"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
JVL
if i look back, i am lost
Sade Olutola
🪼
Stranger Things
DEAR READER
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Acquired Stardust
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@theartofmadeline
oozey mess
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he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Not today Justin
blake kathryn
titsay
taylor price
Claire Keane
seen from United Kingdom
seen from South Africa
seen from Poland
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Italy
seen from Poland
seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Hungary
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
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seen from United States
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seen from United Kingdom
@messyemmy
hey love, do you have a masterlist ? i just stumbled upon grapejuice and it was amazing !! i’d love to read more of your writings ♥️
MESSYEMMY'S MASTERLIST
Hi my darling! Thank you so much! I'm also gonna link all of the Harry writing I published back on my old account 💞
Masterlist (2015 - ).
🤭🍒 newest to oldest 🐞🌻
smut [💋] fluff [🌷] angst [❤️🔥] mix [🫧]
[Other Masterlists] Grapejuice 🍷 Dad!Harry 🧸 Trophy Series 🏆Blurbs 🍉 Bad Neighbours 🍑
✨Series:
Bad Neighbours - Part One / Part Two / Part Three (ongoing.) 🫧
In which Harry and his neighbour are sworn enemies, but they're also quite fond of the cute, flirty person they've recently met online.
Grapejuice - Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four (ongoing.) 🫧
Extras: Little Angel-Only Freak (Halloween) / Green-eyed Monster (Prompts)
In which Harry is Y/n's younger brother's best friend and she refuses to see him as anything other than a child.
Unrequited Love - Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four (fin.) ❤️🔥
In which Y/n has been in love with Harry for as long as she can remember- he just happens to be thicker than a batter of pancakes.
✨One Shots:
Baby Fever [Dad!harry] 🌷
In which Harry really wants to start a family.
Red Herring ❤️🔥
In which Harry is an extremely petty assassin.
Worst Wingman 🫧
In which Harry seems to love sabotaging dates.
Newborns [Dad!harry] 🌷
In which Harry has underestimated how much his life is about to change.
Ray of Sunshine [Grumpy!H] ❤️🔥
In which a very grumpy Harry meets Y/n and she seems unwilling to humour his attitude.
Friday Nights [Dad!harry] 🌷
In which Harry cannot wait home to see his two favourite girls.
Silver Screen (Film Festival) 🫧
In which Harry finds out he isn't the only one who hates mingling.
Routines [Dad!harry] 🌷
In which harry wakes up to the sweetest surprise.
Afterparties on Tour [Italy!Harry] 🌷
In which Love on Tour is ending and Harry really needs to tell Y/n how he feels.
Masks On 💋
In which Harry visits a fancy sex club where everyone is wearing masks and zero clothing... and then he meets Y/n.
Run-Ins / Run Ins: (again)🌷
In which Harry tries to brave a heat wave, and Y/n's dog knows just the thing to help him.
Bronze is Better (BRITS) 🫧
In which Y/n tries to thank Harry for his kind gesture, but he's a tad preoccupied.
Going for Gold (GRAMMYS) 🫧
In which Harry and Y/n have a meet-cute on the red carpet.
Slow Motion (Song Request) 🌷
In which Harry has been patiently waiting for Y/n to accept her feelings for him.
Teasing Tactics 💋
In which Harry has marvellous hands, and Y/n can only resist so much.
All I Want ❤️🔥
In which Harry and Y/n had a hasty break-up, but drunk Harry can't quite keep away, and sober Y/n seems to feel the same.
Heart Out 💋
In which Harry and Y/n are friends with benefits but she desperately needs a date to her ex-boyfriend's wedding.
Counting the Minutes 🫧
In which Harry walks in on his best friend naked hehe.
Eighteen 🌷
In which Harry has literally been in love with Y/n since they were eighteen years old.
Medicine 🫧
In which Harry and Y/n have an interesting relationship; this is what happens when they reunite.
She Way Out 🫧
In which Harry is the lead singer of grungy-band White Eskimo, and Y/n shows up at the local bar.
Nobody Compares 💋
In which Harry and Y/n have been flirting the entire tour and things get heated at the release party.
Sex Toys 💋
In which Harry and Y/n are best friends and he happens to stumble upon her drawer of goodies.
✨Blurbs / Suggestions:
#24 - Ballroom Dancing 🌷
#1 - Seated at a Wedding 🌷
#37 - It's not what it looks like 🫧
#60 - Marry me 🌷
Soft/Shy Harry 💋
Neighbour Harry 💋
Sex With Harry 💋
-
💕 All writing published on this blog @messyemmy [as well as on my other blog @cheap-packof-cigarettes] are of my own creation. I do not give permission for any of my work/pieces to be copied, reposted to this or other sites (AO3, Wattpad etc.), or copied and pasted into AI generators (ChatGpt, Meta AI etc.) My pieces are also protected, and copyrighted under my Wix blog [The Online Archives ©]. All images are not mine unless stated otherwise- credit to the rightful owners. Thank you for visiting my blog, I hope you enjoy, lovelies! 💕
So...... more bad neighbours?? 🤭🤭
What are we wanting to see though? More neighbours getting along? More online romance? More smut? Fluff? Angst??
Too sweet 2 | H.S
CW: this is part two to lhh gang/mafia!harry x sweet ice cream shop worker!Y/N. its like grumpy x sunshine, slowburn, and invovles heavy themes like kidnapping, guns and violence so please read at your own discretion :-). its got a lot of sexual tension and fluff cos harry is a sucker for yn (as he should be!). this might not be my most popular series but i love it very very dearly! i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it x
Insipired by the song Too sweet by Hozier!
Read part one here.
WC: 3.6K
Y/N was absolutely terrified.
Not only was she basically deathly afraid of bikes (though she would never admit this out loud to anyone) but she was very obviously, and very reasonably, scared for her life.
When she clocked out of her shift at the ice cream shop not even three hours ago, she didn’t think her night would result in this —her arms wrapped tightly around Harry’s waist, head buried in his curly hair as he whizzed at a pace that felt way too fast on the motorbike she thought only he looked hot riding. Plus to top it all off, he made her wear his ridiculously large helmet which was definitely like two sizes too big for her, so it kept sliding all around her neck like an upside down fishbowl. But again, her brain didn’t let her worry much about this, burying her self-conscious thoughts deep beneath her panicked feelings. She tried not to think about what he told her right before she got on the bike with him—the whole story about her being stalked and followed and nearly kidnapped. If it was anyone but Harry, she would never ever believe them. She’d have brushed them off with the wildest laughter she could muster, because who on earth would ever want to kidnap Y/N? And why?
There was nothing inherently special about her—she was an English lit graduate just trying to make her ends meet. Trying to get her student loan bills paid, keep her rent paid, her tummy filled and her dog healthy—
Oh god, her dog!
Poor Coco. He must be all alone in her apartment, probably waiting by her door like he normally did, hoping that she would walk in any moment with a treat in her hand and a promise to let him sleep in her bed that night. Poor Coco, who must be so hungry, and jeez, so starved, Y/N was actually going to burst. She couldn’t take it.
She was riding Harry’s bike, trusting him so blindly, letting him take her to whatever ominous place he hinted at, for God knows what! All because what? She was going to get kidnapped?
The more she thought about her circumstances, the more she sank into a state of disbelief. None of this could be true, because what do you mean her life was at risk!?
The frightened girl was just about to thump her hands on Harry’s shoulder, demanding him to stop his bike and answer her questions at once when the rain came. First one drop, and Y/N was going cross-eyed staring at the line it left down her (Harry’s) helmet. And then two, three… and then came the downpour.
And boy was it a pour.
She felt the rain beating down on her back, and within seconds she was fully drenched. Harry turned his head back towards her, his hair whipping all over his face as he tried to say something along the lines of ‘you okay?’ and ‘we’re almost there.’ She tried to communicate by nodding, but she was unsure how much he could actually comprehend due to the fucking planet engulfing her whole head at the moment.
Alas, she accepted her faith and gave up, relaxing against Harry’s back as she surrendered to the rain. If this was her life, then so be it. She was going to find a way out of this and if the solution was to be stuck to Harry like cling-film as he drove them both on his bike like they popped out of a 1980’s film, then who was she to complain?
Finally after what felt like hours, the bike stopped. Y/N lifted her head off of Harry’s broad shoulders and quickly looked around, trying to decipher through the helmet where the hell they were. Harry kicked the bike stand out and got off. He shook his hair out much like a dog would do, and then stuck out his hand for her to take. A bit wobbly on her feet, Y/N held his fingers and hopped off.
Sadly she did not anticipate being so incredibly off balance after having ridden a bike for what felt like maybe thirty hours, so she stumbled right into Harry. Luckily for her he was not only strong but also had the instincts of a freaking super hero, so he caught her very quick, big hands coming down on her shoulders, “Are you okay?” He asked, knocking a knuckle against her helmet.
Y/N again tried to nod but she wasn’t sure he understood what she was doing. He slowly took her helmet off, careful not to hurt her in any way. Beneath it was a sight he was not ready to see.
Y/N’s eyes were wide with what Harry could only decipher as fear and perhaps adrenaline. The rain paired with the humidity had tinged her soft cheeks pink and her lips were again in a pout—the same pout that made his heart go all fuzzy and his brain turn to mush. She took his breath away with nothing but a single look. A single, innocent express—
“I need to feed my dog, Harry.”
Her words pulled Harry out of his lovestruck haze. He had to physically shake his head to rid his thoughts, eyebrows meeting in a furrow, “What?”
“My dog, Harry! He’s going to starve!” She exclaimed. He could see the panic in her eyes, her mouth agape in worry. Rain poured down on the both of them but he noticed how it clung to Y/N’s eyelashes, the poor girl blinking ridiculously to keep it from irritating her pupils. Harry frowned.
Well, that just wouldn’t work.
In one swift motion he pulled his favourite leather jacket off of his shoulders and tugged it gently over her head like a mini umbrella. His ringed fingers held it there as a satisfied expression graced his face. It was easy to ignore his sopping wet clothes when Y/N was as comfortable as he could make possible.
“What are you doing!?” She asked him, exasperated.
“It was getting in your eyes,” he murmured, simply. He let her fingers take ahold of his jacket as he put his hand on her lower back and started guiding her towards the warehouse. “You’re going to fall sick,” Y/N stated, looking up at him through wet lashes.
“I won’t.”
She noticed his jaw clenching, vision never straying from their path as he led them down a narrow passage. His curls were soaked now, clinging to his face and his expression was stern—stony, as invisible cogs twisted and turned in his brain.
Y/N hated that even now, despite being panic driven, she still thought he was the sexiest man she had ever laid eyes on.
This time, Harry snapped her out of her daze.
“I’ll get Coco for you tomorrow morning.” He suddenly stopped walking, standing before a rusted door. The building was worn down and old, and Y/N was incredibly confused as to where he brought them. He knocked in a sequence of 2-1-2 and Y/N heard shuffling from the other end. Voices echoed but she struggled to decipher what they were saying.
“Why tomorrow? Why can’t we go now?” She had to raise her voice as the rain got worse, drenching the two of them save for Y/N’s face thanks to the jacket which smelled dizzyingly just like him.
He leaned down to speak so that she could hear him better, but before he could say anything, the big creaky door was pulled open and Y/N saw another unfamiliar face. It was a man, and he was slightly shorter than Harry. He had long hair too but it was tied back in a low bun. He sported a beard which framed small lips and narrow eyes, “What the fuck?”
Harry didn’t say anything but sighed, fingers encircling Y/N’s wrist as he quickly pulled her inside. Y/N’s eyes danced around the wide space, taking in the peeling walls yet sleek TV and pristine couches surrounding it; a long table stood behind the sitting area which was littered with ash trays, cards and beer cans. The lights were dim, and across the room she noticed a tiny kitchen tucked into the corner, on the edge of which the man now stood.
“What… who… who is that?” he said, kicking the door shut and locked before turning to where Harry and Y/N were. She finally pulled the jacket off and wrapped it around her shoulders instead, “Harry?”
“Y/N, Mitch. Mitch, Y/N.” Harry quickly introduced. He ran a hand through his wet curls, looking at both of them expectedly. The man—Mitch, eyed Y/N warrily but offered no greeting, “You know we aren’t allowed to bring dates back here? Or anyone for that matter?”
“We are not dating,” Y/N suddenly blurted. Both boys turned to her, sort of startled by her sudden confession, “I just wanted to… make that clear.” Her cheeks were pink and she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, clearing her throat.
“She was going to get kidnapped. Dean’s boys,” Harry said, swiflty moving past the awkward moment, “Don’t we have any towels around here?” He looked irritated, stomping around the mysterious room they were in and pulling open random closets.
And honestly, how could he not be irritated? Y/N was shaking like a skeleton from the cold. The last thing he wanted was for her to get sick.
As if on cue, another woman walked in, joining the party of three. She was beautiful, with long brown hair tied back in a ponytail and icy blue eyes. “Uhh, who is that?” She said, gaze drifting to Y/N. Having fully accepted the absurdity of the situation she was in, Y/N gave the pretty woman a polite smile. Fuck, if she knew what to do in these circumstances. She almost convinced herself this was all a big nightmare.
“Towels? Do we have any?” This time Harry’s voice raised and Y/N had never seen this side of him before, granted they only met enough times that she could count their interactions on one hand.
“Here.” The woman scurried across the room and opened a lone, rusted drawer. She tossed a towel each at Harry and Y/N. Y/N muttered a small thank you, aware of Harry’s gaze on her, making sure she was drying herself off properly. Only after he noticed her body stopped spasming from the cold did he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“So, are you going to tell us what the fuck is going on?”
-
It was an hour and a half later, and Y/N was drained to the core.
Mitch and the woman, whose name Y/N learned was Sarah, brought two cups of tea to her and Harry before the three of them revealed maybe (definitely) the most insane thing she had ever heard in her life.
In her defence, Y/N fully did not think that gangs were a thing that still existed in today’s day and age—and even if they did exist, she did not think they still involved guns and drugs and raids and kidnapping… but recently life just decided to keep dealing her with a surprise after a surprise. It was genuinely like she could not catch a break.
She tried to school her expression into one of calm and collectedness, but she knew she failed miserably when she drank in Harry’s ashamed face. Although he looked and felt fucking exhausted, he powered through if only to make sure Y/N went to sleep that night with no doubts in her head or questions on her mind. It would kill him if she started thinking differently of him because of what she just found out, but he wouldn’t necessarily blame her if she did.
“Let me get this straight,” she started, setting her mug down. Mitch, Sarah and Harry watched her keenly as she cupped her forehead with her fingers, “You,” she pointed at Harry with her finger, “are a part of a gang. This gang,” she motioned around the mostly empty room, “this is your like… meeting spot. And you… owe… another gang money because of some sort of drug shipment delay,” she said that like a question, her other hand fidgeting with her bottom lip, “and one of their guys saw us at the bar that night… and thought they could use me to…”
Harry quipped in, “Bribe.”
“Yes, bribe, your gang and… get their… money… back?”
Mitch and Sarah nodded in unison. Harry pursed his lips. “Yep.”
“So… is the gang just the three of you or like are there other people?”
“There’s sixteen of us.”
Her eyes narrowed suspicsouly as she cast another wary glance around the warehouse, “And they are…”
“Gone for the night.” Mitch checked his wristwatch, “It is two AM.”
“This is fucking crazy.” Y/N finally said it. It was the only string of sentences she could think of after what they told her. It felt like someone pulled the rug from beneath her feet. Her entire world has been turned upside down within the span of like two months. She buried herself further in Harry’s jacket, finding odd solace in the scent of him.
“I know.” He said, quietly.
“What now then? My life is over? Do I have to change identities and move to another continent?” Y/N was coming up with irrational hypotheticals, because, well, that was what she saw in the movies and this whole thing was starting to feel like one too.
This time, Sarah replied. Hesitantly, she sat down next to Y/N and put a comforting hand on her shoulder, “Listen, I know this is a lot to take in right now and you must be so scared, but I also need you to do exactly as we say, okay?”
Y/N’s eyes shifted from Sarah to Harry. She couldn’t quite read the expression on his face; it was a mixture of worry and regret, but she could also see the nonchalant mask he attempted to put up to hide all of his feelings. It might be cliche to say, but eyes really were the window to his soul.
She took a deep breath in and out.
“What do I have to do?”
-
When Y/N envisioned Harry’s house in her guilty moments where she let herself daydream, she didn’t expect this.
She thought it would be like most guys she normally saw—gray or navy sheets, a single pillow, a lone TV and a pile of unwashed dishes in the sink. Maybe a dirty sock under the bed.
What she didn’t expect was pretty, green walls, decorated with odd pieces of art and photos of whom Y/N assumed was his family—two women, one a bit older but they both resembled Harry to a large extent. As they went further inside, a hallway opened up to a massive bookshelf stocked to the brim and a small TV, accompanied by a comfy looking orange couch. To the right of that was a cozy kitchen and she noticed he had a brown kitchen aid, which was so endearing to her she didn’t know what to do with herself.
And then he guided her to his room. It came as a surprise to her that it had three big windows, overlooking the park that was right in front of his complex. She assumed ample amount of sunlight probably poured through them every morning, and Y/N was a sucker for that. He had a fluffy blue carpet and a massive bed with white sheets.
There was an adjoining bathroom which Y/N really wanted to get into so she could finally shower and rid herself of the days’ griminess, but that desire was delayed when Harry cleared his throat from behind her.
She turned around to face him as he dropped his keys and their forgotten groceries on his counter. His hair was still a little damp from the rain since he took most of the impact, opting to give Y/N protection under his leather jacket. The article stayed hugging her shoulders, “Nice place.” She hummed, looking around the room observantly.
“Thanks.”
“How long before I can go home?”
Harry sniffled, feeling a slight cold creeping up on him. “I really can’t tell at this stage. I need to talk to the others first.”
