I broke then, the fight falling out of me as sobs racked through my chest. And he pulled me into him like nothing had changed, like he had every right to hold me together when he was the one who tore me apart.

For a moment, I let myself melt into him. Just a moment.

His hand moved up to the back of my head, cradling it gently as I cried into his chest. He whispered something soft I couldn’t make out, but it didn’t matter. I knew the script. I knew where this would lead.

And still, for a few seconds, I let him hold me. Because it was easier than facing the truth. Easier than admitting I still wanted to believe him.

But then I felt it—the ache shifting into something sharper. My body remembered the nights I stared at my phone, waiting. The mornings I saw his face next to someone else’s in headlines. The way he always came back like nothing had happened.

I pulled back suddenly, shoving against his chest.

“Don’t,” I said, my voice low but shaking with fury. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

His brows drew together, but I didn’t let him speak.

“You think you can just show up and hold me for a few seconds and everything goes away?” I wiped at my cheeks angrily. “You lied to me. You made me feel like I was the only one, like I mattered."

He opened his mouth, but I cut him off again. “No. I hate you, Harry. I hate you for making me love you like this.”

My voice broke, but I stood my ground. “Get out. Get out of my apartment. Now.”

He stared at me, eyes searching mine for a sliver of softness. But I had none left to give.

He didn’t move.

I stood there, fists clenched, chest heaving, waiting for him to walk out like he always did. But this time, he didn’t.

“No,” he said quietly.

I blinked. “What?”

“I’m not leaving,” he repeated, stronger this time. “Not this time.”

My heart pounded in my ears. “Harry—”

“I thought about you every single time,” he said, stepping toward me, his voice shaking. “Every time I was with someone else, I saw your face. Every kiss, every empty night, I thought about you. And I hated myself for it. I need you.”

His words hung in the air like a storm waiting to break.

My lips trembled, fury and heartbreak tangled in my throat.

“You need me?” I snapped. “You need me—but you sleep with women whose names you don’t even remember? You flirt with the world and then come running back here like I’m your shelter?”

His eyes flickered with pain, but I didn’t stop.

“I’m yours, Harry,” I whispered. “God, I’ve always been yours. But you… you’re everybody’s. You give pieces of yourself away like it means nothing. Like I mean nothing.”

He took another step toward me, slowly, like I might shatter. “It wasn’t nothing,” he said. “None of it was ever nothing. I was just—lost.”

He flinched. Just barely. But I saw it.

“You don’t get to stand here and act like you’re some heartbroken romantic who just made a mistake,” I snapped, stepping forward. “You knew what you were doing. Every night. Every kiss. Every photo. You knew it would hurt me.”

“I did,” he said quickly, almost desperate now. “I knew it and I hated it. I hated myself for it. Every time I touched someone else, I wanted it to be you. I’d close my eyes and pretend it was you. That it was your skin, your voice, your mouth…”

I shook my head, trying to block him out, but he kept going.

His voice cracked, full of something between apology and pleading. “I don’t want anyone else. I never did—not really. It was always you.”

I felt the tears welling up again. I shut my eyes.

He stepped closer, I could hear it. I didn't stop him. I felt so overwhelmed in this self-deprecating pit.

His arms wrapped around me, pulling me in again.

My forehead pressed against his chest, and I let out a soft breath, almost a sigh of surrender. He kissed the top of my head, eyes closed, holding me.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured over and over.

I look up. His hands moved with that familiar ease, tracing the curve of my back. The way he looked at me made my pulse quicken, and for a moment, I almost forgot all the promises he’d broken.

I looked at him standing there—the same boy who had broken me, held me, and broken me again. My chest tightened, the fight and the love tangled so deep it hurt to breathe.

“I’m done,” I said finally, voice steady but soft. “Done with the waiting. Done with the lies. Done with being nobody's when I wanted to be just yours.”

His eyes searched mine, dark and pleading. For a second, I thought he might say something to change my mind.

But I wasn’t here to change it. I was here for one last thing.

I looked up at him, my voice trembling but fierce. “I want you to fuck me,” I said, barely able to hold back the tears pooling in my eyes. I could hear myself sniffle, the raw ache in my chest breaking through the walls I’d built, but I meant every word.

His eyes darkened with a mix of hunger and something softer, almost regret. He didn’t say a word, just closed the distance between us like he needed this as much as I did.

His hands were rough and sure, sliding over my skin with a desperate tenderness that made me shiver. Every touch was electric, igniting all the places that had gone numb. I could feel the tension between us—the ache of all the broken promises, the fire of every stolen moment—wrapping tight around us.

When his lips found mine, it wasn’t gentle. It was fierce, demanding, as if trying to burn away the past and leave only this moment. I clung to him, biting back a sob as his hands roamed like he was memorizing every curve.

The way he groaned low in his throat, the way his breath hitched as he pressed into me, it drove me crazy. I found myself moaning right back at him, unable to hold back, caught up in the storm of sensation and emotion crashing between us.

It was messy and fierce and perfect in all the ways a goodbye should never be. The heat of his hands, the roughness of his kisses, the way his body moved with mine—it was almost too sexy, too raw, for a goodbye.

This was breakup sex—full of anger and longing and everything we couldn’t say out loud.

We moved together with a frantic urgency, a wild, aching need that felt like both punishment and salvation. I let go of the fight inside me, letting the rawness of his touch pull me under, even though I knew it would break me all over again.

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[makeyuomine]

night out

Summary: You and Harry enjoy a night out in the city.

Photo Credits: Pinterest (Girl in Black Dress); Pinterest (Couple)

Author’s Note: hope you all are having a great week! thank you all for reading my work! 💓

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The city buzzes around us — neon signs flickering, laughter spilling from crowded bars, and the air thick with summer heat.

Harry walks beside me, close enough that our arms brush every few steps. He hasn’t said much since we left the restaurant, but I can feel him watching me — every time I turn my head, he’s already looking.

His hand keeps flexing as if he’s fighting the urge to reach for mine.

There’s a tension between us that’s been building all night. It’s in the way his voice dropped lower when he whispered something in my ear. The way he let his eyes linger on my lips when I laughed. The way he’s looking at me now like I’m the only person in this whole damn city.

He abruptly stops walking.

I turn to him, pulse climbing.

“You know,” he says, voice low, almost amused, “I don't think I'll be able to last the night."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"You.. You just.." he struggles to find the words.

"Baby, I want you so badly right now," he murmurs, voice dropping as he finally takes my hand and draws me in. His face is just inches from mine, his eyes locked onto mine.

A shy smile tugs at my lips as heat rushes to my cheeks. I don’t look away — not from those eyes.