The girl sighed, rubbing a palm over her face in distress, “And Coco? My car?”
“I’ll get both first thing in the morning.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
For the first time that night, Y/N felt the emotions finally hit her all at once. The stress combined with the sheer ludicrousness of the situation made her feel like she was going insane—her mind and body just could not accept the circumstances she was in. Before she knew it, she felt tears prickle in her eyes. This really was the cherry on top. If there was one thing Y/N hated in this world, it was crying in front of people.
So she tried to hide her face, trying discreetly to rub her eyes like she had something in them, but of course Harry saw fully right through her and took two strides towards her. Instantly, his hands were around her wrists again, pulling them down so he could see her better, “Heyy, stop. None of that,” he muttered. His gaze flitted across her sad face, and he could practically feel his own heart shattering into pieces with every tear that trailed down her rosy cheeks.
Y/N tried her best to avoid eye contact with him but he freed one of his hands to cup her face, tilting it towards him. The cool sensation of his rings grounded her and he gently ran his thumb underneath her bottom lashes to collect her tears. “Sorry—I hate crying. You don’t—you don’t have to do this,” she said weakly. Her waterline glistened even further as Harry ignored her request and instead pulled her into his chest.
It felt weird and sort of uncomfortable because they were both damp and slightly cold, but neither actually cared. Surprisingly, Harry still packed a lot of body heat, which did wonders for Y/N shaking shoulders. She was sobbing—like full-on, runny nose wet face sobbing—and she was probably getting his clothes all snotty too but the boy pretended he did not care. He continued rubbing big, soothing circles on her back, cooing gently as if consoling an injured cat or a scared child (both of which Y/N was feeling very similar too).
It took her a while to finally stop crying, but Harry didn’t mind holding her as she calmed down. Call him cheesy, but he was honored to be that person for her. Just the fact that she felt comfortable enough in his presence to be so vulnerable could make him explode. He can’t remember the last time anyone showed him so many emotions. Everyone was always walking on eggshells around him—like they were intimidated by him.
When she pulled away, Harry swears he could have melted into a puddle by her feet.
Her eyes were wet and glossy, lashes clinging to each other. Her cheeks were splotched with tears and the tip of her nose was pink, like she was Rudolph or something. The thought was so adorable Harry had to hold himself back from kissing the irritated skin until she laughed and pushed him away.
She avoided meeting his gaze and took a small step back, “Uh sorry I… I just got carried away, I’m sor—”
“You have to stop apologising all the time,” He said, with a small chuckle. Up close, Y/N could admire the deep dimples that carved into his cheeks, making him all the more charming. She was so tempted to stick a finger in it, give it a kiss, even bite it, but she didn’t—instead she worried her bottom lip tentatively, “It’s a habit…sorry.”
His hand travelled up to her cheek as she apologised so sincerely, eyes never straying from his own. Harry knew that if he did not stop himself now, things could go awry and that might not be what she needed in her state of mind. She was already so fragile, he didn’t want to shatter her further by confusing her.
He only hummed, letting his thumb wipe away the evidence of her sadness. He was so close to her, all Y/N had to do was lean up and her mouth would be against his and her mind would be put at rest—all she could think about was what he felt like and how he tasted. What type of a kisser was he—would he be gentle and give her soft, slow pecks, or would he be rough and take control, tangle his hands in her hair and invade her mouth?
It was as if he could read her desperation and temptation when he let go of her face and cleared his throat again, “You should change before you get sick,” he muttered, “I’ll get you some clothes.”
Harry was about to turn away from her when she stopped him, speaking up softly, “Thank you. For everything. If you hadn’t been there tonight… I don’t even want to think about what could have happened.”
He could tell she was still reeling in her emotions and he didn’t want to see his pretty girl crying again, so he just gave her a small smile (barely there, like a ghost of one) and nodded, “Y’don’t ever have to thank me, Y/N.”
AN: okayyy hello here we go!! i hope you guys liked this one!! i know i said this one might be a bit longer and tbh it was longer, i didnt include the next like 2k or so words BECAUSE IM NOT GOING TO LIE i wanted to write something else and i CANNOT work on two things at the same time lol!!!! but i do love this chapter and i love this pairing so i hope u do too!! again like i said this story is not my most popular so any like or reblog or reply or comment or ask i get matters A LOT so please do not be shy!!!! sorry this took ages!! xx
My new obsession is these two!! 😭
So...... more bad neighbours?? 🤭🤭
“It’s okay! Don’t worry about it, I don’t mind. It kind of seemed like Niall’s speed anyway,” he shrugged.
“But what if we had found like – like, y’know. . .your stash of stuff? Like guns and – and ties and –”
Harry chuckled, scrunching his nose, “Ohh, stuff like that I keep underneath my seat,” he pointed behind them, “ I can lift it, and there’s a compartment beneath it for all that.”
“Oh,” Y/N swallowed thickly, punching in the code to their main lobby, “Sorry though, for like – doing that still.”
“I really don’t have anything to hide from you,” he said, “It’s nice, actually, since the big thing is kind of out in the open, it feels like I can be myself. Y’know?”
or
Y/N & Harry see each other all of the time, it's a little weird, right?
[WARNING: Harry lowkey has some stalker-ish tendencies, but he isn’t being creepy for creep-sake, it’s more so ‘I need to make sure you don’t ruin this very intense, long-standing operation’ kind (and things concerning the cat)! There are also mentions of violence! if that makes you uncomfortable, this is NOT the fic to read!!]
(15.3k+ words)
part 1
ii.
Y/N doesn’t know if she should be suspicious or not.
Because here is the thing: she sees Harry everywhere. Everywhere. It started first with the boba place beside the vet, sure, and then at the bowling alley, but soon he pops up in places that she often frequents. Places she’s never seen him before, until after she met him, though she isn’t sure she could use that against him. Maybe they’d been passing by each other this whole time and had no idea how prevalent they’d become in one another’s lives. Or maybe Harry is following her much closer than he’d initially led her to believe.
She isn’t sure. It wouldn’t make sense, she thinks, if this were him following her. He had told her from the very start that if he wanted to follow her, she wouldn’t know or notice, but maybe that had just been to throw her off? Like, he said it so that if he ever did get caught, then it wouldn’t be obvious he was following her?
Because every time Y/N sees him, he is heavily involved in doing something else. Like, if he were following her, he was not doing a good job at paying attention to her at all, or at least that’s what she thinks. If she were to stalk someone, then she’d make more of an effort to focus.
For example, she ran into him at the grocery store near her flat. It was a big one in the area, but it was a chain, so there were multiple around the city, meaning it wasn’t like he needed to be at that very one specifically. The weather was so nice that week, which – if you asked Niall – was always around the time Y/N started on her “Girl Who is Going To Be Okay” tour, so she’s meal prepping and making vows to eat better. That means she’s filling up her cart with lots of fruits and veggies, tofu, whole grains, and a couple of snacks for when she inevitably gives up because cooking every fucking day is too hard (and how dare you expect her to eat leftovers for more than lunch the following day?).
Anyway, she was pushing a heavy cart out of the snack cake aisle when she almost slammed her cart into someone rounding the corner. “Oh my god! I’m sorry,” she rushed, feeling as rattled as her cart, but then she looked up at the person, expecting a soccer mom with a cart full of juice boxes – and instead, she saw Harry. Her eyes widened, calling his name.
Once he registered it was her, Harry’s smile stretched wide and bright, “Oh, Y/N, hi,” his dimples are deep crevices in his cheeks, and her thumbs itch to dig into them, but she shoves the thought away, “Wow, your trolley is pretty heavy, isn’t it? Do you need some help pushing?” He’d inquired as if he wasn’t pushing his own full cart of groceries.
Y/N couldn’t help but peer at him, though, “You come to this store?”
He nodded, “Yeah, all the time.”
“Really? That’s so crazy, I’ve never – I’ve never seen you here before.”
Harry hummed, running his palm along the handle of his cart, “Yeah, isn’t that crazy? I’ve never seen you either, haha, are you stalking me?” He was teasing, at least she’s pretty sure he was, “If you’re concerned, though, I have some receipts from the last couple of months, before you and I ever met. I have an app that, if I scan the receipts, gives me points toward a gift card. Would that make you feel better? If I send you some?” Y/N opened her mouth to tell him no, because she wasn’t trying to seem crazy, but he cut her off, “Actually, I’ll just go ahead and send them.” Then he motioned toward her cart, “But seriously, Sweetheart, that’s full. You’ll have trouble carrying those home, won’t you? Let me help.”
She did end up letting him take her home with little fuss because he was right, it would have been horrible trying to cart all this home alone. Then he helped her pull it all upstairs, put it away, rearranged her fridge and pantry in a way that was more “palatable” and easy to go through if she was going to be meal prepping, gave Muffy a thousand kisses on her tiny head, then went on his way. Y/N is a little bit boggled by how quickly she went from suspicion and distrust to allowing him in her home again. She wondered if he was just good at manipulating the situation, if she was stupid, or if it was a little bit of both. Who knows?
And, listen, if that was one off, Y/N wouldn’t have thought anything about it.
But then she sees him at a craft store, lingering around the embroidery hoops with a basket full of supplies. Y/N had been planning on going for a couple of days before she finally did it. Aki’s birthday was coming up, and she was a clay keychain making god, so Y/N was going to get her some more of the supplies that she likes to use. They’re relatively inexpensive, but “annoying to buy,” as Aki had put it. Plus, there were some paints and a new type of resin she’d mentioned that she’d like to dabble with as well, so Y/N had filled her cart full of things. Enough that she had a feeling the “inexpensive” aspect of this was no longer going to be a factor.
That’s besides the point, though. This was the second time in the span of only a few days that she and Harry ran into each other outside of any sort of spot it’d make sense for them to meet (which, they didn’t have many – maybe an alleyway would make sense, or her flat, since he probably already knows how to get in and out through her window, no matter her being on the fifth floor). Then, she was really getting suspicious – her eyes narrowed from across the aisle. As if he had a sixth sense (and he probably does), he turned to face her. He must have felt her gaze burning into his side.
“Oh, wow, this is getting kind of creepy,” Harry noted.
“You’re telling me,” Y/N replied, only she was the one to approach him, keeping her cart in front of her so she didn’t have to slam it into him, “I didn’t know you embroidered.”
There were a lot of things Y/N didn’t know about him, so it was sort of stupid to say. Like, she didn’t know what exactly his job entailed. She didn’t know how someone so weird but also kind of normal, and nowhere near gloomy enough, got involved in a job like the one he has. On top of that, Y/N doesn’t know if he is actually a psychopath who is doing a really good job at seeming normal.
But she doesn’t know what his favorite food might be, or if he knows how to ride a bike well. She doesn’t know if he’s a shower-in-the-morning or in-the-evening kind of guy, and if he sticks to a strict skincare routine. Y/N doesn’t know if he folds his laundry neatly and puts it away, or if he just pulls from his hamper and lives out of it like a suitcase. What was his favorite color? Did he have a favorite show? Did he like going out to eat? And why did Y/N care about any of this?
The things she does know? Harry likes cats (he likes Muffy, especially), he actually puts his fruits and veggies in the labeled drawers in the fridge, and refuses to have cereal and granola bars on the same shelf (granola bars are a snack food, not just a breakfast food, they should be put with the snacks), his biceps are big, he likes boba tea (Gladys does love him Y/N found out when she went after one of Muffy’s vet appointments, because Y/N caved and asked) he’s the “best uncle ever”, and he thinks that she’s beautiful.
And, apparently, he likes to embroider.
“I’m not the best at it,” he admitted to her, slipped his phone out of his pocket, and started scrolling to his photo album labeled Crafting Attempts, and he scrolled through it to show her his different “attempts”. Y/N found that Harry’s “not the best at it” and her “not the best at it” are two completely separate things. When she’s attempting something, it is usually sort of ugly: the stitches are uneven, the paint is runny, the clay has fingerprints all over it – whatever the media she’s trying to work with, because she convinces herself that she could become really good at a different craft every couple of weeks to keep life magical.
Harry’s attempt, Y/N found, is a beautiful and intricate piece that someone would probably spend 100 quid on without batting an eyelash. He’s not just embroidering cheesy sayings with flowers around them – he’s embroidering scenes. Mountainsides and trails, coral reefs and sea sunsets – things that Y/N would have never thought to even try. Her mouth fell open as he scrolled through them, clearly his hand holding the hoop, or a couple of them, he took a selfie with them like he was proudly sending them to someone.
“Wait, what the fuck?” Y/N touched his phone, zoomed in closer on his work, “What do you mean you aren’t the best at it? This is amazing!”
He smiled sheepishly, and his cheeks even had the nerve to color a little, “Really? You think? My nan says I still have a long way to go.”
“I’m like. . .horrified and intrigued to see what her pieces must look like if this is what has a long way to go.”
His dimple was cute when it popped out on the left side, and Y/N really wanted to dig her thumb into it again, but she refrained (she’s so strong-willed). “Do you work with clay?”
So, somehow, they finish out the rest of that shopping trip together, too. Y/N explained that she was really here for Aki, and somehow or another, Harry wheedles out some information that Y/N wanted to learn how to learn how to tunisian crochet. Then he showed her the best hooks for it, the best yarn, and she was convinced she could crochet a summer tube top with the pattern he promised to send her, because he’d made one for his sister. This time, Harry doesn’t follow her home, but he does give her an air kiss and specifies that it was for her to keep, save, and give to Muffy.
Y/N sees him at the boba place again, and they sit down for a drink together. When she and Niall are picking up lunch, Harry is at the same sandwich spot (where he told the guy over the counter, “I’ll have the usual,” so it’s obviously somewhere he frequents). Getting coffee with Aki and Harry is plucking his lip at one of the tables and typing on a computer. For fuck sake, she went to get a newer, bigger telly because there was a sale at one of the department stores closer to her, and Harry is in the same store, trying to decide what LEDs to get for wrapping around his TV.
It’s suspicious – if it were anyone else, Y/N would have for sure been convinced that they were stalking her and that was that. And, if it were anyone else, she would have probably filed a police report a long time ago and started carrying around mace. She had every reason to believe that Harry would be stalking her, due to the nature of their relationship, but every time they bumped into each other, he had just as much of a reason to be there as she did. Plus, he is always so willing to prove to her that it wasn’t him tracking her location, because “I trust you’re not going to go to the police at this point. Also, I’ll get an alert if you’re within 1 kilometer of a station, so I’m not worried.”
There’s also the fact that wherever she ends up, Harry already seems to have been established there. His basket is always fuller, his food is typically a quarter to halfway gone, the seat he’s sitting in is warm, and the workers know him. Even in places Y/N has never been, she bumped into him. Honestly, it really is starting to look like Y/N was the one stalking him, and even Niall had questioned her on it, after the fourth coincidental run-in with Harry when she suggested they try out a new cafe across town.
“Like, I’m not going to judge you, I’ve done my fair share of cyber stalking, but babe, if you’re trying to make a good impression, we should probably be a little less obvious that you’re following him around.” He had a straw tucked into the corner of his mouth – Harry had come to sit with them for a while, then suggested they try the peach lemonade for something refreshing and his favorite fruit tart (“I hope it isn’t too tart-y of a treat for you, to pair the both together. I’m a big fan though.”). They did, and tried it in front of him, and after they told him how good it was, he left.
“I’m not stalking him,” Y/N stressed, and if she could explain to Niall how, actually, it had been the other way around for a while, she would have, but she has to bite her tongue, “It is like the universe is desperate to make us cross paths at any given moment.”
Niall hummed low, thumbing a crumb off the corner of his mouth, “I don’t know how to tell you this, but he must be your soulmate then. Like, your red string of fate is making damn sure you’ll bump into each other several times a week.” He scratched the side of his jaw, “I read this one story where Cupid was getting pissed because this couple kept ignoring blatant signs they were supposed to get together, so he came off his cloud and shoved their heads until they kissed.” He took another drink.
Y/N sighed, “Is this the same story where Cupid had 'huge, tit-like pecs and a giant bulge’? The yaoi?”
“Ugh, yes, it was so good,” Niall unlocked his phone, “Let me send you the link again.”
It was weird, all of it, but again – she fully believes that if Harry was stalking her still, he’d A: Tell her about it, or B: Be so stealthy and secretive that she’d have no clue. This did seem like a next-level sort of Cupid-like fate, trying to get them to run into each other in a normal, meet-cute kind of way. Like that had been the plan all along, but they screwed it up by Y/N going on the blind date and Harry mistaking her for some model, knees deep in some garbage.
The only time this now routine interaction starts going differently is when she accidentally goes to a sex club.
Now, it was more complicated than it sounded. Y/N, Aki, and Niall had all made plans to go to this new spot in the city that had special, coordinated theme nights. Y2K, cybercore, burlesque, kpop, 90s hits, 80s party – things like that. They had never been before, but they had all been seeing advertisements around, whether in person, on the back of a bench, the side of the bus stop, or online, when FYP and home pages started getting a little too clued in on the area they live. And there was J.J., the receptionist at work, who overheard them speaking about it and let them know she’d gone on ‘Hippie Hooray Thursday’ and it was a great experience. The drinks were still relatively cheap, and it wasn’t overcrowded yet, like most places like it tend to get. The vibes were also very “girlie pop,” which was comforting and at least gave them a little more of a chance at escaping borderline harassment from drunk dickheads at the bar.
On a normal day, the three of them would pull up together, not only to save money when they Lyft but also because none of them likes walking in alone. Whether that be at a restaurant, at a club, a bar, or a random swim meet, so Niall’s nephew has more people rooting for him, or Aki’s cousin’s graduation, that she didn’t want to be bored during – arriving together is a must. Namely, because it saved them from the horrible and awkward interaction of scanning the crowd in search of your friends, not being able to find them, trying to message them, and having terrible service in that moment for no other reason but to make life harder. Also, that’s too much time for an unwanted suitor to stumble up, smelling like he might have missed the toilet during his last piss, and smelling like he might have gone into a sauna without deodorant early in the morning (when everyone is at their stinkiest, or at least that’s what Y/N thinks).
But tonight, Y/N would be a little under an hour late. She had made a promise to her neighbor that she would help them hang something – his name is Mikey. Mikey is really nice, and he and his boyfriend have helped Y/N bring in some pretty heavy boxes from the mailroom, so she thought it was the least she could do. She had a studfinder and a drill, and was at least proficient-ish enough to use them to help hang his new telly. It wouldn’t take long, but Mikey didn’t get off work until 7 PM, so it would stunt her getting-ready time by a little.
Theoretically, Niall and Aki could wait for her, but she doesn’t want them to miss out on any time since she had made a promise to someone. And this particular club stops selling drinks at a certain time – earlier than the others, for whatever reason – so she didn’t want them to miss out on that either. They liked drinking more than her anyway, so it wasn’t like she felt pressured to catch up either. So she told them to just go ahead, and she would catch up with them. Niall sent her the address for her to put into Lyft.
Y/N should have known something was up the moment her Lyft driver, a nicer, older woman (thank god), who raised her eyebrows when she saw where they were headed, “Oh, wow,” her voice was soft, but shocked, “I didn’t realize they’d opened up yet.” She looked through the rearview, a glint in her gaze, “My husband's been wanting to go, but I don’t know if it’s necessarily our scene.”
“Oh no, you should definitely go! I think stuff like this can be anyone’s scene,” Y/N smiled, not thinking anything of it. She’d imagined a middle-aged couple dressed like the red carpet in the early 2000s, or in their best 1920s Hollywood glamor, having the time of their lives, and it made her heart warm. Just because you’re on the older end doesn’t mean you can’t have fun anymore – she hated that notion.
The intersection was innocent enough. Her car smelled how they do when they’re fresh from the dealer, and the interior is sleek and dark, so she pretends that she’s a celebrity with her driver taking her to the city for a big gala. The shorts she was wearing were riding up her ass, and the seam was shoved up against her puss, but she could bear it when she was maladaptively daydreaming. Y/N messaged them that she was en route and to at least keep an eye on the door so someone could grab her when she walked in.
When they pulled up, there was red lighting pouring out of the door, highlighting half of the bouncer's face. The theme tonight was some hybrid version of cybercore and the feeling you get when you’re in the title screen of a game on one of the first PlayStation consoles. Aki sent her a couple of Pinterest boards and brought her a bag of clothes to pick through so that she could construct an outfit. So Y/N has a glittery, silvery belt that isn’t functional mostly just for fashion, and everything is white and blue. She surprisingly had these sort of reflective boots from a rave that her cousin begged her to go to. And her hair was filled with silver hair clips, enough that she thinks if she walked through a metal detector, it would start screeching. There’s also a little Tamagotchi clipped to one of the belt loops – she hopes this is the actual vibe, or she’s going to feel like an idiot. She is a little confused by the lighting, though.
“Be safe!” The driver told her, waving, “Remember to use protection!”
Y/N gave a shocked giggle as she left the backseat – she had not been expecting that for sure. It was sort of presumptuous of her to think that Y/N was going to be fucking, but she is a young woman going to a club, so – fair enough. She thanked her, closed the door, and then walked up to the bouncer. It was 20 quid at the door, which Niall hadn’t mentioned, but she figured that with as many advertisements as they have and their current social media presence, they needed to recoup some, somehow.
When she walked in. . .well, she was a little confused. Y/N seemed to be the only person who took the theme seriously, which automatically makes her want to crawl under a rock. It’s a little smoky here, like they had a fog machine somewhere, almost, but she had a feeling that it was just a lot of vapes, cigarettes, and weed – her lungs would definitely be upset with her after this. The air felt heavy and warm except for a few spaces where the air conditioner was blowing hard, and she could tell there were more clusters of people hovering around. There are more sitting areas than she’d anticipated, and the music is not as electronic as she was expecting, either. Plus, everyone was moving very. . .horn-ily? Y/N doesn’t know what else to say. People were pressed close, with not a ton of space, and they’re grabbing and holding places that are not super respectful for a first meet, and unless all of these people know each other, she’s imagining that some of these people are strangers.
And Y/N doesn’t slutshame! She just had no idea that this was the vibe here – J.J. did not mention that this was so sex driven. She would have definitely prepared herself a little more mentally (and physically, too, hell) if she knew that was the main objective of this place. Y/N’s squinting, searching for her friends, and reaching into her purse to find her phone to let them know she was here.
When she was looking down at her phone, she accidentally knocked into someone. Hard enough that she nearly stumbled back, a gasp leaving her mouth when she felt someone grip around her waist to steady her, “Whoa, whoa!” The voice reached her, and Y/N looked up from her phone to the guy who caught her before she made more of a spectacle, “You alright?”
“Yeah, sorry,” she righted herself, standing up straighter, and his hands fell away from her. The man before her looks sort of familiar, but she wouldn’t be able to place him if she tried. Maybe he just had one of those faces, honestly. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“I could tell,” he chuckled, reaching a hand to comb through his hair – in the lighting she couldn’t tell what color it was, but it was dark. He’s in a tank top, but in a fashion way, over a douche-y frat guy way, she thinks. Y/N is suspicious of the sunglasses that he has, pushing his hair from his face, but he has an earring that dangles from his left ear that catches in the glimmering neon sign. He’s cute, and if she were in a situation, she better understood she might think he was cuter, but she’s a little disoriented right now. His gaze comes up and down her body without even bothering to hide it. “Are you here alone?”
Y/N blinked, “Oh, um –”
“There you are, baby.” More hands slip around her belly, the sliver of skin from where her shirt rides up, only this voice she knows quite well at this point, “You’re late.”
When she tilted her head to look up at him, he was already looking at her, a soft but exasperated smile with a gentle huff, shaking his head, and there was something in his gaze that said play along, “You need to watch where you walk, Sweet girl.” Then his arms squeezed around her a little tighter. This is as close as she’d been to him since he’d held her at knife point in an alleyway. She thinks she should be somewhere in a sympathetic response, all things considered, but she melts into him instead. Harry feels so broad like this, and she can feel his chest through whatever he’s wearing,
The guy doesn’t walk away at first, looking at the two of them curiously, “Hm. Is she a puppy?”
Harry’s hand, feathery, snakes up to her throat. He drags the pad of his thumb across her thudding pulse, and Y/N’s brain completely blanks, “She’s more of my kitty,” he presses down a little, her eyelids flutter – what the fuck is happening, “But she’s too shy to be collared in public.”
“Hmm,” the man hums, “You should get her a necklace then, to ease into it.”
“Ahhh! You’re so smart,” he taps her, “Isn’t he smart?”
Y/N nods, at least being able to respond when prompted, “Yes,” she answers, blinking, probably looking like he’d cleaned out all the thoughts in her brain because he did – there was nothing left to knock around in there, “So smart.”
The guy chuckles, holding out his hand to shake, and Harry meets it first, gently, then Y/N. His grip is firm, and his rings are still cold, pressed to her sweaty palms. “I go by Ben,” he replied, “Are you and your kitty up for a third for a night? I wouldn’t mind helping you train her.”
What the fuck is going on?!!
Harry laughs, presses his cheek into the top of her head, “Hmm, that’s really a nice offer, but we’re still quite shy – this is our first time. Maybe next time?”
Ben is thankfully (or maybe she isn’t thankful – what the hell, she doesn’t know), Ben takes it well, “Of course,” he nods, “I come on most Fridays, if you ever change your mind. Have a good time, yeah? Be safe.”
He touches them both lightly, then heads in the direction opposite to them. Harry doesn’t take his arms from around her, waddling them deeper inside the club. “Just come with me, okay, kitty?” He murmurs close to her ear, and Y/N nods, resting her arms over his arms and letting him lead her. She should probably yank away. Honestly, she probably should have pulled away the moment that he started whatever role-playing scheme she had somehow gotten caught in.
But instead, for whatever reason, she just goes with him. There’s a large, open archway that leads to a hallway that’s a little darker, but still a muted red-ish pink. A ton of doors line either side – it almost looks like one of those backroom edits, but Harry seems to know that one three down and to the left is empty. At least he opens the door pretty confidently, twisting the knob and shoving it without a second thought. He ushers her inside before they finally separate, and she feels far colder than she had. The heat immediately left, and Y/N is left shivering, frowning a little.
The room is nice. It’s a little small, but she guesses that a sex club doesn’t necessarily need a luxury master bedroom to fuck in. Still, the walls are a velvet blue, and the red lighting is finally exchanged for something warm and yellow – string lantern lights and lamps that bring this nice, comforting glow. The bed is on the wall perpendicular to the one with the door, neatly made with light colored sheets, which might be both a blessing and a curse (she’d love to use a blacklight on that, and the walls, that must be horrible to try and clean). There’s a small loveseat adjacent to the bed, a small coffee table, and beneath the table top, there’s what seems to be different whips and cuffs. A few random art pieces are on the wall, all varying sensual pieces – how could a blob of colors be sensual, she doesn’t know, but she’s just catching a vibe from it.
“Sweetheart, I’m going to ask something, and I don’t want you to be offended,” Harry finally began, and Y/N turned to him, where he was standing in front of the table, looking concerned. Her brows dip, and the frown that had been on her mouth pulls just a little deeper on her cheeks, “Are you following me?”
Y/N blinked at him. Her brain, which had finally started working again, starts to short-circuit again, “What? Excuse me?”
“It’s just – I see you everywhere, and most of those things I can kind of explain away – especially since I had access to your internet. Well, technically I still do –” he runs his fingers through his hair, “But I know for a fact that this sort of scene is not for you at all. You’ve shown no interest in a BDSM club, and I don’t think you’d just randomly hook up with someone here either.” He shook his head, “If you’re following me, sweetheart, I don’t mind it, but I’d rather you just ask me if where I’m headed is work-related, because I don’t want you to get caught up in something dangerous again. Like with –”
“Okay, wait, wait, wait!” Y/N put her hands up, “Why would I be following you around? What would that do for me? Jesus Christ, Harry,” she huffed, “I haven’t been following you, I’ve been wondering if you were following me. I’ve been going to the places we run into each other for years now! And I promise you the last thing I want is to get mixed up in all of the – whatever it is, since the first time I did, I was almost killed.” Harry grimaces at that, like the memory is just as horrible as being held at knifepoint, “Plus, if I were some mastermind, wouldn’t you know that already? You’ve got access to all of my shit.”
Harry considers it, nodding a little, “Yeah, I guess you’re right about that. But still,” he searches her face, “Why are you here? This really doesn’t seem like your thing. And you aren’t necessarily dressed for it.”
She is still frowning, pointing outside, “I’m meeting up with my friends. But I have a feeling that Ni sent me the wrong address,” she pulls out her phone, pulling up their message thread and flipping it over, “See?”
Harry’s eyes darted across the screen, then he pouted his mouth, “Ah, I see –” he pointed in the vague direction of outside, “The themed club is a few spots down.”
“Yeah,” Y/N replied, flipping her phone back around and replying to a slightly panicking Niall and Aki, who are wondering where she is. She tells them that she just went into the wrong place and that she’d be on her way in a minute, before slipping her phone back into her purse, “So that’s my explanation. What are you doing here?”
He scratches the back of his neck, “Ah, well – that guy you and I bumped into? He’s got a link to ‘pet food man’,” he explains, and Y/N realizes then why he’d looked so familiar. When she’d done a hate stalk of the pet food guy post being stood up, this dude must have been in a lot of photos with him. At least enough that she could recognize him a little, seeing him in the low, red lighting of a club, “I rented this room in particular because he was using the room next door, but I stepped out for a drink once I realized he was really just in there to fuck. When I was at the bar, I saw you bump into him and – yeah. Sorry about all that, I was just. . .I was worried that he might try to sleep with you.”
Y/N knuckles at her eyes – the night hadn’t even officially started for her, and she was more than ready to go home. A hot bath, Muffy eyeing her warily from the edge of the tub, and the promise of her bed just a couple of meters away seemed really nice right now. “So that’s why we were LARP-ing a kinky couple?”
“Yes, exactly. Plus, if he realized who you were, he might start getting suspicious and. . .yeah, I just don’t want you mixed up in this at all,” he takes a step closer, looking guilty, “I’m sorry for accusing you of following me. I really had no place.” He reached out and readjusted the straps of the tank top she had on beneath her off-shoulder t-shirt, fixing them so they weren’t folded in on themselves. It feels nice, his fingers beneath the fabric along her shoulders. “But, for the record, if you were following me, I really wouldn’t mind! It’s mostly safety reasons that would have me concerned, you know?”
Laughing, Y/N nods, “I get it, I’d – I mean, I’ve been wondering the same for you. Our circumstances are just weird.” Then she points toward the door, “I really should go to the right club, though, before Niall and Aki have a panic attack.”
“Let me take you, I know exactly where it’s at.”
Y/N finally looks at what he’s wearing now that everything has been settled. She thinks that only he could make a plain white shirt and jeans look almost sultry enough for a sex club. The shirt itself wasn’t all that fitted, but his chest was so big that it almost made it pretty tight around the area. And for some reason, the watch on his wrist was doing something for her, but she blames that on whatever must be getting pumped through the vents here. Like an aphrodisiac or something, to get people wanting to fuck.
“Um, not to be annoying, but to avoid suspicion, I probably need to be on top of you again,” he suggests before they open the door, “If you don’t mind, that is. But – uh – if he, for whatever reason, knows who you are because of the pet food man, I just have this bad feeling that he might try and. . .lure you in, or something. I don’t know. Maybe I’m being paranoid.”
If the assassin is paranoid, Y/N is going to take it to heart. The pet food guy had messaged her a while ago, and she had simply never responded, all things considered. She’d even asked Harry if he wanted her to respond in the name of his investigation or whatever, but he told her absolutely not. Y/N isn’t sure what Mr. “I go by Ben” could do by wanting to fuck her, or get involved with her and Harry, but she’d like to avoid it, she thinks.
She grabbed his hands and placed them on her waist before twisting around and melting back into him. There are worse places to be, definitely, and the way he morphs around her body is so natural, it’s almost like he’s done it a thousand times before.
“Just follow my lead again, kitty,” he murmured softly, “You did so well last time.”
The praise shouldn’t go to her head (or her pussy), but it does, and she blames the little sliver of arousal burning low in her belly on, again, them pumping something through the vents. Instead of acknowledging this, or how her heart is racing, or the way she’s kind of dizzy when she realizes, once again, how good he smells – she says, “Meow.” It made him laugh, and then he opened the door.
Exiting isn’t difficult, though they do pass Ben again, who gives them a little nod as they leave. They don’t peel off each other until they’re further away, and even then, Harry stays close, a hand gripped around her bicep as he squeezes her arm. “You usually don’t show up at places on your own like this,” Harry noted, “There’s safety in numbers, you know?”
“I know,” the weather isn’t horrible tonight, relatively warm for what it has been, so she doesn’t feel like she’s shivering out of her bones for the first time in forever, “I was helping my neighbor, so I had to come a little late.”
Harry hums, “The one on the left? The girl with the bunny? Did Oliver get stuck under the dresser again?”
“No, it was the one on the right – Mikey,” he squeezes her arm again, as they’re walking up to the door to the bouncer, and he slips out his wallet and takes two bills out to pay. Y/N starts to go to grab her wallet so she can immediately pay him back, but he shakes his head and uses his free hand to remove her purse from her hands, and holds it instead. Y/N, at this point, knows better than to argue with him and just lets it go. “He needed help with his TV. He’s bad with drills.”
Before Harry could respond, as soon as they stepped into the club, she was almost instantly jumped, “God, where were you?” Niall’s hands grabbed her shoulders, “I was about to send Aki to go hunting!”
“You look good,” Aki pulls at the bottom of her shorts a little, her fingers sneaking up beneath the denim, “Gorgeous. Who is the straggler you picked up?”
“Oh! Um, this – this is Harry,” she introduced Aki, who had only known him in name alone, and Niall’s borderline perverted description of him (“He was wearing jeans when I met him, so I was catching print, and it was flat Aki, I think he’s a size D for sure.”) “The Lyft dropped me off at the wrong place, I think, or you sent me the wrong address. I haven’t dug deep enough to figure out who was at fault,” she nudged Harry with her hip, “But he saved me, so it’s okay.”
Aki, who clearly was at least one drink and maybe a shot in, drops her mouth open, “Oh my goddd,” she gasps, “You’re the level D.”
Harry tilted his head, smiling, “I don’t know what that means,” he raised his hand, “But I’m Harry! It’s nice to meet you – you’re Aki, right?”
Aki grins, meeting his hand and shaking once, “Yes, yes, yes, that’s me. Did Y/N tell you about that time we kissed a year ago?”
His eyes widened, mouth falling open as he looked to Y/N and then to Aki, “Uh – no, she hasn’t yet.”
“Well, she loves to kiss, fun fact, if you ask her, then she will. All you have to do is ask! She likes it when you bite –”
“Enough!” Y/N places her hand on either side of Aki’s shoulders and presses her backward, encouraging her to walk, “Let’s go sit or something.”
“I’ve kissed her, too, a couple of times if you were wondering. It really is just as easy as asking,” Niall told him gleefully, “Come on, Harry, we’ve got plenty of space for you.”
. . .
Harry drives them all home.