I squeeze his hand, leaning in just enough so only he can hear.

“Once tonight’s over,” I whisper, my voice soft but steady, “I’m all yours.”

His breath catches.

I let the words linger before adding, a little slower, a little more daring, “Any way you want.”

His grip tightens slightly, jaw flexing like he’s holding himself back. I can tell he wants to say something — or maybe do something — but instead, he just lets out a low breath and nods, the fire in his gaze unmistakable.

“Then let’s get through tonight,” he says, eyes never leaving mine. “Because I’m counting the minutes.”

I'd planned for us to spend the night out in the city. Lately, our Friday nights have been all about cozy nights in, so we (more so I) wanted a change of pace. But now that we're out, Harry's ready to ditch the plans; he just wants to take me home and have his way with me in the comfort of our own space.

With his hand in mine, he guides me to the bar we chose to try out. The moment we step inside, the bass hits like a pulse: deep, rhythmic, and alive. The place is packed, glowing with warm neon and moody backlighting that paints the room in deep and sultry blues.

Velvet-lined booths hug the edges of the space, filled with people dancing and laughing over cocktails and half-shouted conversations. On the opposite side, the bar stretches long and lit beneath, bottles gleaming like stained glass in the low light.

I glance over at Harry, and he's already scanning the room with a crooked grin. His hand tightens around mine, pulling me closer, like the music might steal me away if he doesn't.

"Alright," he leans in, voice barely audible over the beat, "This counts as a change of scenery, yeah?"

I laugh, nodding. "Definitely."

Someone brushes past us, the scent of perfume and spilled gin trailing behind. I tug Harry toward an open spot by the bar, dodging couples dancing and a group doing shots like it's a sport.

"Drink first or dance?" I ask, raising my voice above the noise.

"He leans in close, lips brushing my ear. "You're calling the shots tonight, love."

Enthralled at the scene before me, I decide to take us to the dancefloor.

It pulses beneath our feet. The music is definitely louder here: thick with a thrum that blurs the lines between beats and breath.

Tonight I chose to wear my favorite black dress. It clung to all the right places, concealing the parts I wasn't ready to share. Hair is loose, and I feel it brush against my back as I move, heat building not just from the room but also from him. Always him.

Harry.

He looks like a sinner dressed in satin: a dark, half-buttoned shirt catching the light with every movement, blazer hanging open. His chest is barely hidden, the fabric hinting at the skin beneath, tempting.

Rings glint on his fingers as he reaches for me, each one a spark in the dim haze. He draws me in.

I press my body to his, and his hand finds the small of my back. We move together in slow, deliberate rhythm, letting the beat guide us but keeping the space between us nearly nonexistent.

He smells like heat and something expensive. He looked absolutely delicious; it was almost cruel. His tousled hair, hungry eyes, and lips curled in a soft smirk that made me weak in the knees.

"You're staring," he says, close to my ear, voice strong and rough.

"Indeed," I smile. My fingers curl into the lapel of his blazer. "You're not exactly blending in, baby."

His smirk deepens. "Neither are you."

The music swells around us, bodies blur at the edges, and the world narrows to just this: my hips swaying against his, the pounding of my chest, and his hand slipping just a little lower.

"I want them to look."

His words hang in the air, something unraveling deep within me.

I tilt my head up to meet his gaze. There is nothing casual in the way he's watching me now. Full-on, full-force.

I press even closer. The space between us disappears. My hands find the edge of his shirt, that soft and half-unbuttoned satin shirt. My hand slides under his blazer.

His skin is warm beneath my fingertips, solid and real.

He leans down, forehead brushing mine, lips dangerously close but not quite touching.

"I'm trying to behave for you," he murmurs, voice a mix of restraint and need.

"I don't want you to."

He groans softly, pulling me tighter against him. His hands begin to roam with just enough control to keep it from becoming something else entirely. The music pulses like a second heartbeat between us.

And in that moment, I want nothing more than to be taken home.

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[makeyuomine]

the graduate

Summary: It’s your graduation day and Harry can’t wait to celebrate you.

Photo Credits: Pinterest: Diploma, Flowers/Grad Cap

Author’s Note: congratulations to all my graduates!! this one’s for yall

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Today was my day, and Harry hadn’t stopped smiling since morning.

He kept it simple—crisp white shirt, a few buttons undone like always, and black slacks. Effortless. Perfect. He stood in the crowd, phone in hand, camera-ready—except this time the focus was on me.

“Congratulations, baby,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek.

I smiled, adjusting the edge of my cap. My gown floated around the white dress I’d picked weeks ago, but the way he was looking at me made it feel brand new. I looked behind him, looking for the rest of my friends and family.

They were still tucked into rows of folding chairs, watching it all unfold. Harry had broken away from the crowd and hurried toward me, determined to be the first to congratulate me, even though he’d already done so this morning. The memory kept replaying in my mind, distracting me while the commencement speakers droned on.

“You look radiant,” he said, eyes trailing over me with that soft, familiar gaze. I had unzipped my graduation gown, letting the front fall open to reveal the white dress underneath—simple, but meaningful. Gold jewelry caught the light, and around my neck hung the “S” necklace Harry gave me on our anniversary. I wore it today so a piece of him could be with me as I walked the stage.

Alongside my closest friends and family, he was one of my biggest pillars of support throughout university. Looking back, it all feels like a blur—late nights, long papers, quiet breakdowns, and unexpected joys. I can’t believe that chapter of my life was already over.

By now, everyone had gathered around—my closest friends and immediate family, all beaming with pride as they took turns congratulating me. We posed for photos, both group shots and sweet little moments captured one-on-one.

It was sweet watching Harry chat with my parents while I snapped photos with my friends—his eyes still finding mine whenever they could. I couldn’t help but think back to the night I first introduced him to my parents, both of us a bundle of nerves. And now, here we were—all together, easy and familiar.

“Gorgeous!” Harry called out from a few feet away as my friends snapped solo shots of me in my cap, gown, and fresh bouquet in hand. The flowers he had given me were stunning: soft pink blooms wrapped in delicate beige paper, elegant and understated, just like he knew I’d love. I held them close, their petals almost as gentle as the way he looked at me.

I felt my cheeks heat up at his voice—warm and teasing—and caught his eyes sparkling with pride.

I couldn’t help but blush, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear as I smiled shyly. He was making me feel like the only person in the world. Then, with that familiar mischievous grin, he called, “My turn.”

Before I could say anything, he strode over and slipped his arm around my waist. “Let’s get some shots of us,” he said softly, his breath warm against my skin. The scent of his cologne—fresh, woodsy, and unmistakably his—washed over me, making my heart race.