First, he drops off Aki. He walks her up to her flat while she and Niall stay in the car, and almost as soon as he disappears from their line of sight, Niall leans forward to stuff his head between the driver and passenger seat. Y/N was on the passenger side, minding her business on her phone, while Niall popped open the middle console. “Should we dig through his shit?” He inquired, but he had already decided what he was going to be doing. Y/N’s heart rate immediately skyrocketed because she immediately assumed that Niall would be finding a gun or something. The gun, thankfully, is not in the middle console where Niall is searching – instead, they find sunglasses, tissues, a couple of spare dollars, and hand sanitizer. One thing that’s a little sketchy is that he has two tampons and two pads tucked neatly in an underneath compartment, but it’s alongside ibuprofen, motion sickness glasses, lotion, and Zyrtec, like a small, driven pharmacy.
“Oh, wow, what the fuck,” Niall thumbed through it all, “You guys might be perfect for each other, these are your brand of tampon and pads and everything.” He closed it, “Look in the glove compartment.”
That’s almost painfully normal, too. His car manual, insurance cards, all the shit you get after your car gets inspected. There are a lot of coupons, too, a couple of receipts, and like four punch cards to different places (the boba place near Muffy’s vet, a frozen yogurt spot, a cafe, and what looks like a bakery card), and that’s about it. Y/N thinks he either brought his normal person car and he has a second one, or there’s a secret compartment or something with everything else.
Niall sighs, “Okay, all we learned is that he is thoughtful and a loyal customer. Does he volunteer at an animal shelter, too, or –” Just as he brings it up, Y/N reaches in and finds a lanyard with his name, a badge, the name of their city’s humane society, and his picture with the label VOLUNTEER. “You’re joking.”
They scramble to put everything back when they see him appear in the front doors. Their phone buzzes, and Aki has sent a picture of herself on her sofa, with a granola halfway in her mouth and a message:
Hey, big dick is really nice, Y/N, I love ur new boyfie
Harry gets back into his car, “Okay,” he buckles back up, and shifts his car into drive, “Let's get you home, Ni. Do you need to stop anywhere before we go?”
“Noooo,” Ni pokes Y/N’s shoulder, “Hey, can we have a sleepover with Aki soon? I wanna do cute shit.”
“Yeah,” Y/N agreed easily, only realizing then that she was still holding one of Harry’s punch cards in her hand. She slipped it under her thigh, hoping to leave it on the seat, and maybe Harry would think he’d just accidentally left it out, or something. He probably wouldn’t think that, but he’s also too nice to question her, so it would work out. “We can give each other light back tickles.”
“Yes. . .Harry, do you have any experience with light back tickling?” Niall inquired, because he’s Niall, and he’s nothing if not a master wing man with the devastatingly good ability to be inclusive in all things.
Harry, who is just so willing to go along with any conversation and anything in general (like when Aki said that whoever had the biggest hands had to go buy them a round of drinks, and he stood up without even a whisper of a whine or complaint), told them, “I have a lot of experience. My sister used to make me rub her arm for hours at a time, and in exchange, she’d let me hook the PlayStation up to the telly in her room so I could play scary games.” He wiggled the fingers on the wheel, “I’m a tickling master though.”
“That’s so perfect, because Y/N had an ex once who never petted her ever,” Niall laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder, “Which is so sad, it’s like ignoring a kitten at your feet. He was the worst.”
“Ni, please never speak again.”
Harry makes a disgruntled sound in her throat, “That’s horrible. I think petting someone is like the best part of any relationship, right? To pet and be petted. We’re all animals at the end of the day, wanting affection.”
Niall squeezes her shoulder, “That’s what I think too. Well, anyway, make this left up here if you want to take a shortcut.”
Once they’re dropping Niall off, Harry offers to walk him up to his flat, and Y/N prays that Niall says no. There was zero reason for them to have any amount of time alone, lest Niall start divulging all of Y/N’s deepest, darkest kinks in an effort to get things going. Especially when she spots a borderline evil smile stretching across his mouth. She tries to quickly think of any excuse she could that would make Harry stay in the car and have Niall fend for himself, but she doesn’t have to, “Nah, I can fend for myself. And I can’t be trusted with any sort of brain-to-mouth filter when I’m tipsy. Who knows what I would have started sharing?” He leaned in and smushed a kiss against Y/N’s temple, “Byeeee!”
They stay in the parking lot until Niall sends a picture of himself in his flat.
Don’t do anything too crazy tonight, but if u do, take measurements
“Alright,” he hums softly, “Let’s get you home, Sweetheart.”
The drive is nice and smooth – Harry is a really good driver. She doesn’t give him enough credit for it; the couple of times she’s been in the car with him, she hasn’t gotten to really pay attention to it. This is the longest she’s been in the car with him, though, and the way he operates a motor vehicle is hot as hell, honestly, the more she thinks about it. She would be willing to sit in the car with him all day, whether it was going from place to place running errands, or on a road trip of some kind.
“Do you want to come upstairs and see Muffy?” Y/N asks, and Harry gasps.
“I thought that was a given,” he held a hand to his chest, “Do you think I’d ever say no to seeing my baby?”
Y/N is feeling sort of buzzy around the edges, warm. If she and Harry were closer, she’d be employing him to give her back tickles until she fell asleep tonight, but they aren’t. Maybe one day they could be – or maybe that would be weird, all things considered. Y/N isn’t sure what the appropriate relationship to have with Harry is, since it seems like they’ll be in each other’s lives no matter what. Maybe what Niall had been saying about that red string of fate had more validity than she’d originally given it. It did seem like they were running together, twisting, entangling, making it more and more difficult for them to unknot. Like when you’re sewing with a piece of thread that's too long that loops and tightens into the tiniest knot you’ve ever seen – one you can’t get your needle to pierce through, even.
And there was the fact that he so seamlessly became a good addition to her trio, despite not really planning on being involved. He laughs, and he tells his own jokes, and both Aki and Niall seem to be absolutely smitten with him, which is saying a lot because they absolutely hated her ex. If he wasn’t meant to be in their lives, then how was he able to make it feel like he’d been a part of their group from the very start? To the ease with which he joins banter, to how happy he seems to be involved, and how he’s so engaged with the conversation. He’s asking questions and remembering things that they had said earlier in passing, or things that Y/N has said (he asked Aki all about her clay making).
But then there’s the thought that. . .well, that’s sort of his job, isn’t it? Was he fitting in seamlessly because of who he is as a person, or was it because of who he wanted them to think he is? She’d seen how easily he could morph into someone meant to be taking up space where he was, only fifteen minutes before they met up with her friends. Nobody would have questioned for a second if Harry belonged in that sex club – and the ease with which he adapted, acting like they were lovers, shy enough to deny a third, but experimental enough to be there in the first place – it should make her suspicious. Y/N should be more suspicious of him now than she’s ever been.
She wasn’t, though. For whatever reason, Y/N trusted Harry more than she trusted a man with a hood walking down the street, and Harry was a known hitman – they met because he’d held a knife to her throat! Was she stupid? If she told Niall or Aki any of this, they’d probably shame her, then lock her in a cage, and never let her step foot outside alone again. Since she clearly couldn’t think for herself.
“We’re hereeee,” he says softly, and Y/N gathered her purse and popped the car door open. She waited for him to get out too before she started ahead of him, and Harry made a little sound in his throat, “Oh, hold on, you’ve got something stuck –” The sound of his footsteps sped up on the pavement, so he’s right behind her, before something is carefully plucked from her thigh. It’s with horror that Y/N realized it was one of his punch cards – the one she’d slipped under her leg so that she could inconspicuously leave it in the seat. “Silly, you forgot to put it back.”
Y/N turned to look at him, blinking several times at him, “I – um – why do you sound not surprised that I have it?”
Harry smiled, “You guys went through my stuff, right? When I came back in the car, I set my elbow down on the middle console, and it clicked shut, so I figured you went through the glove compartment too?”
Her face feels hot, twisting to face forward again, “Um, well – uh –”
“It’s okay! Don’t worry about it, I don’t mind. It kind of seemed like Niall’s speed anyway,” he shrugged.
“But what if we had found like – like, y’know. . .your stash of stuff? Like guns and – and ties and –”
Harry chuckled, scrunching his nose, “Ohh, stuff like that I keep underneath my seat,” he pointed behind them, “ I can lift it, and there’s a compartment beneath it for all that.”
“Oh,” Y/N swallowed thickly, punching in the code to their main lobby, “Sorry though, for like – doing that still.”
“I really don’t have anything to hide from you,” he said, “It’s nice, actually, since the big thing is kind of out in the open, it feels like I can be myself. Y’know?”
The list of things Y/N had never experienced in a man just gets longer and longer the more time she spends with Harry. He didn’t mind if she went through his things, he’d very comfortably typed in his phone password right in her line of sight, and if she inquired about his job then he answered her questions right away, with zero hesitation and almost brutal honesty. Not even three hours ago, he had been entirely too accepting of her stalking him so long as she wasn’t following him anywhere dangerous. Enough that he had said it twice! Y/N thinks she could probably show up at his flat without having ever been invited and having zero reason to know where he lived, and Harry would accept her inside with open arms. He’d probably even offer her tea and dinner or something.
Once they open the door, they’re greeted by Muffy, who must have heard her messing with the lock. She laced between Y/N’s ankles first before toddling up to Harry, who plucked her up and brought her to his chest immediately, “Hi, pretty girl,” he hummed sweetly, leaned in, and nuzzled into the side of her body, “You smell so good – like the bigger kitty.”
Y/N’s face gets hot when he mentions it again, leading them into the living room, “Shut up,” she murmured, “You’re annoying.”
“Awww, what?” He followed deeper inside, but he’d walked this pathway so many times, Y/N thinks he even knew where the floorboards creaked, “You played your part so well, I would’ve thought you’d done it before. Maybe you are a kitty.”
Y/N, who had let her purse slip off her shoulder and drop to the floor with a thud beside the coffee table. She twisted around, eyes narrowed, and pointed at him, “Hey! I barely even spoke; you were way too equipped to play the part of whatever the heck you were doing. You’ve definitely done that before!”
He smiled, a dimpled cheek, “Well, yeah,” he told her, “I have.”
She paused, still pointing, “Oh, you – you have?” He nodded, and maybe a sober Y/N wouldn’t be so nosy, but a Y/N with a couple of drinks in her gets possessed by a Niall-shaped demon, “Wait, what? How so?”
Harry tilted his head, “What do you mean, how so?”
“Like with who and what were you doing?”
He held a hand to his chest again, in that ‘old southern woman who is appalled’ way that he likes to, and she’s seen it happen several times that night, “That’s not very appropriate to talk about with a lady.”
Y/N stared at him, brows dipped, “A lady? You were practically choking me and saying I was a sex cat less than three hours ago!”
“I was playing a part!” He answered, placing his hand on his chest over Muffy’s ear, “And there’s a baby here, we shouldn’t pollute her ears with it.”
“So what, were you like pulling them around on a leash or something?”
“Y/N!”
“I just want to know!”
“Yeah, I’m picking that up,” he replied, “But why? Is it really that important?”
Y/N doesn’t know. She’s blaming this on the liquor and also Niall polluting her mind with the notion that if a man is in your house, you deserve to know every single aspect of his life and then some. She thinks that’s only if you’re dating, though, probably, and having sex – if they were, Y/N would expect to know every minute detail. But they weren’t – honestly, Y/N doesn’t even know if he considers them friends. Are they? Maybe not. Y/N isn’t sure what they are, but friends doesn’t seem right – neither does acquaintances.
She couldn’t explain why she wanted to know; she just knew that she did. Now that the image was in her head and with what had transpired that night, Y/N needed to know immediately why Harry was able to fall into that dynamic so easily. Even if it was brief, and even if they didn’t need to go that deeply into it. Y/N thinks that if they had to do a scene or something in front of Ben, then he would have enacted it flawlessly. And then the picture of her on her knees in front of him on her hands and knees starts to haunt her, and she just needs to know, okay? A few cocktails crossed her blood-brain barrier, and suddenly every question she’s ever had needed to be answered right now.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, shrugging in an effort to seem nonchalant but actually being very much the opposite, “Like – friends talk about this stuff, right?” Saying friends even seemed weird on her tongue, and her body feels warm, flushed from alcohol and the embarrassment of Harry even looking at her right now when she was floundering. She isn’t looking at him, instead pretending that there was a stain on her shirt that she was suddenly hyperfixating on.
Harry said, probably the worst thing he could have said.
“We’re friends?”
So, she is actually refusing to look at his face at this point. And she’s not drunk enough to not remember this so it will haunt her in the morning, but she is drunk enough for tears to threaten the back of her eyelids almost instantly as she mutters, “Um, nevermind, I’m just g’na go take a bath,” before turning on her heel, “Just – uh, see you later.”
But Harry doesn’t let her get away with it that easily. “Wait!” His voice was a little loud as he looped around her, intercepting her route, still clutching Muffy to his chest, “Wait, Y/N, I didn’t mean it in a shitty way! I was genuinely asking!”
“Okay, well, now I’m embarrassed,” she answered a little too honestly, and the tears were coming whether she wanted them to or not, so she held a hand over her face, “You’re not allowed to look at me right now, or it’ll be more embarrassing, so you have to go.”
Harry is usually pretty good at listening, but this time he isn’t. He carefully placed his fingers on her wrist and pressed down, moving her hand away from her face and revealing her watering eyes. She doesn’t even know why she was about to cry – it was stupid. First, she tried pressuring him into explaining the clear pet play dynamic he had with a relationship in the past, and then she suggested they were friends, and he questioned her, and vodka cranberries always made her a little quicker to get teary over anything, especially if she was embarrassed. And right now she was embarrassed. It wasn’t Niall who couldn’t be trusted alone with Harry, it was her.
“Sweetheart, I’m sorry, it came off differently than I intended,” he offered, “I was just wondering, that's all. I kind of thought of us as friends, but with our situation, I didn’t know if you thought of us as friends, y’know? But I honestly see and spend more time with you than I do with any of my other friends.” His fingers stayed on her wrist, looping around it gently, “I just wanted to confirm. It makes me happy that you see us like that, instead of me being the weird, creepy stalker that got you mixed up in rich people bullshit. Please don’t cry, or honestly, I might start – I’m sort of a sympathy crier.”
“Crying, who’s crying?” Y/N asked, clearly moments from tears, “You are a weird, creepy stalker,” she sniffled, and Harry giggled, squeezing around her wrist, “But yeah, I think – I don’t know, I think we’re friends. Niall definitely thinks he’s your friend at this point – Aki, too. It takes one good drinking experience and a drive home before you’re locked in as one of their pals.”
Harry stayed for a little while after that. At least until Y/N has drunk two glasses of water and preemptively taken a paracetamol, and pinky swore she won’t fall asleep in the bathtub, before he finally made his departure. Muffy watched him leave at the door, and it almost made Y/N cry again, and she realized, once more, that she was a little drunker than she originally thought and intended to be.
She feels tired, but she still makes herself get in the bathtub. Y/N filled it high with bubbles and oils, then sloshed around in there for a while, while Muffy – as per usual – hovered from a spot on the corner of the tub and watched her carefully. Every so often, she’d bat the foam of bubbles, and Y/N would scoop and place it in front of her. Besides that, Y/N scrubbed some of the bar sent off of her and slowly, but surely, sobered enough that she was re-embarrassed by almost crying in front of Harry and actively replaying how it felt to be pressed up against him, with him kissing her head and pretending they were a BDSM couple. It’s a haunting mix of humiliation and desire that’s ruthlessly making her horny, so she tried to ignore it.
Alas, she couldn’t. After toweling off and shoving herself into a big shirt, she pulls out her phone and gets an incognito tab. It isn’t like she’d never seen it before; there’d been posts and stuff online, smut she’s read with it, fanart she’s seen drawn of it – she doesn’t think she’d ever seen an actual video of it before. So she’s curious, what it would actually look like, and if she is doing this with the intent to imagine Harry in the place of the man and her in the place of the woman, then that’s her business.
Because at the end of the day, Harry is very attractive. He’s attractive and nice, and he just doesn’t put off nearly as many bad vibes as he should, given the context in which they’ve met. Plus, he looked sexy driving, and his watch was hot on his wrist, and it made her want to hump his hand – she doesn’t know, maybe thinking all of this is crazy, but she’s ovulating probably, so. . .sue her.
The couple she finds seems to have another page with non-free content, but she doesn’t fall into that wormhole, so she just clicks through their 3-minute previews. They were fully committed, actually, collar, leash, and all – but Y/N found that it isn’t necessarily the aspect that she was interested in. Pet play was all fine and good, but she thinks she just liked the condescending tone and the humiliation that probably came with it, walking on all fours, acting like an animal.
So then she finds other profiles. A lesbian couple where one of the women in the video had rules that she couldn’t touch herself, but she did, and subsequently got punished for it. A gay couple where one of the men was tied in pretty, purple silk rope in a way so lewd that Y/N’s mouth had fallen open (and she pulsed around nothing). There was a throuple that had one member sitting on the floor, helplessly rubbing his face against their legs, begging for attention that they were keen on withholding.
Y/N wasn’t even masturbating – it felt like she was researching for a project or something. She’s maybe on her 10th or 12th video when a message from Harry pops up at the top of her screen.
Are you still interested in what you asked before?
About how I acted it out so well?
It took her a second to register that Harry had not only messaged her but asked what he did, that she was staring blankly at her phone, and was almost checking out for a second. Her brain helplessly clicked its gears for her to respond before she finally paused the video and swiped out of the tab, going to their message thread and opening it up.