As the camera paused, Harry leaned in close, his breath warm against my ear.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered, his voice low and full of something I could feel deep in my chest.

I looked up at him, my body on fire. He smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear, then added softly, “I can’t wait to be alone with you tonight and celebrate you properly.”

I playfully slapped his arm, laughing softly.

He just grinned, eyes sparkling with that same teasing glint. “I'm serious,” he said, pulling me closer. “But don’t worry—I’ll behave… for now.”

After an hour filled with photos and laughter, we said our goodbyes, promising to reunite in the evening for my graduation party. After that, however, was all about Harry and me—just the way he wanted it.

Thinking about all of this had put me on cloud nine. I couldn't express just how amazing I felt.

I was so proud of myself.

I thought about all the early mornings, the late nights hunched over textbooks, the doubts that whispered I wasn’t good enough. I remembered the times I wanted to give up, the moments when the weight of it all felt unbearable. But here I was—cap and gown, loving boyfriend by my side, with diploma in hand.

The hum of the engine filled the car as we drove away from the crowd, the city lights blurring past the windows. I sat in the passenger seat, still holding my bouquet. I was trying to steady the fluttering in my chest.

Harry’s right hand found its way to my thigh. I could feel the tension beneath his touch, the way his fingers clenched just slightly.

He glanced over at me, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes that he rarely showed. “I just… I want tonight to be perfect. Not just the party, but us.”

My chest tightened at the vulnerability in his voice. He had this way of putting everyone and everything ahead of himself. I knew how much he wanted this graduation party to be perfect—for me. He always cared so deeply about doing things right, especially when it mattered most.

I reached out, covering his hand with mine, squeezing gently.

"Don't worry," I said. "I'm so thankful for you, baby. I already know this party is going to be great."

And the party was more than great—it was the best fucking time. Harry had thought of every detail, from the perfect playlist to the fairy lights twinkling just right, and even the little snacks I loved.

I’d been caught up in the crowd, dancing with my friends and fellow graduates, the thrill of the night making my head spin in the best way.

Through it all, my eyes kept finding his.

Harry was there—chatting with a group of people, watching me with that quiet, intense gaze. Even from across the room, I could feel his attention like a steady pulse, grounding me amid the dizzying energy.

I was definitely feeling tipsy now, my cheeks flushed and movements a little looser than usual. I think Harry notices because I see him begin to walk across the room directly to me.

Without a word, he slipped an arm around my waist, pulling me gently close. His eyes searched mine, slight concern mingling with something tender.

"How you feeling, baby?"

"I'm plastered."

He laughed at the word.

He leaned in close, his voice rising just enough to reach my ear over the booming music. “Let me take care of you.”

Although I mostly felt fine, it was comforting to see Harry so focused on looking after me—his care twisting my stomach into nervous knots.

"I'm taking her to my room to rest for a bit," he told my friends.

Draping his arm around my shoulders securely, he gently guided me toward his room.

Every step felt deliberate, and God, it was intoxicating.

There was something about the way he moved with quiet confidence, the kind of strength that didn’t need to be shouted out loud.

"You're so handsome when you take care of me," I say honestly.

He chuckles as he gently places me on his bed.

"Stay put for a few, then get back out there. I'm getting you water," he said as he began to walk off.

I quickly reach for his hand to stop him.

"I don't want water," I lowly say. "I want you."

And I did. I was so turned on by how safe I felt with him, knowing how much effort he had put into my graduation party, knowing how genuinely proud he was of my accomplishment.

I needed him now.

"Baby..."

"Please," I whispered as I reached for the back of his neck and pulled him to me.

I kiss him as he crouches over me, slightly off balance from me pulling him.

"Thank you for today," I say in between kisses.

"You deserve it all," he breathed out.

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[makeyuomine]

tonight

Summary: It’s Harry’s best friend’s wedding. He might be a little drunk, but he’s charming and needy as ever. He just really needs to tell you this.

Author’s Note: new blurb alert 🚨

Photo Credits: Pinterest

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Harry was the best man, tasked with making sure his best friend had the night of his life—and if he happened to enjoy a few perks of the celebration himself, well, who could blame him?

By the time the speeches wrapped up—including his own heartfelt, slightly cheeky toast—he was more than a little tipsy. His right arm seemed magnetized to me, never straying far. Whether it rested on my thigh, draped over my shoulders, or loosely holding my hand, he stayed close.

Love intrigued him. It always had. And tonight, surrounded by vows and slow dances, he couldn’t help but indulge in how much he adored weddings.

The wedding was a hit—music thumping, laughter echoing, and guests completely swept up in the celebration. Everyone was either on the dance floor or deep in conversation, the whole night buzzing like a perfect social storm. Everyone except Harry and me.

He had me anchored to my seat, entirely captivated. One arm draped possessively across my thigh, the other stretched over the back of my chair, boxing me in.

“I fucking love you,” he murmured.

His mouth left kisses along my neck and back of my head.

“You smell so good,” he added. I wore my Good Girl perfume that always made me feel like the best combination of sexy and sweet. I especially loved that it always scored compliments from Harry.

I closed my eyes, letting his words wash over me like a wave. I could feel the electricity run through my body. I loved when he was raw and needy like this. It’s when he couldn’t stop telling me how he cared, how deeply he wanted me, how much he he loved me. His words were endless, and I never grow tired of hearing them.

I squeezed his arm in acknowledgement.

“You look absolutely stunning tonight,” he said, his eyes fixed on mine. I watched the subtle shift of his Adam’s apple—he truly meant it.

Before I had a chance to thank him, he speaks up again.

“I mean it, baby. You look incredible.”

He reached for my hand and raised it to his lips. He left sweet kisses as he looked directly into my eyes.

I felt the heat rush to my cheeks, grateful that a few loose strands of hair framed my face, offering the slightest bit of cover. Out of habit, I lifted my hand to hide the flustered smile threatening to give me away—but he caught it midair. Fingers intertwining with mine, he brought our joined hands to his lips, pressing soft, lingering kisses to my skin like it was second nature.

A few silent minutes passed as we sat together, just observing the guests enjoying the night. In that time, Harry had polished off two more glasses of whiskey.

“I’d so let you have your way with me,” he slurred softly, almost like a secret, his grin lazy but his gaze devastatingly serious. The words hung heavy between us.

I bursted out laughing. This came out of nowhere. He was so drunk. “Harry, baby.”

He leaned closer, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable. Like he needed me to hear this. “I just… I think about you all the time. Want you in ways I can’t even say out loud.”

By this point, he was buried in my neck again, his lips brushing against my skin in slow, deliberate kisses that sent shivers down my spine.