Well, yeah I am
I give him a lot of shit but I am just Niall, at the end of the day
The three dots pop up immediately.
okay, but you have to promise to answer a question of mine too, but you can’t ask a question about my question
Okayyyyy
Sketch but i wanna know
Harry takes a moment to respond, but the dots are there on the screen, so she knew it was only because he was typing. She could swipe back into the porn tab, but she quickly convinced herself that, if he wasn’t already tapped into her phone before, messaging her somehow would give him a direct gateway to what she was looking at. Or, she imagined Muffy stomping over her phone, then copying and pasting the link of the video and sending it to Harry, all with her teensy little paw pads. So instead, she just stared at the screen and waited patiently, her heart starting to kick a little faster against her chest.
sooo, it was a couple years ago but i used to be in this like pretty intense dom/sub arrangement where we sort of let it bleed into our real lives, and it wasn’t master/pet or anything but it really wasn’t all that spectacular or crazy, but we did have a list of rules and they did get punished if they didn’t follow them. . .stuff like that
idk if you were expecting something like spectacular and insane, but that’s all there is to it really
i guess i don’t come off as someone who is into that though since you seemed kind of surprised
Y/N’s fingers moved before she could really think.
Like what sort of punishments?
Asking in the spirit of friendship, of course.
Her heart is full-blown thundering now, when Harry replied.
y’know like usual stuff
spanking, edging, overstim, understim
things like that
Oh wow, okay
Thank you for telling me all of that. I was really curious
Y/N’s palms felt sweaty as she held her phone in a tight grip, afraid it would slip and hit her in the chest. She felt short of breath and antsy, like she needed to stick her hand down her pants, but also go to bed immediately because once she actually gets off thinking about Harry, she’s done for. “The first nut dedicated to them is the nut of impending hyperfixation,” is what Aki had said once, and Y/N agreed that it could not be good. Unless she was on the direct route to have sex with the person, she had to keep her hands to herself.
I'm glad to satisfy your curiosity
So now you don’t have to look up porn about it
Her face lights aflame, looking around her room hastily, as if Harry would suddenly be standing beside her or something. Then she remembered that he had access to her phone, and her thumbs tapped against the screen to exit out of the tab, then go back into their messages.
Heyyyyy, I thought you weren’t looking at my phone anymore!! Jerk!!!
sorrryyy, i didnt realize i still get notifs when u open an incognito tab
:(
Aww, c’mon, don’t cry about it
You’re a cute crier though so maybe cry about it a little and send me a picture. In the spirit of friendship, of course.
Y/N immediately opened the camera and frowned at it, making sure Muffy – who was slowly waning in and out of sleep – was in the shot.
Pretty girl
Girls ***
I’m going to ask my question now, okay?
Y/N hearted all three messages then waited for him to answer.
Mikey, your neighbor. . .does he invite you over to help him a lot?
Ummmm not a ton, no
Just when tools are involved
Do you ever go to not help? Like to hang out?
Not really??? We’re friendly, but not that close
He usually has his boyfriend over anyway.
Oh! Boyfriend!!
Well, that’s great! Was just wondering, glad you can help your neighbor :))
You should drink one more glass of water before going to bed
Ugh, but I’ve been peeing like every five minutes from the first two
The more pee the better, keep it up!
Sweet dreams!!
Y/N flopped her phone face down on the mattress. She isn’t sure what he cared about Mikey for, but knowing Harry, it was probably some long, convoluted background that he somehow shared with the uncle’s, sister’s, cousin of Mikey, knowing the pet food guy. She’s still sort of caught up in the fact that not only did Harry tell her what his old BDSM-y relationship entailed, but let her know that he knew she was looking at porn, and on top of that, called her a cute crier and then called her pretty when she sent a pic. That was a lot to handle – if she told Niall and Aki any of this (sans the incognito mode tidbit), then they would both spontaneously combust, she’s sure of it.
She buried her face into her pillow and squealed.
What the hell was going on right now?
. . .
Y/N was a little scared.
In any other time of her life, she wouldn’t have been, because there wouldn’t have been a reason to be. Seeing some guy she was supposed to go on a blind date with that stood her up would have made her angry rather than frightened. Her teeth would grit together, she’d dance with the idea of calling him something derogatory or being the bigger person, and end up stalking off, thinking about beating his ass. Then she’d recount the story to Niall on the phone in dramatic detail, who would recount it in even more theatrical detail to Aki later on when Y/N had finally let it go a little bit.
But this time she was scared, yeah. Mostly because she didn’t really recognize him when he walked up to her. She was at the mall. Y/N liked to go, sometimes, if she had a free day with no other plans and nobody to shop with. She used to think it was sad to go alone, but it was relatively cathartic being able to float around aimlessly, walking in and out of stores that she wanted, leaving when she didn’t want to be in there. The only thing that sucked was if she wanted to try something on and was unsure about it, there was nobody to bounce ideas off of, and she was nowhere near outgoing enough to ask one of the staff.
So, this Saturday, she’d planned a little mall day. She’d gotten a mani/pedi that morning, as soon as the place by her flat opened to beat that afternoon rush of all the walk-ins and scheduled appointments. She wore sandals today, for the first time of the year, since the weather was nice and her feet looked well-cared for rather than the reptilian-like appearance they take if she takes too long to get them done. There was nothing fancy about her outfit, just a t-shirt and shorts, but the sun felt good on her skin even in the brief moments she was outside, so she wasn’t overly concerned with what she looked like.
Y/N had been to three stores already and had gotten a good amount at each. Each hand had two bags each in it that she’d been swinging around at her side while she debated if she wanted to go into the candle store and obnoxiously sniff all of the scents, until she needed coffee beans to clear out her nose. She’d already spent like 80 quid, and while the financially responsible side of her thinks that she should stop there, the less clever side thinks that she might as well round it up to 100.
She had just decided that she was going in when she’d been stopped beside the massage chairs.
Y/N has only been stopped a handful of times in her life by strangers. Once, it was because she favored someone’s cousin, whom they had been waiting for at the park, and then had Y/N stay so they could meet (they did look quite similar). There was a second time somebody had asked her where the nearest bus station was, a heavy accent that she had never been able to place, but she walked them to the subway (and told them to use the translator app if speaking their language was more comfortable – and then she learned the Polish way to say thank you). And then the third time was because her shoe was untied, and a very nice (albeit very drunk) older woman placed her hand on Y/N’s shoulder to grab her attention, pierced her bicep with fake, pointy nails, and told her, “You’ll trip like that, Hon, you need to tie ‘em. “
It doesn’t happen often, though. Y/N isn’t sure why – maybe she doesn’t look very friendly, she always thought, but Niall told her that was not the case at all. In university, he did his thesis on the social interactions of modern young adults and realized that it was disordered and complicated. Going up to someone to strike up a chat rarely inspired confidence in making a new friend, and instead made most people’s hackles rise. Immediately guarded, worried, and wondering what their next move would be, and if it might involve hurting them. That used to be the only way to make friends, to amble up to them while you
So, understandably, when it happens at the mall, Y/N is instantly paranoid, especially with everything that was going on. She gasps when their hand reaches out to rest on her shoulder, and she jerks away, only to be met with a soft chuckle, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” and that is not the voice she’s used to hearing those words from. Where she should be turning around to see Harry, all sweet and smiling at her with two dimpled cheeks, she instead sees the pet food man (who she knew was named Finley, at this point, but just simply didn’t deserve to be referred to by anything other than his job description).
Y/N blinked – she looked him up and down and noted that he was in a suit at the mall, and this was not wealthy enough of a mall for him to be wearing a suit here, of all things, “Oh, I’m so sorry to interrupt you,” he said, in a way that didn’t seem sorry at all, but she might just dislike him so everything he does is going to be horrible and annoying, “I just – you look very familiar.”
“I hear that every so often,” she replied, “But I don’t think I’m who you’re looking for.” She rolled her shoulder in an effort to get him off of her.
“Ah, you might be, though,” he held out his hand, “I think we were supposed to go on a blind date together?”
Y/N paused. She knew why, she knew what he looked like, but she didn’t know how he could have known what she looked like. It made her skin crawl a little – she isn’t even sure why, or what he’s doing that’s so sketchy, it’s just the fact that it is, and the fact that Harry so adamantly dislikes him is enough for her. Plus, the suit at the mall, and the way his smile doesn’t reach his eyes very well. She can tell that he’s someone who pretends to smile a lot.
Still, even with the fear that tickles the back of her brain, she nodded, “Yeah, I think we were. Before you stood me up, that is.”
His eyes widened like he hadn’t been expecting her to bring it up, and honestly, Y/N hadn’t been expecting herself to bring it up either. Niall and Aki would be proud of her, she knew that at least, but Harry would probably grumble at her. It was silly to engage, he would tell her, that he’s a dangerous man capable of doing dangerous things, even though he just runs a pet food company. The best thing would have been to politely decline that she was anyone he could possibly know, then head off in the opposite direction.
Instead, she stands before him, trying to look unwavering, “I need to go,” she told him, clearing her throat, “Have a good day.”
He should leave her alone, but he doesn’t – of course, he doesn’t. When she tried to walk away again, he stopped her once more, “Please, hear me out – something came up,” he told her, sounding a little desperate, “And time just got away from me, so by the time I realized what time it was, it had been far too late for me to show. Then I felt like a dick trying to contact you, but –”
“Really, I’m not interested, okay? It was very embarrassing and –” I almost got killed because of you, you random jackass! “--and I never want to think about it again, so let’s just call it.”
It was weird, though, wasn't it? That he had even stopped her in passing in the first place – why would he do that? (And why was he at the mall in general? She thought rich people did most of their shopping online and in those fancy boutiques that only they could afford.) It’d be one thing if they had met before this moment and he had recognized her as she passed, but this was odd. Y/N would never in her life stop a blind date that didn’t even happen, on their way to their next destination, to do what, exactly? She really hadn’t let him get far enough to explain what his purpose for stopping her was. There was just something fishy about the entire thing, and now, ever since Harry, she’s been a lot more wary about the people who surround her, and this guy – Finley – was a major red flag.
Something prickles at the back of her neck, and she is suddenly very, very grateful to be in the middle of a crowded mall rather than somewhere stuck and alone with him.
“I just want to make it up to you,” he told her, but Y/N was sliding out her phone from her purse and clicking on Harry’s message thread, typing an all-caps ‘CALL ME’ that she hoped he would see right away, “Seriously, just one coffee! It’d be on me, yeah? To make amends, and –”
Y/N’s phone began to buzz, vibrating against her palm as she clutched it tight, “I’m already seeing someone else,” she lied easily, “And it wouldn’t be respectful to him.” She slid to answer, placed the phone to her ear, and gave Finley a small nod, before pitching up her voice a bit, “Hey, baby,” she used the pet name, hoping that it would indicate to Harry that something was wrong. Harry may call her baby this, Sweetheart that, but Y/N never used any pet names when she was referring to him, “Are you on your way?”
“Y/N?” He immediately seemed suspicious – she could hear it in his tone, “Is something the matter?”
“Yeah,” she answered vaguely, already wandering away from Finley, who, thankfully, hadn’t followed her; however, she did see that he was immediately on his phone, which was also weird. Still, despite the distance she’s putting in between them, Y/N still feels anxious and worried enough not to explain the details too vividly: “Can you come?”
“Okay, I’m on my way. Stay on the phone with me until I get there.”
It wasn’t the most dangerous situation to be in – again, she was in a very public, crowded mall on a Saturday – but still, her heart thundered in her chest. She felt a little queasy about all of it, squidgy while her bubble tea from earlier sat heavy in her belly. Y/N’s looking around, suddenly feeling very helpless, very hopeless, and wondering if he’s bad enough to have a hitman after him to some degree, then he could be bad enough to have his own hitmen. Should she have acted more chill? What if she pissed him off and now he’s going to send a hit out on her or something? Fuck! How horrible is it that she even has to worry about shit like this? He was the one who stood her up! He was the reason she’d even had a knife to her throat in the first place, even though she somehow, in the most dysfunctional way, made a friendship out of it.
Harry makes her talk about what she did today. She could tell he was trying to distract her, but it wasn’t really working – Y/N was too hyperaware of all of her surroundings now. For some reason, she keeps imagining him popping up Michael Myers style and slowly but menacingly following her through the mall, and somehow keeping pace with her running while he does a slightly fast pace walk. Still, she tries to tell Harry about the earrings she bought with a matching ankle bracelet, the new skincare, and lip gloss. Even he seemed distracted, though, as he hummed at her, prompting her gently but nowhere near the active listening he’s usually doing when anyone is involved.
It takes him a little less than 12 minutes to get there. Y/N takes one brief look over her shoulder to see if she could spot him hovering behind a plant or a person. Then she trots a little when she’s going to the front entrance, where Harry idles illegally in the fire lane. The door is already being pressed open, like he didn’t want her to waste even a single bit of time, and only once she’d crawled into the passenger seat does he hang up the phone.
“What happened, baby? Tell me every little detail.”
And she does. Now that she tells it back to him, it really didn’t sound all that horrible, but her heart was still racing, and her palms were still sweating like he’d grabbed ahold of her and pushed her down, or said something threatening. She mentioned several times that maybe she was just too in her head about it, and it was actually more normal than it felt. Y/N even momentarily suggested that maybe she was the off-putting one to him, with how frantic she started to get trying to get away.
Harry nipped that in the bud quickly, “No, you aren’t being dramatic, this is very odd behavior for him. He never goes to the fucking mall – rich fuckers like him, never do.” Y/N nodded, “This whole thing is weird. You were right to call me.”
“Do you need to go back in?” She pointed toward the mall, “I feel better about going back in if I’m with you, since –
“No,” he denied her immediately, “Not, this is as close to anything as I ever want you to get. And even this was entirely too close,” he shook his head, “Honestly. . .would you be okay if I came over to your flat and stayed for a while? Would you mind?”
Y/N shook her head, “I would mind more if you left me alone,” she told him, “You can stay for as long as you like.”
. . .
Harry is irritated and feeling soft, and it’s the weirdest combination of feelings that he’s ever had to deal with in his life.
Irritated for the obvious reason – Y/N doesn’t deserve any of this. He meant it, from the moment he realized that she was not Antonyia, he was so deeply apologetic that he was breaking his own key rules, like giving out his name or letting someone see his face. Both of which he’d done in rapid succession of one another, when most of the time, what he perceives as a target never sees him coming in the first place. All she’d been doing was going on a date that had been set up by her friend, and she was not only stood up, but then held at knife point in an alleyway because she’d been trying to save a kitten, of all things. It was a horrible case of wrong place at the wrong time, and she had to suffer because of it – it’s not even like she could go to the police about it, namely because he had to threaten her not to.
So, yeah, Harry feels horrible about it. In a different universe, they would have had the meet-cute of the century. Like in the human society where Harry volunteers on weekends, or at the boba place she seems so fond of (Gladys is starting to like Y/N more, he thinks, and he has a feeling he’s going to have to start fighting for her top spot as favorite customers). He would probably be bewitched by her gentle demeanor, then thrown off by a quick tongue and a sort of bratty mouth, but he’s always been into that, so it would’ve worked fine. He would have asked her on a date, for coffee, or to share a little slice of cake at a bakery.
Instead, Harry met her in an alleyway, thinking she was someone else, and threatening her for information that she didn’t know. Then he left her with a tiny, stinky kitten after she’d been traumatized because he needed to go find the actual Antoniya, who very clearly must have been tipped off for neither her nor Finley to show up to the restaurant they both separately had reservations at that night. Though he warned her, he had to track her messages, her calls, internet searches and history, and her location. It wasn’t the most ideal way to get to know someone. He really tried to lay off too, after like the first couple of days, he realized that she seemed to be more of the suffer in silence and the ‘pretend like it didn’t happen’ approach, which benefited them.
It seemed as though fate had wanted their paths to cross, though. If Harry believed in soulmates, even in a platonic sense, then he would think they were something of the sort. How else would it make sense that they literally run into each other everywhere? Harry technically, only officially followed her without her knowing a couple of times. He’d traced her to and from work the first couple of days, and all of this had started. And once he realized quickly that she had no intention of exposing him and blowing up a plan that had been years in the making, he stopped. The fact that they’d run into each other so many times was even starting to get creepy to him, and he was technically the weird stalker of the two. But it seemed like everywhere he turned, she was there as well, almost like she was following him.
He should be more weirded out by it than he is, but he isn’t. Harry doesn’t mind it – and she’s cute, and gets this silly look on her face every time she sees him when she wasn’t expecting to. It’s this very same look that has convinced Harry, without a shadow of a doubt, that Y/N wasn’t actually following him with some ulterior motive in mind (the only time he got really, really suspicious was the whole sex club ordeal, but that was easily explained away).
They were just meant to be in each other’s lives, for whatever reason. Harry believes that even if they hadn’t met in the off-kilter way they did, then he and Y/N would have found their way to each other somehow, someway. Their paths were meant to cross, whether it be in an alleyway, at a boba place, in a bowling alley, in a craft store, at the grocery, at a sex club – it was certain, and predetermined, he thinks. It was enough to make him believe in something like soulmates.
He’d been growing quite fond of her, too, the more they interacted and spoke to one another. Y/N was funnier than he thinks she knows she is, and she’s sweet, and almost way too okay with their dynamic and how they met. Harry thinks he’d be hard-pressed to find someone who would willingly let a known, somewhat stalker accompany them on the rest of their grocery trip, or sit down with them for a boba. He doesn’t think he’d be able to find one who was willing to let him come into her flat at all, and have total faith and trust in what he says. Because Harry always means what he says, but she had no reason to believe that after they first met, but she just does.
When she admitted that she considered them friends (and then promptly cried because she was drunk and Harry had the worst sort of response in the world, probably), Harry’s heart felt squishy and malleable in a way it only does when he’s feeling particularly endeared. Like when he looked Muffy in the eyes for the first time and thought he’d probably do anything in the world to protect that kitten. The same goes for Y/N, he thinks. He’d felt this urge to protect her once before, when she had called him on her way home, nervous about a guy in a hoodie. But that had been relatively new to their dynamic, so it wasn’t anything crazy.