“Harry, I…”

The words caught in my throat, soft and trembling. I thanked my lucky stars for the dim lighting, because I already knew—I was blushing head to toe. My skin burned with the weight of his gaze, of everything he’d just said, everything he meant.

There was a part of me that wanted to laugh it off, to shift the mood, but the way he was looking at me—like I was the only thing in the room, like I was the only thing that had ever mattered—made it impossible.

“Tell me more,” I manage to say.

My fingers twitched at my side, aching to reach for him, to do something, anything.

He leaned in, lips brushing my ear, voice low and laced with absolute heat. He whispered things I never knew he’d thought about—details, desires, fantasies that caught me completely off guard in the best way.

With every word, my breath hitched. I hadn’t realized just how many ways two people could come together until he started listing them, one after another, like he’d memorized every possibility. His tone wasn’t crude—it was intimate, reverent, like each scenario was something he’d carefully imagined with me in mind.

And the way he spoke, slow and deliberate, made it impossible not to picture every single one.

His words left me in a daze.

“Harry!” his best friend called out from the dance floor, grinning with his radiant bride tucked under his arm. The newlyweds gestured playfully for the two of us to join them.

I glanced around and realized—with a quiet laugh—that Harry and I were the only ones still seated, the lone holdouts in a sea of dancing guests.

Before I know it, Harry stands up and adjusts the buttons of his suit. He offers me his hand with a soft smile. “Come dance with me, love,” he says.

I was so caught in my haze—scattered and overwhelmed—that dancing was the last thing on my mind. What I really wanted was to be alone with Harry. Still, I took his hand, and he pressed a soft kiss to it before gently pulling me to my feet. He must have sensed my state, because he drew me in, close enough to murmur into my ear. His other arm wrapped around me, grounding me with a mix of quiet certainty and unmistakable claim.

“We’ll head out soon,” he promised. “I want you so fucking bad,” he added.

A breathy laugh escaped him as he glanced down, a faint flush coloring his cheeks. Something in him was unraveling — and I felt it echo in me. I reached up, arms around his neck, and rose onto my toes to press a lingering kiss to his cheek, hoping he could feel everything I wasn’t saying.

We only lasted two, maybe three songs after that. Each second stretched taut between us like wire ready to snap. Our bodies moved in rhythm on the dance floor, but our minds were elsewhere, lost in a heat neither of us could ignore. With hurried, half-whispered goodbyes and apologies to our friends, we slipped out of the venue, hearts pounding louder than the music behind us.

Thank goodness we didn’t valet.

Harry fumbled with the keys, breath ragged, his hands barely steady as the car chirped unlocked. He didn’t look at me when he spoke, his voice low and rough.

“Get in the backseat.”

I froze for a second, my chest tightening, heat shooting straight through me. He was already walking ahead, his long strides full of tension, his jaw clenched like he was barely holding himself together. The way his suit clung to his frame, the sharpness in his tone, the raw want in his voice—it all hit me at once.

There was no teasing in him tonight. No smirk, no mischief. Just need. Urgent, aching, unspoken need.

I climbed into the backseat, the cool leather sticking slightly to my skin. The door had barely shut behind me before he followed, slamming it closed with a force that made me flinch—but not from fear. From anticipation. From knowing exactly what was about to happen.

Harry’s hands were on me in an instant—urgent, unrelenting—slipping under the fabric of my dress, pulling me into him. His mouth found mine, hungry and unrestrained, and all that coiled tension between us came undone in that one kiss.

Clothes shifted and bunched in the cramped space. His hands continued to roam everywhere, both reverent and reckless. My fingers fumbled with his buttons, my breath hitching when I felt him hard against me through the layers of fabric still between us. It was too much and not enough, all at once.

“Home,” I whispered breathlessly against his lips.

“We should—”

“No,” he growled softly, pressing his forehead to mine, eyes dark and wild. “I can’t wait. I’ve waited all fucking night.”

The windows fogged, the air filled with our gasps and whispers, the sound of clothes rustling, the occasional thud against the seat or door.

Afterward, we didn’t speak. Not at first.

Harry rested his forehead on my shoulder, his hand splayed over my stomach, rising and falling with my breath. I stared at the ceiling of the car, one hand tangled in his hair, heart still pounding like I hadn’t just given everything to him in the backseat of his car.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes softer now but still stormy.

“I love weddings,” he whispered, voice rough.

“I do, too, baby,” I replied.

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[makeyuomine]

studio styles // part 2

master list // read part 1

Summary: The tension between Harry and (Y/N) finally snaps after a heated kiss. Unable to resist any longer, (Y/N) boldly asks to see his office. Behind closed doors, desire takes over, leading to a night of passion that neither of them can ignore.

architect!harry

Author’s Note: Hope you enjoy. :)

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(Y/N) let out a soft laugh, breathless from the adrenaline of almost getting caught. Harry exhaled slowly, his grin wide, eyes locked onto hers like she was the only thing in the room.

Still seated in opposite sides of her cubicle, she didn’t want the moment to go to waste.

Her voice dipped low. “Does your office have a lock?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and electric.

He didn’t expect her to ask that. He had assumed this was the extent of their involvement for the night. She wanted more. He was so thrown off guard.

“W-What? Y-Yes.”

“Show me, please.”

Within moments, they are weaving back through the corridors, Harry’s hand resting lightly on the small of her back — a touch barely there, but burning.

They reached his office — a sleek, modern space, where glass walls wrapped around the room and opened up to a spectacular, jaw-dropping view of the city below.

She took a slow step forward, drawn to the glass like it was calling her. “Woah,” she whispered, her fingers brushing the edge of the window.

CLICK.

(Y/N) turns at the sound. Harry’s hand on the doorknob that just locked.

She smiled.

Harry stood in place as she began to walk towards him. Her eyes never left his, glimmering with something unspoken but undeniably mutual.

It is only when she is within arm’s reach that he pulls her to him. His need stronger than ever.

His hands gripped her waist as if he’d been dreaming of this moment and was afraid it might vanish if he blinked.

His mouth met hers in a kiss that was nothing like the one they’d shared at (Y/N)’s desk. This wasn’t hurried or stolen. It was open. Intentional. Starved.

They absolutely melted into each other, the tension of weeks — months, maybe — unraveling all at once. Her fingers tangled in the back of his hair, and his hands roamed her back.

Their kiss deepened, growing messier and hungrier. As if every second they were apart was being erased in real time. Their mouths moved with growing urgency, breaths mingling, bodies pressing closer like they were trying to dissolve into one another.

(Y/N) whimpered with need.

Harry immediately moaning in response. Sensitive to her voice.

She arched into him, chasing his touch, her breath trembling as his hands explored her like she was a map he already knew but still wanted to memorize again and again.

Harry kissed her again, more desperately.

Her fingers fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, urgency clouding her coordination.

Harry, watching her through hooded eyes, caught on quickly. He followed her lead, reaching for the buckle of her belt with a practiced hand, jaw clenched in anticipation.

She pushed his shirt off his shoulders, it fell to the floor in a soft swoop. He wore no undershirt. Nothing separated her from the vision before her now — and it stole her breath away.

He was lean and defined, every muscle catching the light, each line of him more intoxicating than the last. She’d seen glimpses of his tattoos before, peeking out when he wore his shirt sleeves casually rolled, but nothing prepared her for the expanse of ink that covered his chest and torso. It suited him — bold, striking, effortlessly magnetic. She was completely captivated, drawn in by the art and the man beneath it. She wanted all of him.

She stared, eyes wide, lips slightly parted — her gaze drinking him in like the skyline outside his glass walls.

His fingers finally freed her belt with a sharp clink, and he let out a hard breath — something between frustration and desperate relief — as he flung it across the room without a second thought. It landed somewhere behind them, forgotten.

His self-control, normally unshakable in boardrooms and briefings, was hanging by a thread. And she felt it. Felt the tension in his touch, the utter desire in his eyes that told her just how badly he needed her.

They stood half-dressed — Harry’s shirt discarded on the floor, (Y/N)’s pants now slipping down to join it. There was something beautiful in the stillness, like he was trying to process the reality of her standing there in front of him, undressing in his office, while the city shimmered just beyond the glass.

He felt wild — reckless, yet completely alive. Nothing like this had ever happened in his office before. He was the CEO, the Principal Architect, the face of Studio Styles. This wasn’t the kind of risk he took. How could he?

She felt it too — the recklessness, the rush — but from the other side of the line. She was just an assistant architect, still in the first year of her career, and he was her direct supervisor. She knew exactly what this was, what it could mean. And yet, none of it mattered in that moment — not when she was so completely, devastatingly consumed by her desire for him.

Lost in the swirl of her thoughts, she felt his hands find her waist, fingers drifting with intent. He reached for the hem of her blouse, pausing to look up at her — a silent question in his eyes, seeking her permission. Her gaze stayed fixed on his, steady and sure, and with a small nod, she gave him her answer. He lifted the blouse slowly, then let it fall away, adding it to the growing pile of clothes between them.

She wore a black balconette bra that framed her perfectly, her curves full and captivating. There was something almost otherworldly about her — breathtaking in the low light. His throat tightened at the sight.

“Fuck,” he breathed out.

He reached for her, drawing her in and capturing her in a kiss that burned with hunger. His lips trailed from her mouth to her neck, then lower — brushing over her collarbones, the curve of her breasts, every inch of skin exposed to him. He worshipped her with his mouth, tasting every place his hands had already memorized.

Hands and mouths explored without hesitation, fueled by months of tension finally unleashed. Clothes continued to fall away, forgotten in the quiet urgency between them.

The city lights cast their glow across tangled limbs and whispered promises, as the two of them moved together in a rhythm that felt both chaotic and inevitable. It was intense — not just physical, but intimate, like they were claiming something they’d both been denying. When they finally gave in fully, it wasn’t just sex. It was surrender. Raw, consuming, and impossible to forget.

He handled her with such care — attentive, deliberate. Even in the unfamiliar setting of his office, he made her feel as safe and comfortable as if they were behind closed doors in a bedroom.

“Fuck,” he kept saying.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he continued.

“I-I… oh,” he muttered.

She’d never been with someone so vocal, so openly expressive in the moment. There was no doubt in her mind that he was fully present and into her. She could feel it in every word, every touch, every sound that escaped him.

“You feel so good, (Y/N).”

(Y/N) moaned in response. She couldn’t stop moaning and whimpering.

Then another followed, softer, needier. She couldn’t help it. Every movement, every brush of his skin against hers drew out more sounds from deep within her. Whimpers and gasps poured out like they were being pulled straight from her core, her body responding instinctively to every touch. She was completely overwhelmed — lost in him, in the feeling, in the way he made her come undone over and over again with nothing but his hands, his mouth, and the way he knew her already, as if he’d been waiting to learn her this way all along.

It felt like they’d been going at it for hours, time slipping away unnoticed as they moved together with relentless energy and need. Neither of them showed signs of slowing — their stamina matched, their desire seemingly endless. Every time they reached a peak, it only sparked another wave of hunger, pulling them back into each other. It was as if their bodies refused to part, fueled by the tension that had been building between them for so long — now finally unleashed without restraint.

Their movements eventually slowed, the urgency fading into something softer, more tender. Heavy breaths mingled in the quiet, their bodies still tangled, skin damp and flushed with exertion. The room, once filled with desperate sounds and friction, now held only the hush of aftermath and the faint hum of the city. Harry pressed his forehead gently to hers, his hand trailing lazily along her spine, as if grounding himself in the reality of her still being there. (Y/N)’s eyes fluttered closed, her chest rising and falling in time with his, both of them caught in the warm haze of something that had gone far beyond just release — it had become connection.

He moved with surprising gentleness, helping her slip back into her clothes with the same care he’d shown her all night. As he guided her blouse over her shoulders, he leaned in to press soft kisses to her skin — her shoulder, her collarbone, the curve of her neck — savoring each exposed inch before it was hidden again.

(Y/N) began gathering her belongings, smoothing down her shirt and running her fingers through her tousled hair, trying to compose herself — at least on the outside.

Her heart was still racing.

Across the room, Harry collected his shirt and slacks from the floor, slipping them on piece by piece as he glanced at her between buttons and buckles. There was no rush in their movements, just a shared silence thick with everything they’d just experienced — a silence neither of them seemed quite ready to break.

Once they were both fully dressed and composed, he glanced at her and said, “Let me take a quick look outside before we head out.”

He slowly cracked the door open and peeked into the hallway, eyes scanning the quiet space. Once he was sure it was clear, he opened it wider and stepped out fully, taking a few cautious strides to double-check that the office was truly empty.

After a careful glance down both ends of the hallway, he stepped back inside, his expression calm but alert. (Y/N) stood where he left her, eyes on him, waiting for some kind of signal. He met her gaze, gave a small, reassuring nod — a silent cue that it was safe — and she moved toward him, ready to follow his lead.