But now, it was something else entirely. Now, Harry just wanted to lock her up in her flat and keep her safe where he knew he could. He didn’t like that Finley, all of a sudden, was at the same mall that Y/N was at, and was close enough to grab her and make her uncomfortable, both physically and with words. It was suspicious, just like she had described it to him – the fact that he stopped her even more so. Harry suspected that whatever this was had something to do with Y/N’s likeness to Antonyia. Finley was sort of a dog, so it wouldn’t be out of the question for him to utilize someone to his personal benefit, even if it meant putting them in danger. Harry isn’t sure what the plan is, but he knows with time, he could sure as hell figure it out, and figure it out quickly enough that he would be ahead of them again.
He would do a sweep of her flat, just in case, and make sure that nobody other than Harry had been tracking anything regarding her. Then he’d double-check that all of her locks and windows are still latched firmly. He’d look for even a bowl or a bottle of lotion that was out of place. He’d probably teach YN how to spot differences like that, too, just for future situations where this might arise.
So that’s why he was feeling irritated. He was feeling soft because Y/N was currently asleep on the sofa with Muffy against her belly, and he thinks it might be the cutest thing he’s seen in his life. She’d been so wired right after they got home, she was just jittering with nervous energy. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, she fell asleep quickly on the couch beside him when he was looking at the weather. She was closer to him than he wondered if she actually meant to be, with her head curled up on the pillow that was directly besides thigh. Harry had to hold back from combing his fingers along her skin a couple of times after finding out that she liked to be petted. She was snoring even, these feathery little noises. The fact that she felt safe enough with him to fall asleep so deeply made something warm stir in his chest. Same with Muffy, snuggled all close to her, sweet and soft.
Harry thinks he’ll probably be spending a lot of time here in the following days.
He hopes she’s okay with that.
Someone should do research into the link between Steve Harrington and Harry Styles because I know some of you guys know
❤️ 2017-2026 ❤️
Hes so pretty it makes me sick
Bad Neighbours Masterlist (Harry fic)
Premise: Harry despises the girl next door, and it's mutual. But Harry also really likes the girl he met online, and that, is also mutual.
Word count: 35k
🍑 Part One 🍑
🍑 Part Two 🍑
🍑 Part Three 🍑
🍑 Part Four 🍑
Going for Gold. (GRAMMYS)
Just a little meet-cute on the Grammy's red carpet. I'm thinking this could turn into a couple parts... maybe... idk. But I love how this turned out anyways :)
Warnings: Use of she/her (non-descriptive though).
Word Count: 1.2k
Part 2 / Part 3 / Other Writing
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The flustered flashes of stark, shimmering camera’s coming from left and right, blinding and blurring his vision, eyes darting back and forth as the mass of people in front of him called out in competitive coos for his attention. He worked with desperate determination to remain still, to stick to his poses, tune out the hornet’s nest of leeching photographers, and under no circumstances, should he squint.
Seconds felt like minutes, which might as well have been hours. With each mounting moment, fear riddled its way to the core of his chest, questioning if he looked like a fool, was his hair alright, his outfit properly fitted? And before he was completely swallowed by the tornado of sensory overload, goosebumps pricking up at the back of his neck, he was plucked from natural disaster, ushered further along the carpet, away from the buzzards of cameras, slipping further into the scattered crowd of the elegantly-garbed guests in attendance.
All in their own heads, people scurried amongst one another, ducking, and weaving in attempts to avoid trampling dress-trains, displacing gems, and jewels, keeping their hairdos intact. He remained glued to his publicist’s side, seeking coherence within this sea of crazed confusion. He was waved forward, trailing along the velveted carpet, joining in the collective of avoidance tactics, almost crashing straight into a short, disheveled man who seemed not to notice, disappearing in an instant. It was only when he was stood directly across from an interviewer- draped in satin blue, extending a microphone his way- that he returned to reality, a camera suddenly coming to focus, and he wondered, had it been there the entire time?
The interviewer was already mid-greeting, and he scolded himself for such distraction, focusing extra hard on the words sent his way, waiting his turn to return the greeting and express thanks for being asked how his evening was going so far. A sudden flash- not that of a camera, but of a silver, shimmering dress- out of the corner of his eye tore his gaze before he could stop himself. The owner of the floor-length gown was bobbing between the wave of tuxedo’s, floating in and out of view as he tried with anxious desperation to bring her into fully fledged focus. From what he could confirm, her eyes flared brighter than the flashes that caused her dress to flicker, and her smile was swallowing her cheeks whole, crinkling at the corners of her brows.
Like the snap of a finger, another question was sent his way, and he lost her to the tides. When he finally had the chance to redivert his attention to finding her, she was long gone, and he was left to be lured back into the fixated conversations of fashion, music, and the appearances of other stars. Tediousness would best describe the motions moving from one corner of bellowing and bitching to the other, and he longed for the seat decorated with a label of his name, the dimmed lights and clapping of hands, for the proper celebration. “Last one,” paired with a pat on the back was his saving grace, and a burst of enigmatic energy took him by complete surprise. He answered the questions more animatedly, made more eye contact, and was more than happy to show off his jewelry for the pleasure of the viewers at home.
“Hey, you!” a familiar face greeted as he rewardingly reached the carpet’s finishing line, and he was happy to be warmly wrapped within the bubble of a fellow nominee. It was nearing the time of dropping formalities and moving the party indoors, the slow ushering of guests stirring up nearby. He lingered in conversation, the desire to rush disappearing, and in hindsight, he was more than grateful for that, because like the breech of a blue whale, the owner of the shimmering silver dress- completely preoccupied in conversation with the middle-aged woman walking alongside her- was heading his direction.
His breath became trapped between his chest and throat as she floated by, looking straight ahead. And as her bare back became all of her he could see, the air gushed out from between his lips, a thirsty thump in his head. He felt an odd omen of loss, fearing it would be the last time he saw her face. The so-called departed anxiety had returned tenfold, anchoring its place in his heart, but with what many- including himself- may define as great luck, a slender, sterling bracelet sneakily slipped from her wrist, cascading down her dress before settling on the carpet with satisfaction. A satisfaction he shared as his feet mindlessly moved him forward, a puppy her heels, bending down to grab the bracelet, balanced between his fingers as his free hand reached out and gently tapped her shoulder.
Stopping in her tracks, lips parted and eyed widening as she tilted her neck to acknowledge the stranger. Standing before her, he suddenly felt rather silly. Peering down at her as she turned and looked up at him expectantly. A soft frown settling between his brows, only gesturing her to look down at his still splayed-out palm, her bracelet sitting so sweetly in the center. Her confusion switched to realization, then straight to mortification for managing to misplace her only accessory of importance. Muttering ‘fuck’, she peered up at him, blinking bashfully.
He only smiled down at her goofily, hoping that in some way it would reassure her. And it seemed to, her shoulders sinking back down, devoid of shame, suddenly substituted with curiosity. His eyes reflected the distant flashes, curls perfectly settled, daintily dotted freckles, dimples deep, and surely he could see the blush blotching up at her cheeks. She reached out to receive her retrieved treasure, lashes fanning as her eyes widened when he gently grasped her wrist, mindfully wrapping the bracelet back where it belonged before clipping the clasp into place, his hands lingering atop her skin for as long as she was willing to permit.
And now, seconds felt nothing like hours, they were gone before they came, and he was lettering her arm go. Still looking over at him shyly, she offered a more than grateful thank you, twisting at the bracelet timidly before sounds of excitement struck her senses back to attention, and she slipped back into reality. So, she sent her curious contemplation his way for a moment longer, her ears tingling at the sight of his cheeks warming under her watch, before softly waving - bracelet on display for all - and turning back to her attendee, who was waiting aside patiently. They re-synced and continued their pursuit of the event’s entrance. But just before being swallowed by the sea of stars once more, she looked back over her shoulder, and he knew now with certainty that they were surely sharing the same air of intrigue.
His hopes for the evening swirled and switched from ending with a shined and polished award, to seeking out the owner of the runaway bracelet. When it came to winning, gold was good- it was great, but suddenly silver sounded, so, so much better.
Just some grammy reminiscence 🥰🥰
Bad Neighbours: Four (Harry Styles fic.)
Premise: Harry despises the girl next door, and it's mutual. But Harry also really likes the girl he met online, and that, is also mutual.
Word count: 10k
Bad Neighbours Masterlist | Other Writing
🍑
The first knock on Y/n’s door came at nine a.m. on the dot. And in her sleepy, disgruntled state, she stumbled down the hallway, twisted the key, and came sleepy-face-to-smiling-face with a middle-aged blonde woman dressed far too formally for a Sunday morning.
She holds a plate of finger sandwiches in one hand and a pile of brochures in her other. Next to her stands a man and a woman, presumed to be a couple, brows furrowed at the disastrous state of the woman who just opened the door for them.
The fancy-dressed lady smiles enthusiastically and steps right into Y/n’s house, and the couple follows after her until there are now four people standing in her entrance hall when there should be zero.
“You must be Y/n,” the lady greets, holding out her hand.
“... Yes?” Y/n frowns, tone as puzzled as her thoughts and face right now.
“I’m Venelize. Harry told me about you. Said you might still be asleep when we arrived, but wouldn't mind being woken.”
Y/n’s forehead creases with bitter realisation at the sound of that name. She should have known. And now? This random woman is placing the tray of sandwiches on the dining table and laying out the brochures in a neat row.
And Y/n really wants to ask what the fuck is happening right now, but she feels the need to refuse giving Harry – wherever he is – any more satisfaction than he has probably been lapping up since the moment she opened her door.
She thinks he was probably outside, hiding behind the hedge fence in wait, like a ridiculous predator revelling in the little fox innocently and ignorantly stumbling straight into his snare.
And, yes, Harry was indeed peeking out from behind the fence with a ridiculously proud grin. He cannot believe how easy it was to execute this plan. After all, the biggest challenge in this scheme was whether his sleepy, hermit neighbour would even answer the door.
And this magnum opus of revenge for the rooster has only just begun.
He hasn't even retreated by the time another two people are parking and strolling up his unsuspecting neighbours' still-open front door. God, if she could see the look on Harry’s face – bemused, disbelief, borderline-evil delight – this might be the first time his face has ever morphed into something so pleased and satisfied.
And as his eyes trail along her front yard, where five For Sale signs are now scattered courtesy of himself, the laugh that escapes his chest is as evil as it is purely amused.
His neighbour, however, is starting to put the villainous pieces together. Mostly because this mysteriously cheerful neighbour has started guiding these unwanted guests on a tour of her home.
She just stands there like a babbling fish, dressed for bed and helpless to put an end to this nightmare. Christ, there are more than six people in her house now, excluding herself, and she can hear another car turning off its engine and promising that more doom is about to enter her home.
And when one of the accidental intruders starts asking her questions about the price and amenities and the bloody furniture, Y/n simply cannot believe that Harry has managed to set up an open house for a home that is not for sale.
She finds herself incapable of doing anything other than grouchily eating several mini sandwiches as the first group of people say farewell and depart, right as another couple and their two children come strolling in.
“Fucks sake,” she complains under her breath, stuffing her mouth with another sandwich to avoid saying something like, ‘tell your children to keep their hands off of my millions of trinkets.’
By eleven thirty, Y/n has single-handedly eaten seven stupid cheese-and-ham snacks and has finally had enough, so when the presumed real estate agent concludes her umpteenth tour and says goodbye to the couple she was guiding, Y/n walks over and does what she can to stop this from happening.
“Listen, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what Harry told you, but I’m not selling my house. Please, for the love of god, help me get these people out of here.”
To say the agent was surprised is on point, as she begins apologising profusely, which prompts Y/n to start doing the same thing, until the two of them are just spewing “I’m sorry about this, I’m sorry about Harry.”
This goes on for a good couple of minutes before the poor woman hastily gathers the remaining brochures, tosses them on the near-empty food platter and ushers herself and five strangers off the property.
The door stands ajar, and that’s the last reassurance Y/n needs to kick into action and storm straight out, bare feet and all. That’s when she sees the signs on the lawn, and man, if that doesn't amuse and anger her all at once.
He’s gotta be holed up in that house of his, chuckling evilly to himself about what might be the prank of all pranks.
For Harry, she’s right on time, stomping over to his shut door, her fist pounding on the hardwood to the rhythm of rage, and Harry opens it so quickly that she almost bangs her fist straight into his chest.
Her stare is as loathsome as it is dangerous, like she’s staring down a villain who threatened her cat and not just her pesky trickster of a neighbour.
“This is an all-time low.”
Harry leans his back brazenly against the door frame, his gaze raking up her pyjama-clad figure – shirt crumbled and hair still messy with frustration over lost sleep.
“Really? I think it’s my best one yet.” His smile is smug.
“It is, and that’s why I hate it.” Her arms cross her chest with a heavy huff.
“How many people showed?”
“At least twelve.” Her words are coated with surprise, exasperation and utter disdain as Harry can’t stop himself from laughing out and filling the space between them with boastful pleasure as she pouts,
“It’s not funny!”
“C’mon, Peaches, you love talking to strangers.” He mocks.
“It sickens me that you know me so well.” She only grumbles with a scowl.
“Join the club.” He scoffs, his pretty green gaze rolling.
“You’re so childish!” She groans, foot stomping like it isn't hypocritical to do so while accusing someone of being juvenile.
“Oh, am I the one who put livestock in your living room?” Harry torts, still evidently very disgruntled by the whole Reaper situation.
“No, but you did steal my gnome.” Y/n scoffs so loud it feels like her entirety departs along with it, and she points an accusatory finger at him.
Just when Harry thinks he’s in the clear, his neighbour lets him know she was in on it all along, and that dulls half the satisfaction – after all, these types of moments, right here, are the whole point of using his free time to scheme and think about his favourite sassy brat.
“You knew about that?”
“Of course I did. What do you take me for?” She chides, quite fond of the way his rosy surprise-parted lips swoop into a precious pout.
“Well, you owned a garden gnome. So, as it stands, I take you for a quirky spawn of Satan.”
Harry’s shoulders do a little lift with so much nonchalance it's maddening, and his unfairly pretty eyes and audaciously wispy lashes are infuriating. Especially when he intentionally bats them like dandelions in the breeze, and offers an alternative,
“But you’re more than welcome to prove me wrong.”
“No, you pretty much hit the nail on the head.” The glimmer in her gaze counters the casual dismissal of her words.
“That’s a first.” He muses.
“And a last.” She hopes and prays.
She should definitely leave now. There’s still hope to salvage her Sunday, and staying a moment longer is sure to refuel the roundabout of useless arguing they so easily stride into.
But she doesn't move because there’s something pleasant about discussing the mechanisms behind their successful pranks. Come to think of it, Y/n doesn’t actually have anyone else who would even marginally understand this insane dynamic.
She certainly doesn’t tell her friends and family about the unnecessary amount of time she spends scheming and prepping for pranks that seem to only escalate this rivalry. She knows others would react with more confusion than amusement, and more than one would implore her to find something better to do in her spare time.
And now here’s Harry, the single person who can make any sense of this nonsensical back-and-forth, who clearly finds a similar sick joy in executing elaborate disruptions; it feels like a missed opportunity to turn on her heels.
“Did you drive all around town collecting For Sale signs?”
“Absolutely.” His prideful smile is so proud it's almost endearing.
“Your commitment is deadly.” She muses, struggling to hide the impressed approval that tries to slip through the cracks of her mouth.
Harry barks out a hearty laugh that is shortly followed by his voice lilting into a husky, perfectly in tune little song that takes Y/n as much by surprise as it makes her want to say anything to hear him sing again, “Rooster ruined my cushion.”
“One day you’ll love that precious poultry of mine, I guarantee.” She nods with such certainty that Harry almost feels inclined to believe her. Almost.
“You live on another planet, Peaches, I swear it.” He muses.
“Yeah? You should join me.”
Well, now that has Harry intrigued. And Y/n can see it even before he opens his mouth to respond,
“Oh? Gonna make me an offer I can’t refuse?”
“You’ll come around on your own…” Y/n’s lips creep upward as she softly snorts and shrugs with newfound smugness, cooing, “eventually.”
And now Harry’s beyond the point of returning to disinterest any time soon, and he can’t tell if it's because everything said between them somehow always circles back to a challenge, or if it’s because he’s genuinely interested in who the hell the girl living next door actually is under all that supervillain chaos.
“Your confidence is intriguing...” His words are dense as they trail off with fascination.
“God, next thing you’ll wanna get to know me.” She groans.
“Would that be so bad?”
He peers down at her with that all too familiar amused glimmer in his gaze, but this one feels just a tad different… like a flicker of intrigue, or fondness that floats along the span of his pretty stare and has Y/n doubting if it truly would be that bad if they got to know one another. All she can do is expertly raise her brows into a weary yet thoughtful bushy quirk.
“... I'll get back to you on that.”
🍑
The glee that flickers like glimmering flakes of glitter all along Harry’s skin is something he hasn’t felt in longer than he can recall. And it’s intoxicating. His body practically floats through the entrance hall towards the living room, landing on the sofa like a leaf carried by the summer breeze.
With his ruffled curls resting against the armrest and his legs that go on forever stretched out along the span of the cushions, he wastes no time in pulling out his phone and heading straight for his favourite chat to report back on the good news.
Loverboy: I think I finally got under my neighbour's skin!
Her response comes through moments later, and Harry tries to imagine what she might look like hearing the news face-to-face. If her lips parted and eyes widened with surprise would look as adorable as her personality.
PastryPrincess: Was the reaction worth it?
Loverboy: God, more than.
Loverboy: And I have a very witty girl behind a phone screen to thank for it.
He sure does. And fuck, Harry would laugh himself into an early grave if he knew his thanks were actually going to the exact person who suffered at the hands of this masterful prank.
PastryPrincess: You can thank me by keeping up all the compliments.
On her sofa across the way, sulking, as usual, Y/n's willing to take all the doting she can get.
Loverboy: Careful, now. Once I start, you’ll have to muzzle me to get me to stop.
Now that's an idea she can get behind. The mere implication sends her thoughts and twists her stomach into a spiral of filthy thoughts.