They walked side by side down the quiet corridor, the sound of their footsteps soft against the polished floor. When they reached the elevator, the doors opened almost immediately, as if the universe was still moving in their favor. They stepped inside without a word, each instinctively taking a spot on opposite ends. The air between them buzzed with unspoken energy — a mixture of what had just happened and what still lingered unsaid.

Their eyes found each other almost immediately. Neither could look away. It wasn’t just desire now — it was curiosity, wonder, disbelief at what they’d just done and how natural it had all felt.

Harry glanced up toward the ceiling, his gaze briefly searching. When he spotted no camera in sight, something shifted in his posture — a quiet, decisive confidence.

He moved toward her slowly, deliberately, closing the space between them until she was backed against the elevator wall. His arms extended on either side of her, caging her in gently, not to trap her — but to make it clear she had his full attention.

(Y/N) inhaled sharply, his scent surrounding her, warm and familiar now. She stayed still, breath caught, eyes on him — waiting, wanting.

Almost as if he could read her thoughts, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her temple — a gesture so tender it sent a shiver down her spine. Then, with the same ease and certainty, he tilted her chin and kissed her fully, slowly, like he didn’t want the night to end.

“I really enjoyed that,” he murmured against her lips, his voice low and sincere.

“So did I,” she whispered. She felt a warmth rise to her cheeks, a soft flush blooming across her skin as their eyes held.

“Good,” he said softly, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. He turned his head to glance at the panel above the elevator door, checking the floor number. They were almost at the ground level. Just before the elevator came to a stop, he looked at her one last time, then slowly stepped back, giving her space — though the air between them still felt charged.

With a soft ding, the doors slid open.

They walked out together. The building’s lobby was empty, and as they stepped into the adjacent parking structure. Their footsteps echoed softly as they made their way across the empty garage, lit only by the overhead lights that buzzed faintly.

Only two vehicles remained — her white sedan and his sleek black SUV parked just a few spots apart. Harry scanned the lot and smiled to himself, now recognizing her car. Without saying a word, he made a mental note: next time, he’d park closer to her. Just in case. Just because.

They walked the final stretch in silence. As they reached their cars, they turned to look at each other one last time — a lingering glance, heavy with meaning. No words, just the quiet acknowledgment.

She slid into her seat, started the engine, and flicked on her headlights. Harry didn’t move until he saw her taillights glow and her car begin to roll forward. Only then did he step into his SUV and follow at a distance.

At the exit of the parking structure, their paths split — she turned left, he turned right.

It hit him all at once.

This was going to be a long weekend.

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[makeyuomine]

studio styles // part 1

Summary: (Y/N), a newly hired Architectural Assistant at the renowned architecture firm Studio Styles, grapples with imposter syndrome as she navigates the pressures of her first major role in the field. Balancing ambition with uncertainty, she finds herself drawn to her supervisor—Harry, the firm's brilliant yet enigmatic Principal Architect. As professional boundaries blur under late-night deadlines and quiet moments, (Y/N) must confront the question of what she's really building: a career, a future… or something much more complicated.

architect!harry.

Author’s Note: Thank you all for taking the time to read my work! Pleaseeeee let me know your thoughts! Ideas for more are encouraged :)

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The office smelled faintly of concrete dust and expensive coffee—an oddly comforting blend for (Y/N), who still couldn't believe she worked here.

Only one month in, and the sensation of imposter syndrome clung to her like glue. But each time she caught her reflection in the sleek glass doors of the downtown firm, dressed in black slacks and a structured blazer, she reminded herself: You earned this.

Freshly 25, (Y/N) was the firm’s newest Architectural Assistant, freshly graduated with a Master's and still blinking in the unfamiliar rhythm of a life no longer defined by GPA calculators or studio reviews. Her mind often wandered to one question: Who am I now that I’m not a student?

Work, it seemed, was determined to fill that identity vacuum. She welcomed it. Chased it. Whether it was a zoning analysis for a low-rise mixed-use project or drafting elevation concepts for a civic plaza in the City, she raised her hand for everything. Her ambition didn’t just burn—it blazed.

But no amount of ambition had prepared her for Harry Styles.

The moment she had stepped into the interview room a month ago, she had felt it. The unmistakable shift in the air. The strong current between them.

Harry—Principal Architect, her direct supervisor, and the owner of the very firm she now worked at, Studio Styles—was, in a word, unfair. Thirty-seven, tall, and effortlessly magnetic, he carried the kind of refined charisma that seemed to say: Yes, I know I look good in this tailored navy suit, but I promise I won’t make it your problem.

The man who interviewed her, hired her, and now walked past her desk with rolled-up sleeves and the kind of quiet intensity that made architectural specs seem like poetry. Honestly, how was anyone supposed to stay focused?

Everyone in the office respected him, admired him—even joked about him being the "greenest of flags." But (Y/N) saw something else too: a softness in his voice when he explained design theory, the weight he carried in his brow when he thought no one was looking, the restraint in his gaze when their eyes met.

She wondered if he felt it too. That pull.

Harry had kept things strictly professional, of course. She could tell he worked hard to focus only on the technical, the mentorship. But sometimes—when they hovered side by side over CAD drawings or walked together during site visits—she could swear his fingers brushed hers just a moment too long.

Still, she had goals. Real ones. The promotion to Architect I was not guaranteed. It was the next step, the first real test in proving she could belong in this rarefied world. It would be a long year of learning, proving, and adapting.

Romance? That was the plot of her old daydreams, back in undergrad when her biggest worry was a group project going sideways.

Now? Now she had deadlines. Career reviews. A whole identity to build from scratch.

And yet, as she watched Harry gesture thoughtfully at a floorplan from across the room, smiling that small, half-lidded smile that always made her stomach twist—(Y/N) couldn’t help but think:

If I’m building a life from the ground up… is it so wrong that he might be a part of it? Or is this what happens when you spend years chasing degrees and suddenly find yourself in the real world—down bad for your boss like some HR training video gone rogue?

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The hum of the office had quieted, reduced to the occasional tap of a keyboard and the distant whirl of the plotter spitting out floorplans. Most of the team had already cleared out for the evening, but (Y/N) was still at her desk, editing renderings with the intensity of someone who feared the smallest oversight could unravel everything.

She didn’t hear him approach—just the soft sound of leather soles stopping beside her.

"Got a minute?" Harry asked gently, holding a thick project folder in one hand.

She glanced up, blinking. "Yeah, of course."

He gestured toward the small glass-walled conference room at the corner of the floor. Her heart gave the faintest stutter.

What did he want to discuss? Had someone filed a complaint? Was she being fired?

Inside the conference room, he set the folder on the table between them. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, forearms flexing as he opened the file.

She did her best to hide the nerves tightening her chest, but it was written all over her face.