PastryPrincess: Don’t give me any ideas…
Loverboy: What, is the thought of me being a good boy too much to bear?
Yes, yes it is. How could it not with the vivid visual of sternly peering down at a good boy who'd kiss her feet without hesitation if she so pleased?
PastryPrincess: It is when you aren’t here, and I can't make you get on your knees.
Harry's slacks threaten to tighten at the mere thought. He isn't even ashamed to admit it would take less than a single ‘please' for him to drop to the floor for her. But he has to maintain some semblance of aloofness.
Loverboy: What makes you so sure I would?
PastryPrincess: Denial doesn’t suit you, loverboy.
Loverboy: Oh? And what would suit me better, Princess?
He knows exactly what she wants, but he goads her regardless. And Y/n’s fantasy is too fleshed out to even acknowledge the wriggling worm of validation that dangles on the thin line and blurs her line of vision, needily attached to the rod he clutches in anticipation.
PastryPrincess: You, on your knees, asking me very nicely to let you take care of me.
Loverboy: Huh. I thought you were the one who liked to beg.
True… But sometimes, after being in front of a webcam, pleading and promising to be a good girl, the last thing Y/n wants to do is follow through with said promises. And since most of her days are spent feeling a lack of control, she often finds herself slipping off into a daydream of what it might be like to have someone else be at her mercy.
PastryPrincess: Well, since you're my favourite and most loyal fan, I'll let you in on a little secret.
PastryPrincess: Sometimes I think I might not want to be as submissive as I thought.
Harry couldn't have predicted the way his skin clams up at the implication, his body suddenly ten times heavier like a pair of soaking denim clinging to and weighing him down. It's like he’s just plunged into a pool of sudden possibility, like he’s been holding his breath for so long, and he didn’t even know why.
Now, he’s gasping in fresh air, and it fills his lungs with the motivation to finally confront something he’s been questioning lately. Well, always, but now more than ever.
Loverboy: I'll let you in on my own little secret then.
Loverboy: I don't know if I even want to be in control anymore.
There. He finally said it. Was it through a phone screen to a virtual stranger whom he somehow knows better than nearly everyone in his real life? Yes.
But he’s also admitting to himself that, at his grown age, there are still parts of himself that question if he actually knows what he truly wants, and that is terrifying.
PastryPrincess: Yeah?
PastryPrincess: I think it’s cause I feel like I usually have no control.
The minute her response pops up on the screen, it envelops Harry in that familiar reassurance that he swears he cannot get enough of, and when her words are so opposite to his, and therefore so akin, Harry knows that there’s nobody else who fits him with such ease.
Loverboy: Guess I feel like I have too much.
Heating up quicker than the noon sun does a swimming pool, Y/n vehemently shakes her head in an attempt to rid the brigade of filthy thoughts that march forward and demand her to indulge – just a little – in the idea of being in charge for a change. Not just in charge of anyone, but of one very mysterious, tender stranger who seems in need of a little bossing around.
PastryPrincess: I think we're a match made in heaven.
Loverboy: I know we are.
Yeah, Y/n’s gonna have to do something – anything – to stop herself from getting carried away. Fantasies are just as dangerous as the real thing, and somehow, she feels they might actually be worse. Disappointment is a threat that acts as a horizon, yet she willingly turns her back to the sky as she types out a response.
PastryPrincess: It's dangerous, loverboy…
Loverboy: Darling, that's what makes it so good.
🍑
Around a week later, Harry has to blink twice when the movement of something akin to a human catches the corner of his eyes as he remains slumped comfortably on the navy sofa, gaze intently glued to the telly as the Real Housewives of New York are seconds away from having a full-on brawl at the dinner table.
The whiny tones of glitzed and gaudily garbed women are ever escalating, and Harry’s on the edge of his seat. He’s been anticipating this showdown for weeks now - eyes glued to the screen - when the flicker from just outside his living room window grows larger and finally disrupts his attention enough for him to spare a half-glance.
At first, he thinks the shuffling motion is surely a pigeon taking off for the freeing sky, but when the figure stays in place, neither flying nor dropping, Harry peels his stare from the screen completely and aims it at the odd distraction.
And that’s when he sees his neighbour, scaling the wall of her own house. Clumsily balancing the tips of her sneaker-clad feet on the minutest of gaps separating two cobblestones, her body stretched out like sticky taffy, arms reaching out in pursuit of hooking her hands safely onto the sill of her bedroom window.
With his eyes wide with bewilderment, still trained on the display of extreme sport occurring mere metres away, Harry can hear the voices on screen rising with dramaticism. But he can’t look away from his wall-climbing neighbour. Whether it has something to do with concern for her safety or the fear of being a witness to an avoidable accident, he exhales a gravelly groan and blindly grabs the remote to press pause.
Walking with panicked haste, Harry avoids all formalities and enters her tenderly nurtured property, gangly legs taking broad steps up the driveway, turning to the right and following the neat stepping stone path that leads him straight to the rock climber herself.
Peering up, Harry tries his best to avoid startling her, dulling his usual booming tone for one that hopefully avoids sending her body into a jolt and letting go of the windowsill that her fingers now grasp onto with desperation.
“Do you have a death wish?”
She doesn’t even flinch from the task at hand, as if she had sensed his presence all along. And she did - he’s not soft on his feet, and his bemused huff on arrival was louder than he thought.
“You do if you think distracting me is a good idea.” Y/n grumbles.
“And what's happening right now is a good idea?” He scoffs.
“No, it's a desperate attempt to get inside.” She snaps, craning her head ever so slightly to address the bothersome man, “What does it look like?”
He should have known that coming over wouldn’t solve the problem, as if she would do anything he suggests - and as if she wouldn’t double down on her stubbornness and attempt to do something even more reckless.
“Looks like your pride is getting in the way of asking for help.” His arms cross over his chest with frustration, “Again.”
“Oh, please, this has nothing to do with pride.” She scoffs, neck snapping back to focus on the task at hand, arms starting to ache, blood rushing away from her veins in pursuit of her head, throbbing against her forehead.
“You know damn well that I have a ladder. If you weren’t so stubborn, you could've asked to borrow it.” Harry scolds.
“And be indebted to you? Yeah, right.”
“You really do think so lowly of me.” Harry’s disappointed sigh is followed by a sad thought about how far things must have gone for her to resist the simplest offering of help. And pleading his good intentions will be pointless.
“Stop interrupting me!” She scolds.
So, with a dragged-out sigh, Harry walks back the way he came, straight into his yard in pursuit of his trusty ladder that still rests criminally against the cobble wall separating him from that marvellous peach tree.
Naturally, when it came time to purchase the partner to his peach-thieving crime, Harry gravitated towards an old-school tan wood ladder that reminded him of the one his mum used to pull out whenever the gutters got too clogged.
It’s lightweight and hooks perfectly atop the steep and broad dune of his shoulder, and Harry’s back in the yard of his neighbour in no time. Speaking of time, it’s running out; he can see the little tremors twitching at her bare legs as she struggles to maintain the strength to lift her upper body high enough to fit through the half-open window.
From where Harry stands, this task is impossible to complete, and she either doesn’t notice or does and chooses to attempt defying gravity nevertheless.
Regardless, his body rumbles with an amused chuckle, one that is fuelled by too much fondness for his liking, as he shakes his head and leans the ladder against the wall. Y/n’s attention snaps to the thwack of wood against cobblestone, her hands gripping the brick tighter with fright.
“Hey!” She scolds, risking a glance down to send Harry a harsh glare, but he’s already halfway up the make-shift steps and inching closer by the second.
He moves fast, Y/n thinks it's mostly due to his gangly legs, which she loves more than enough to punish herself for under the covers of darkness. Regardless, Harry covers the distance in seconds and cheerfully reaches her level, casually resting an arm against the step above him and blessing her with an almost cruel smirk, perfectly defining his dimpled cheeks.
His pride sickens Y/n… the type makes her want to suffocate him, with a pillow – better yet, with her lips. Maybe then he’d think twice before pulling out that classic cheeky smile that seems to be his default these days. It’s as infuriating as the next words that practically sing through the gap between his plump lips,
“Don’t be a brat.”
He leaves no space for her to strum up a typical snappy retort, his right hand anchored to the ladder as his left hooks onto her hip, his arm latching around her lower back like an electric wire, and for the first time in perhaps the entirety of their relationship, she can’t find it in herself to argue back.
All she can do is accept his help as he tightens the sparking cable of his arm and lifts lightly, hoisting her body nearer to the sill, and with such ease it renders her stunned, she finally has the momentum to press her hands into the cream panel, hoisting herself up as her legs work overtime to summit this self-made rock climbing wall.
With the grace of a newborn deer, Y/n’s limbs flail, to Harry’s greatest amusement, and as if the ajar window were the exit of a claustrophobic cave, she practically crawls through and mortifyingly stumbles to the floor with a hard thump.
After a moment, she reappears, and she looks like the aftermath of overexertion as strands of hair splay in all directions, cheeks swollen and flushed, chest almost tapdancing to the tune of breathlessness, and Harry is just looking up at her, a smug glimmer in his gaze that his body mirrors as he leans back on the ladder with an ease that it could convince the strongest sceptic that it wouldn't collapse on him even if an earthquake challenged the soil below.
Aside from the cheek-swelling embarrassment of having a dickhead audience up close to witness her clumsy gymnastics tumble through the window crack, the words ‘damsel in distress’ are ringing in Y/n’s ears louder than the blood rushing back to her thudding brain.
She’s got to start wondering if she’s putting curses on herself with her premonitions that are clearly best left unsaid. Like she’s trapped in a vortex with her notorious neighbour, and every senseless thought she conjures up goes straight to his soul and tugs him further into her orbit of chaos.
And that stupid, shamelessly charming smile of his does nothing but send her spiralling right back into shame. Her stare turns to that of a snake about to strike as she leans through ajar window and scoffs,
“My hero.”
Harry’s lazy satisfaction only strengthens, and this might be the worst interaction Y/n has had with this man – no, any man… any person, ever.
“Bout time you noticed.”
The shame of being caught scaling her own home is long gone, replaced by heightened distress over how easy this all was. Too easy for him to offer assistance, and even easier to relent, accept, and appreciate the moment.
The idea of asking Harry for help feels like pulling out each tooth one by one, but it sure hurts less than the grand piano of appreciation that dangles just above her head with daunting imminence.
“Thanks… for the help.”
That’s all she can muster. Followed by an instant pang of guilt for how underwhelming her appreciation is, but when Harry’s crossed arms rise and fall to the beat of his humoured chest - his entire face hauntingly entertained and egregiously pleased with himself - Y/n feels peculiarly reassured.
“Anytime, Peaches.” He’s descending the ladder before he can confirm the predicted reaction of her bunched brows and clenched cheeks as she semi-spits back,
“I told you not to call me that.”
His soles sinking into the grass, he cranes his neck to meet her frown with his own bemused tilted brows as his head tips in a gesture to the resting ladder, his dense, glucose-y voice projecting,
“I’ll leave this here… Y’know, to save you the trouble next time.”
Y/n doesn’t say anything – Harry’s strolling away before she can – and it's futile, but not enough for her to stop the disgruntled sigh-slash-scoff that fills the space between the ghost of their interaction.
🍑
If someone offered Y/n a free vacation in exchange for having to watch back footage of herself clumsily breaking into her home, she wouldn’t have hesitated to take a rain check.
So, imagine how it feels for her to have to rationalise the unfortunate fact that her biggest rival not only had the perfect view, but got to swoop in and save the day.
Afterall, the smugness he currently feels is exactly how she would feel had she found him in a similar position. And in all honesty, likely, Y/n wouldn’t have done nearly as good a job of hiding her righteous remarks. God, it would have been fun though.
Sitting like a sulk, feeling very sorry for herself on the couch, she can just picture the trip her neighbour is certainly on right now, probably the best high that washes over in heavy waves, reigniting his laughter over and over.
And she’s not far off. Harry finds this all so amusing that even now, back on the couch, even after he returns to the paused Housewives, every time the memory resurfaces, his body bubbles with the bemused giggles.
His focus is so deterred from the drink just thrown in a middle-aged blonde’s face that when his phone lights up with a favourable ‘ding’, he forgets the show altogether and unlocks the screen. And his heart truly flutters when he sees a notification from his favourite name.
PastryPrincess: Do you ever get tired of keeping people at a distance?
Harry sighs at the question reflecting back at him, because of course he does. And the perfect example of this lives just next door. He should be able to revel in these ‘neighbourly’ incidents with Y/n. Hell, they shouldn’t be in this weird dynamic to begin with.
But, he supposes it would be nice to share the amusing parts of it with someone… even if it’s her.
Loverboy: Honestly? All the time.
Loverboy: Do you?
Across the driveway and in the heart of the living room, curled up and feeling sillier than ever, Y/n does feel like the guarded life is getting a little lonely.
PastryPrincess: More and more as time goes by.
But by this point, it's second nature, an effort that solidified into such familiarity over the years that now, it doesn’t even take a thought to keep those walls stacked high. How can either of them trust that the person they allow to chip away at them will do so with the right amount of caution – of care?
Loverboy: But old habits die hard, hm?
PastryPrincess: Do you think that could change, though?
Though Harry is a self-proclaimed grump, he’s never been a pessimist – especially regarding love. It’s like he can’t rid himself of the hopefulness of falling in love that embraces him even in the face of heartbreak, and he stopped trying a long time ago.
Loverboy: I think, if you really want it to.
All it takes is one simple sentence, and Y/n’s focus almost completely shifts from that lingering mortification to soft and soothed.
PastryPrincess: A loverboy, a knight in shining armour, and a prophet. Quite the triple threat you are.
PastryPrincess: And somehow always reassuring.
And back on the sofa at Harry’s, he feels that reassurance she spoke of seeping through the screen and enveloping his splayed-out body.
Loverboy: I like that. Don’t think I’ve been called reassuring before.
PastryPrincess: What have you been called?
To nobody's surprise, Harry's thoughts refer back to the familiar words his disappointed neighbour so fondly refers to him as. And, maybe a couple extra traits that his cheekiness just can't pass up the opportunity to mention.
Loverboy: Stubborn, grouchy, mischievous… and devilishly handsome.
PastryPrincess: Sounds a lot like me… If you switch out grouchy for sassy and handsome for drop-dead gorgeous.
The irony of using Harry's favourite descriptors as a summary for her personality is not lost on Y/n, but it can't be helped that it's true…
Loverboy: Stubborn, sassy, drop-dead gorgeous? My favourite type of chaos.
PastryPrincess: You're an anomaly.
Loverboy: I'll be your anomaly if you so kindly ask.
This is dangerous territory. Each day is harder to maintain the distance. Not even physically, but the personal mystery that they've used as a crutch for too long now.
It was always a possibility that intrigue would get the best of them – well, at least her. But experience dictated her surety that seeing Loverboy as anything other than a sweet, charming, oddly funny anonymous boy who made the weeks easier to bear.
Which, if Y/n thinks about it, kinda sounds like she must be the biggest fool on earth to have missed that fact. That, or she knew and took the risk anyway. She doesn't know which is harder to live with.
All she knows for certain is that it's a pretty lonely life when you hold your hand out like a stop sign and wonder why people do just that.
🍑
With putting old habits to rest at the forefront of her mind, and the nagging feeling that she has to somehow repay Harry for that ‘damsel in distress’ disaster a few days prior, Y/n finds herself doing the unthinkable this morning – intentionally walking away from the safety net of her driveway towards the danger that lies behind the no-mans-land hedgewall… Harry’s front yard.
And unlike every other time, where her struts are fuelled by flabbergasted frustration, today they sink into the trimmed grass with weary resignation.
The whole sense of wrongness she feels doesn’t leave even as she stands on his doorstep, not even after he answers - and especially not when the door opens, and he’s wearing far too little clothing to be fair on anyone simply trying to hate him and not ogle at his unfairly thick, golden thighs.
And the cocky curiosity that arches his brow and laces his words, “Hey, neighbour,” only makes her regret whatever the hell she’s willingly getting herself into.
Still, Y/n persists, ignoring his lilted tone and stupidly stunning smile as she bites the bullet and does her damndest to dilute the cringing betrayal she feels just from opening her mouth,
“Do you like salmon?”
“Who doesn’t?” His amusement only increases as he sinks back into his familiar position of leaning back against the doorframe, and Y/n’s almost certain that when he confidently crosses his arms atop his broad chest, and his forearms flex just slightly, he’s doing it on purpose.
And it’s working like a charm because she has a lapse in memory, enough to distract her from even listening to what he said, instead rapidly blinking and nodding as if it might bring her back to earth,
“Good.”
Harry pauses and gives her the chance to continue, and boy, is he enjoying the anticipation of whatever brings her to his doorstep – especially when the conflicting doubt is morphing her features so animatedly. But she still hasn’t spoken, and Harry never was that good with patience,
“So…?”
“So… What?” She cluelessly questions.
“Salmon?” His brow quirks.
“Huh?” Y/n’s do the same.
“What is happening right now?” Harry’s chuckle is a combination of entertained confusion.
“Oh – shit. I have salmon.” Y/n blurts and makes a mental note to flog herself for it later.
“... Too much salmon?” It sounds like a question, and that deserves a second flogging. But she pushes through, “I wanted to know if you’d like to come over for some dinner?”
Harry is nonplussed, bewildered, intrigued and couldn’t hide it if he tried, his smirk morphing into a shiny grin that frames his mischievous tone as he drawls,
“Does the offer include spending time with Mac?”
“If it stops you from poaching him, then, fine.”
Her words are as conceding as they are begrudging and irritated, and there hasn’t been a single second of this interaction that Y/n hasn’t felt herself lathered in dread. Dread that he’d decline the offer, and even more that he might accept.
“What time should I come over?” His nonchalance is discerning.