"Well, don't look so worried," Harry smiled at her reassuringly.

She let out a soft laugh. "I'm sorry, I tend to overthink."

"Don't worry. I actually wanted to discuss a new project with you," he looked at her.

(Y/N)'s brows lifted, curiosity sparking in her expression. A new project? That hadn’t come up in the staff meeting earlier.

"This is the new Rivera Cultural Center downtown," he said, eyes scanning the drawings. "It’s a multi-phase project, community-driven, green-certified. City's backing it heavily, and it's going to be high-profile."

She nodded slowly, her eyes following the path of his finger as it traced the plans. She couldn’t help but notice his hands—steady, capable, and undeniably masculine.

"I want you to take the lead on schematic design," Harry said, looking up at her. "Concept, massing, program alignment, early elevations. You’ll collaborate with me directly."

The words snapped her out of every lingering daydream. (Y/N)'s heart thudded loudly enough; she was sure he could hear it. "Wait—me?"

He smiled faintly. "Yes. You."

She opened her mouth. Closed it again. She wanted to say yes. God, she always wanted to take on a big project. But this one felt… massive.

"I’ve never led something like this before," she said quietly, brows furrowing. "I—I don’t want to mess it up. Or let you down."

"You won’t," he said. "Because I’ll be there. Every step of the way. And I wouldn’t hand you this unless I was sure you were ready for it."

There it was. No patronizing. No sugarcoating. Just belief. Pure and steady.

She lifted her eyes to meet his. And something passed between them then—something unspoken, heavy with possibility. Like the silence before the first line is drawn.

She wondered if he felt it too, that current, that magnetic shift. From the way his gaze held hers, unwavering and sincere, she knew the answer.

But neither of them said it. Not yet.

Instead, she nodded once.

"Okay," she whispered. "I'll do it."

He smiled. And this time, it reached all the way to his eyes.

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The office was quieter than usual this evening, the glow of the city skyline filtering in through the windows as the last of the staff trickled out. (Y/N) had stayed behind, focused on the schematics for the Rivera Cultural Center. She'd already gone over the designs three times, but she couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing.

She was staring at the plans when Harry approached her desk, a soft thud of his shoes on the polished wood floor. She glanced up, startled but grateful for the distraction.

"Everything going okay?" Harry asked, his voice warm but low.

She smiled, pushing the frustration aside. "Yeah. Just trying to figure out the massing for the main lobby. I feel like I’m overthinking it."

"You are," he teased lightly, sitting down in the chair across from her. But his eyes softened as he continued, "But that’s good. Means you're invested."

She shifted in her seat, pulling up a few of the elevation designs. "I just don’t want to miss anything. I want it to be perfect."

"You’re on the right track," Harry said, leaning forward slightly, his gaze locked on the plans. He was close enough now that she could see the faint creases in his shirt, the way the lines of his suit jacket stretched over his shoulders. His presence was comforting, grounding her. "We’re getting there. I can help you with this—walk you through the next step."

She hesitated, glancing up at him, meeting his eyes. He seemed genuinely invested in her progress. There was no condescension, no rush. Just the quiet assurance that she was more than capable.

"You’ve been really supportive," she admitted, almost shyly. "I didn’t expect it to be like this. I thought you'd… I don’t know, be more hands-off."

"Do you want me to be hands-off?" he quickly asked.

She looked up, their eyes immediately connecting.

There was a slight pause. "N-No," she stuttered.

A faint smile tugged at his lips as his gaze lingered on her face. They both turned their attention back to the plans, but there was something different in the air now, something thicker between them that made the space feel smaller, more intimate.

Harry stood, moving to the whiteboard beside her desk to sketch a few notes. She could feel the subtle shift in energy as he reached over her, their shoulders brushing for just a second. It wasn't intentional, but the warmth of his body, the nearness, sent a jolt through her.

When he stepped back, their eyes met again. She was sure he felt it too—the quiet tension hanging in the air, the pull that neither of them acknowledged aloud.

"It's getting late… you should probably head out," (Y/N) said, glancing toward the window where the sky had already begun to fade into evening hues.

"Yeah, I'll get going soon. Just want to make sure you're alright," he said.

The sincerity in his voice truly touched (Y/N).

"I don't know what I'd do without you on this," she admitted.

He stepped closer, gaze on her.

Harry’s expression darkened. His hand came up, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered.

"You won't ever have to find out," he murmured.

That did it.

Her breath hitched just before he leaned in, and then his mouth was on hers—firm, searching, not hesitant at all. She responded instantly, her hand sliding into his shirt collar, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, the weight of everything they hadn't said crashing into that one desperate moment.

His hand found her waist, and with a quiet groan he walked her back until she bumped into the edge of the desk. The plans crinkled beneath her as he lifted her—strong hands guiding her to lie back over the very designs they’d been pouring over just minutes earlier.

The moment was charged, a collision of ambition, desire, and months of restraint finally breaking loose.

He hovered over her, breathing hard. "Tell me to stop."

She didn't.

Instead, she reached up and kissed him again.

The kiss was breathless and all-consuming. Harry's hands framed her hips, her fingers curled into his shirt. Every thought, every rule, every hesitation had vanished the second their lips met. The sound of paper rustling beneath them—plans and sketches now forgotten—only fueled the urgency.

And then—ding!

The elevator doors slid open with a mechanical chime, slicing through the moment like a blade.

They froze.

A beat later, the telltale squeak of rubber wheels echoed down the hall, followed by the soft clatter of cleaning supplies and the faint shuffle of footsteps. The janitor had arrived for the night shift.

Harry pulled back, breathing heavily. (Y/N) sat up fast, heart hammering, cheeks flushed as she frantically smoothed down her blouse and skirt. He ran a hand through his hair, adjusting the collar of his shirt, then leaned casually against the edge of the desk like they'd been talking about floor plans—not making out on top of them.

A faint tune drifted into the studio—some upbeat song the janitor was whistling along to, completely oblivious, earbuds tucked firmly into his ears. He didn't even glance their way as he pushed the trash bin through the hallway, humming to himself and wheeling toward the break room.

(Y/N) let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

"That was close," she whispered, glancing sideways at Harry.

He looked at her, and despite the attempt at nonchalance, there was a spark in his eyes—mischief, disbelief, desire. His lips curved into a crooked smile, a silent what just happened? passing between them.

She couldn't help the grin that tugged at her own mouth, biting the inside of her cheek to suppress it. Their gazes lingered, playful and loaded.

Neither of them said a word, but the silence said everything.

This wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

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Author's Note: Thank you all for taking the time to read my work! How are we liking architect!harry?

[makeyuomine]

written in the stars // part 2

Part 1

Summary: An unexpected encounter at the local bookstore stirs unresolved feelings and quiet tension. What begins with distance slowly shifts as unspoken thoughts come to light.

Tropes: Slow burn, strangers to lovers, mutual pining.

Author's Note: Hi everyone! ⭐️ Thank you so much for the love on Part 1 of Written in the Stars! This is very new to me. Feel free to message me recommendations or ideas!

Photo Credits: Pinterest

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It had been three weeks since the planetarium.

Three months since she'd stood under a canopy of stars and let a near-stranger kiss her hand like she was something rare. Three months since she'd slipped the torn piece of paper into her coat pocket—then her nightstand drawer—and never dialed the number. Not once.

(Y/N) told herself it was nothing. Just a moment. A beautiful, fleeting thing.

But she still hadn't thrown the paper away.

Stuff like this doesn't happen to me, she thought. And honestly, she wasn't wrong—things like this rarely did.

For three months, she wrestled with the same looping question—whether a man like him could have actually liked someone like her.

And by 'a guy like him' she meant someone who, from the little she'd seen, seemed effortlessly attractive, smart, and surprisingly direct.

There was no resolution, no peace. Eventually, she wandered to her favorite bookstore in Los Feliz, hoping that maybe a new book could silence the noise in her head, if only for a little while.

(Y/N) had been purposefully avoiding the Romance section—the last thing she needed was a reminder of love in any form. Instead, she wandered aimlessly through the other aisles, letting herself judge books by their covers. The overly illustrated ones didn’t appeal to her; she preferred something cleaner, quieter. Understated.

At the end of the row, she reached for a third book.

The One I Didn't Call was the title of the book. She let out a dry laugh, eyebrows lifting. "No fucking way."

Flipping it over, she skimmed the summary. Definitely a romance. Definitely shelved in the wrong section. And, somehow, despite her efforts to escape the topic—it actually sounded good. Relatable, even.

With a sigh, she added it to her new collection of books. Maybe the universe had a sense of humor after all.

She was just about to round the corner when she saw the very person who had been consuming her mind for months.

Her feet stopped before her brain caught up.

Harry stood a few feet away in the media section, his back mostly turned to her as he skimmed the contents of a record sleeve. A small stack of items was tucked under one arm—books, a film or two, something that looked like a CD, even. She didn't know anyone who still bought physical music, and yet… of course, he would.

He wore a light button-up shirt again—this time a soft, weathered shade of cream that caught the bookstore's amber lighting. The sleeves were rolled up just enough to reveal the collection of tattoos on his forearms, and his shirt was untucked like he'd tossed it on without thinking too hard. Effortless. Warm in a way that made her ache a little.

She ducked back a step, heart beating fast.

She could walk away. He hadn't seen her yet. She still had time.

But she didn't.

Instead, she stood frozen at the edge of the aisle, her copy of The One I Didn’t Call held tightly to her chest, as if it might shield her from the reality of what—or who—was five feet away.

As if he could feel the weight of her gaze, he glanced up—his eyes scanning the aisle until they landed on hers, unerringly and all at once.

For a second, his expression flickered—something hopeful behind the eyes—but it was gone just as quickly. Replaced by polite recognition. A distant nod.

(Y/N) froze again. She hadn't planned for this.

His mouth parted, as if to speak, but then he seemed to think better of it. Instead, he looked back down at the book in his hands, the motion too pointed to be anything but deliberate.

She stayed where she was, heart thudding, pulse loud in her ears.

Because she saw it this time—clear as the title still pressed against her chest.

He wasn't indifferent. He was hurt.

The stillness stretched between them, thick with everything unsaid. Harry cleared his throat first, the sound almost awkward in the quiet space.

"I didn't expect to see you here," he said, his voice quieter, as if he was testing the waters, unsure of what the atmosphere between them was.

"Same here," (Y/N) replied.

She swallowed hard, feeling like the world was tilting around them. "I didn't mean to—"

He shook his head, cutting her off. "You don't have to explain anything." His eyes flickered briefly to her hand, still clutching the book.

The One I Didn't Call.

A soft chuckle escaped him, the title almost too perfect, too ironic for the situation.

She must've picked up on it, too—her lips curling into a small smile, the irony of it not lost on her.

"Listen," (Y/N) began, voice a touch unsteady.

"I haven’t stopped thinking about that night at the Observatory," she confessed, her eyes flicking up to meet his.

Harry’s brows lifted, clearly caught off guard. He had all but assumed she’d moved on—that whatever he’d felt had been one-sided.

"I haven’t either," he said quietly.

The warmth of his words settled in her chest, softening something that had been wound tight for weeks.

Encouraged, she stepped a little closer. "I’m sorry I didn't call. It was… stupid, really. I was scared."

He said nothing, just listened, gaze intent on her like she was something rare.

She hesitated, then added, "I didn't think you could actually be interested in someone like me."

That stopped him. His expression flickered—confusion, disbelief, maybe even a trace of hurt.

Why would she think that? Had he said something wrong? Did he come off insincere? His thoughts tumbled fast and tangled.

But before he could say anything, she stepped in gently.

"It wasn't you," she said quickly. "It was nothing you did. I just.. It's personal stuff I need to work on."

Harry gave a small nod, the clarity softening the sting he'd carried—the ache of what he'd assumed was rejection turning into something more bearable.

"I know we don't really know each other," he said, stepping closer, his voice low but steady. "But there's something about you that draws me in. You're beautiful—and there's this quiet way you carry yourself that just… sticks with me."

He paused, searching her face.

"So I'm trying to understand how you could ever think a 'guy like me' wouldn't be interested in someone like you."

(Y/N) didn't know what to say. She had never really been in a situation like this before.

(Y/N) didn't answer right away. The weight of his words settled between them like dust in a shaft of light.

She looked down, then back up at him. "I think I've spent a lot of time convincing myself I’m not what people want," she said, barely above a whisper. "Even when they're standing right in front of me, telling me otherwise."

They stood there, surrounded by rows of paperbacks and hardcovers, a pocket of quiet in the world.

Harry's eyes softened. He didn't push, didn't press.

After a beat, he glanced at the book still in her hand and smiled faintly. "You gonna buy that?"

(Y/N) looked down at the cover again—The One I Didn't Call—and exhaled a breath that was almost a laugh. "Yeah," she said. "Feels fitting."

He smiled, just a little. "Can I get your number?"

She looked at him—really looked at him—and nodded. "Yes."

The cashier’s bell rang softly in the distance, signaling the end of something—or perhaps the beginning.

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

Author's Note: Thank you for taking the time to read my work!