And now that he’s agreed with such ease and a hint of, perhaps, enthusiasm, the coating of dread starts to melt into a waxy seal of surprise and nervousness. Especially when he’s staring down at her with that same warm stare from the other day that feels as unfamiliar as it does right.
“Oh. Uh, how’s six thirty?” Her uncertainty slips through and seasons her words and leaves a familiar feeling of needing to set time aside to chide herself for coming off as anything other than suave and disinterested.
“Perfect.” Harry’s words are sprinkled with sugary charm and melt into such sticky certainty that Y/n has no choice but to nod and brace herself for welcoming her own personal satan into her home.
🍑
Y/n’s been dealing with the type of dread that gets so heavy it sinks her stomach inward, and though she tries her damndest to keep distracted - to watch some YouTube videos on how to perfectly sear salmon skin, to do the laundry, clean the kitchen – she still can’t stop the anxiety of expanding the unknown territory of her and Harry.
Oddest of all, it’s not even the bad type of anxiety - not that there’s a particularly good type - it's the type that flutters like little dandelions in the breeze, that gets you so tickled with anticipation that your body goes into overdrive and all of a sudden, your nerves are fizzled.
Nevertheless, she goes through the motions, murmuring the mantra, ‘it's just a normal dinner between two people’, has a shower, fluffs the sofa cushions, and starts prepping the chromatic array of fresh vegetables.
But timing isn’t Y/n’s strong suit when it comes to cooking… at all. And if you were to tease her about it, she’d simply and factually state, “Good food takes time,” which she does believe, along with the belief that rushing ruins the process.
Unlike his untimely neighbour, Harry Styles is always early. The type of guy who sets his watch to five minutes ahead and sometimes tells people the wrong time to ensure they arrive when expected. If you asked him, he’d probably shrug and say, “I like to make a good impression”, which he certainly does, along with priding himself on punctuality as a principle.
So, when he knocks on his neighbour's door at two minutes to six thirty, Y/n nearly jumps out of her skin, her arms raising as she turns her head to be greeted with a massive shiny blade that stares at her with the promise that this night will be anything by simple.
Carefully returning the knife to the chopping board, she quickly rinses her hands and rushes through the entrance hall. But she has to take a second before facing him, leaning back against the wall and inhaling a deep, desperate breath as if it might provide her with some relaxation-laced oxygen.
On the other side of the hardwood, Harry waits patiently, hand loosely tucked into the pocket of his black wide-length cotton slacks, before restlessly raising his arm to ruffle his fingers through his silky curls.
Exactly what he does when he’s feeling out of his element, and nothing could prepare him for a peace treaty in the self-proclaimed Versailles of his neighbour. Not all the time in the world, nor the full contents of the green wine bottle in his other hand.
Especially not after the door finally clicks unlocked and reveals a slightly flustered, parted-mouthed, wide-eyed host, who peers up at him with the type of look you get right before hopping on a rollercoaster.
“You're early.” Her remark works as a greeting.
“I hope you like white.” Harry’s shoulders dip into a noncommittal shrug as he holds up the chilled wine bottle as his own form of ‘hello’.
“Who doesn’t?”
The left side of Y/n’s lips curves into a soft smirk as she silently praises herself for the little callback from this morning, extending her arm to accept the bottle and stepping aside to invite him in. And that smile would have kept growing if it weren’t for the next words out of Harry’s lips,
“Good girl.”
Her eyes widen, and Harry has to stop himself from doing the same because, God, is he looking for trouble tonight? He hasn’t even properly entered the house, and he wants to cringe his way out the door and down the driveway.
Thankfully, Y/n lets it slide and walks on further into the room. Harry closes the door behind him and follows after her like a lost pup. He does such a good job that when she comes to a sudden halt and turns on her heels to face him, he stops mere inches short of slamming right into her.
Y/n lets that one slide too. With a little smile, she gestures to the living room and, right before walking off into the kitchen, she casually informs,
“You can… make yourself at home.”
Something about the clear uncertainty and doubt that Y/n can do nothing to hide actually calms Harry down. In fact, it evokes that pleasant anticipation that he always gets whenever the two of them are in the same vicinity.
“You’ll regret saying that.” He calls offhandedly, watching fondly as her shoulders tense and sink back to normal before she disappears into the kitchen.
And then Harry turns his attention to his surroundings. For so long, this was a place he pictured as a lava-spewing, boulder-crashing, cobweb-covered, bat-dwelling cave, and now, standing here, in the centre of a very cosy, and very colourful living room, he feels his certainty dwindling and his curiosity piquing.
There’s so much to look at – too much – that Harry’s temperature starts to rise. All these colours and furniture and decorations make it impossible for him to maintain that perfectly curated version of a vengeful neighbour.
It's… charming, and therefore jarring. The monster living in that haunted house he had spent so many hours perfecting each brush stroke until it was so vivid, was supposed to be someone icy, prickly – someone overly put-together and as reserved as the guard she keeps up around him.
And now he’s here, in the heart of her home, enveloped by memories in the form of trinkets and pictures, in a nest structured with care and curation – one that’s been lived in, that holds moments and feelings and houses a human, instead of a monster lurking beneath the shadows.
There’s an entire shelf dedicated to mismatched - yet somehow perfectly themed - trinkets that range so vastly, Harry’s mind is a cloud of curiosity, like a sudden puzzle has presented itself, and though he has zero hints, his thoughts fog up with all the possibilities of figuring out the intention behind each and every curated item.
“Didn’t take you for a collector.” He calls out, gold-ringed thumb reaching out to glide along the silky ceramic curves of a deep blue cat figurine.
“Didn’t take you for the punctual type.” Her amused voice bellows melodically down the narrow hallway.
Harry snorts with an edge of fondness as he follows the echo of her words along the hardwood passage until the floors turn to marbled kitchen tiles. The soft rhythm of a Marvin Gaye song is playing, getting louder as he walks, like a moment from a movie where the character first sees someone who’s about to turn their lives upside down.
Then his snarky neighbour comes into view – her back turned to him, dressed in a simple pair of straight-cut jeans and a graphic tee with a poster for some eighties film, focus fixed on the task at hand, and now Harry really feels like he just stumbled through a television screen, straight into the middle of a half-written scene.
“Where do you keep the glasses?” He ponders, expecting a snarky remark.
“Second cabinet.” She simply hums, tilting her head in the direction of the instruction.
And as she offers upon his arrival, Harry embraces comfortability with ease as he gathers two glasses and strolls over to the cutlery drawer, hip gently brushing against her own as she slightly shifts to give him space to find a bottle opener.
The cork departs with a soft pop as Y/n finishes off the last of her prepping and finally turns around to face him. His body - his whole vibe, actually - is at ease as he now leans back against the countertop and holds out a glass for her.
She accepts it gratefully but cautiously. “Cheers to…” She tilts the glass slightly inward in a gesture for him to clink his against hers.
And he does, with a gentle tap that kisses her glass and sweetly sings out like a sound stamp for how bizarre a situation these two have stumbled into, “To good salmon.”
“To good salmon, and questionable company.” Y/n concedes, the corner of her lip betraying her as it inches upward, and that causes Harry to ease into returning her smile, twice as wide, showing off those adorable dimples.
An intriguingly comfortable silence drapes between the two of them like a snuggly blanket as Y/n finalises the prep and opens the oven, overly-cautious as she slides the baking tray in.
“How are you preparing the salmon, dear neighbour?”
“Parchment paper.” She opens her mouth to grumble, ‘if that suits your petulant ass’, but Harry chimes in with a charismatic follow-up,
“With peppers?”
“That’s the best way.” Y/n hums with approval, quickly busying herself with a hefty sip of wine to avoid full-on smiling at his little burst of enthusiasm.
“Yum.” Harry sighs fondly. Bringing the glass up to his glossy lips, he takes a sip, a faint memory floating to the forefront, and he doesn’t even fully register he’s speaking aloud, “I used to order it at this small French place in my hometown.”
“Oh?”
“Mm. Can’t even remember the last time I went back there.” His rich voice laced with reminiscence.
There’s something about the way his answer trails off, distant and dreamlike, that tampers down Y/n's sarcasm and cranks up her curiosity. Suddenly, she’s inundated by the realisation that ‘this guy is a real person’, and ‘who would’ve thought’.
And then there’s the way his creamy features start to soften, as if he’s letting the heavy winds of nostalgia sweep him up into the silent serenity of the eye of the storm. His mischievous stare is whisked away in favour of gentle fondness. It’s unnerving... how much Y/n likes it.
So much so that she finds herself asking him where he grew up, and when he actually answers with casual candour, she doesn’t resist telling him about her hometown when he returns the question.
The salmon bakes peacefully as Harry tells her about the flowers that used to bloom in his mum's garden each spring, and Y/n sweetly recounts days of her youth picking sour ruby grapes off the rickety vines of her childhood home.
And it's nice. Peaceful, even. Talking about something other than accusations and non-vague threats. About life in the neighbourhood when the days aren’t filled with the overstimulation of pranks and long work days. And as the warm aroma of roasting peppers and red onion envelops the air with the type of comfort that comes from feeling at home, neither Harry nor Y/n feel like ruining it.
🍑
Sitting opposite one another, their plates, a vinaigrette, salt and pepper shakers, and the bottle of wine separating their uncharted territory like that hedge that separates their driveways, Y/n and Harry have an unpredictably peaceful meal.
They exchange small pleasantries, but mostly try not to argue about the ownership of Mac after his shameless ginger chunkiness struts into the room and practically prances straight over to affectionately pirouette around Harry's ankle.
It’s only after his final bite that Harry sighs with impressed content, leans back in his chair and revives that mischievous little smirk that always means he’s about to say something snarky or cheeky – or both.
“Wow, peaches, who knew you were a lil’ gold-star chef?”
“Don’t say that. Any of it.” Y/n almost chokes on a diced onion before chiding.
“Huh.” That stupid smile mixed with that stupidly righteous tone has Y/n’s fists clenching. Especially when he adds, “You take insults so well, never thought you’d be bad with compliments.”
“Because you aren’t complimenting me.” She grumbles.
“I’m trying to.” He mimics.
“And failing.”
After a soft snort of amusement and another bite of the tender salmon, Harry’s voice is far more sincere as he attempts a second round of praise,
“I mean it, though. This is delicious. Feels familiar… like, homely.”
Y/n’s mid-sip of wine when he speaks, and yes, compliments aimed at her are always foreign, but coming from Harry? They feel like stumbling upon a blue whale in the desert.
But that’d be kinda interesting, right? Not something you see every day. And what’s happening at this dining table is something you definitely don’t see every day. So, perhaps letting Harry’s words be that ‘desert-whale’ could be just as, if not more, interesting. Consider Y/n intrigued when she subconsciously licks her lips and responds,
“The wine is good too.” And she’s not lying. It’s like a simmer of fermented grapes heating her insides with soothing comfort.
“Perfect pairing.” It clearly does the same for Harry.
“Another glass?” She ponders, already reaching out for the bottle.
“I won’t say no to that.”
The glasses refilled, plates more empty than full, Harry has the urge to know more about the owner of this insanely cosy house and the chef of this insanely good dinner.
“What do you do?” He takes a slow sip. “Like, what’s your day job?”
“I correct people.” His neighbour shrugs through a bite, swallowing and enjoying the little furrow of his forehead before she elaborates. “Editor for an overrated newsroom.” Tilting her brow in a wordless prompt for him to provide his own answer.
“Corporate sellout.” The words are more like a rueful sigh than a full sentence. “Analytics department at a fancy-shmancy firm.”
“Sounds like you love it.” She softly snorts.
“It’s killing my soul.”
Harry is more surprised by his honesty than Y/n could ever be – and as surprised as she is, she’s well past being concerned about it. Now that he’s talking, she kinda doesn’t want him to stop. Not after each of his words adds a fragment of a contradiction to the blurry image of an irritating interference she was so used to interacting with.
“Is this what you always wanted to do?”
“No. I wanted the cute cottagecore life…”
Harry sighs, mossy stare stuck to the safety of the last of his supper, as he continues,
“Owning a bakery and riding my bike around town. Y’know, poetry by the creek, listening to crickets and watching sunsets from the porch.”
Hell, that sounds nice, Y/n thinks. The simple life... A life so simple that each moment ends up feeling more important than the last. One where time passes with purpose and lacks the taunt of inevitable endings.
“You can still do that, y’know.” Her tone is almost as soft as her words.
“I do…” His words trail off with underlying and undeniable doubt.
“But it’s complicated?” She finishes for him.
“Exactly.”
The relief that washes over Harry, like the first rain after a drought, is a downpour of gratefulness from being acknowledged with such ease and such a lack of snark or judgment.
And there’s no stopping his curiosity when Y/n’s lips lilt into a pretty smile that spreads with playfulness – the type that you reserve for friends and not enemies – and she teases,
“See, we can be on the same page about some things.”
Which, naturally, has the two of them wondering how many pages they could be on. Enough to write a few sentences? Perhaps, even a chapter – though that seems doubtful. Either way, Harry finds himself sharing the curiosity,
“Think there might be more we agree on?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Y/n shuts him down. As if she hadn’t just been pondering the same thing, and was a solid ten seconds from bringing up the possibility herself.
“Well, we both agree that Mac is a legend.”
Okay, he got lucky with that one. But it shouldn't count because there isn’t a person who has met Mac and hasn’t found him to be a polite, fluffy, ginger gentleman.
“Icon status.” She agrees with surety.
“And I’m pretty sure you like horrors.” Harry takes a fifty-fifty guess. And of course, he’s on the money.
“I’m gonna take it that you do too?”
“The scarier the better.”
In honesty, if Y/n had to consider what her neighbour might find entertaining, she certainly isn’t imagining him curled up in the dark watching the latest Jordan Peele release. But he nods so vehemently, there’s certainly no space to counter it.
And before she can nip this sudden bloom of commonality and salvage her portrait of him as Satan's firstborn, the tart wine and nagging intrigue to water that stem of similarity, and it's too late to do anything but encourage its growth, so she finds herself pursuing more.
“What about parking on the street?”
Harry’s gaze swells, wispy lashes almost long enough to brush the bottom of his brows, he’s looking like a man who just remembered a word stuck on the tip of his tongue, all sweet doe-eyes and plump grinning grape-glossed smile.
“Mrs Kremmons needs to get over herself and park that old wagon in the freaking garage where it belongs.”
“She’s gonna get uninvited from the Cambersons Christmas party if she keeps it up.” Y/n hums with a tone that promises inevitability.
“Like, just use your own driveway, lady.” Harry groans, pretty gaze rolling with dramaticism.
The most interesting thing to happen in the neighbourhood since last October’s ‘accidental home invasion’ scandal, which took two minutes to occur and almost a year to replace with something even marginally interesting… if two households fighting over parking spots can be deemed as entertaining.
“She’s making a ‘statement’.” Y/n’s tone drawl with emphasis on the exact word Mrs Kremmons used when recounting how important it is to double down.
“She’s always making a statement.” The little groan that accompanies Harry’s words sends an unwarranted tickle up Y/n’s spine.
“Mm. But this one’s about ‘the principle’.”
“At least she keeps it interesting.”
Still, Mrs Kremmons and her penchant for causing a commotion could never come close to the secret feud that stays consistent just across the street.
“Alright. So, we agree on Mac, horror movies, and using designated parking spaces. Anything else?”
Y/n's question comes from a place of genuine intrigue, but Harry's comes from a place of well-rehearsed chaos.
“We both have hot, nightmarish neighbours.”
“Oh, please.” The scoff that forms her words is fuelled by disbelief.
The teasing glimmer in Harry's eyes is like the silver moon bouncing along the seashore, his jade gaze swallowed by the shadows until they gloom as dark as the evening sea.
“Just admit it. You think I’m attractive.” He coos teasingly.
Y/n’s scoff is coated with amused disagreement, her lips glossy and unintentionally and hazily skiing along the slopes of his rosy cheekbones, his swooping jaw that creates the perfect ledge to leap from, landing rewardingly on the soft, snowy span of the crook of his neck.
Attractive? More than. Admitting it? Not in this lifetime. Y/n snorts with distasteful incredulity.
“So you can have another thing to hold over me? Yeah, right.”
“Well, I think you’re very pretty.” He says it so plainly. Like it’s as routine as ordering his coffee, as simple and mindless as tying his shoelaces.
“Thank you.” Her words are as soft as her tone, and for a brief moment, Harry believes she might actually mean it… Until her smile morphs into a sly simper that her stare mimics, “I’ll be using that to my advantage.”
“You’re literally the worst.” His body slumps back against the chair with bemused defeat, a glossy, charming grin at her ever-so predictable response.
“And you love me for it.”
With haste and a dire need to remain neutral about the words that slipped from her very own lips, she stops them from digging a trench too deep to return to the top of, bringing the bordeaux-brimming glass up to take a hefty gulp.
“Loathe you.” Harry corrects, but the conviction in his lilted, amused tone is nonexistent.
It shouldn't have Y/n's head swirling with newfound curiosity, and tipsily increasing interest in who exactly the man sitting opposite her, beaming absorbed by the cosy mustard side lamp, actually is.
“Are you sure about that, ‘Mister You’re Very Pretty’?” She coos tauntingly.
And that has Harry’s chest inflating with a sarcastic, but very amused huff, because there isn’t a world where he wouldn’t have teased the hell out of her for admitting she acknowledges him as more than the mortal enemy.
“Shut it before I shut you up myself.” And he will.
“Are you threatening me, Styles?” Her words are laced with far too much amusement for either of their liking.
“Warning you.” He corrects.
“Is there a difference?”
Her head tilts with challenging curiosity, and maybe it's because the moment Harry gets an inkling of a competition, he effortlessly regresses into their familiar defiance that has him doubling down. Or maybe he's just getting too caught up in the way his neighbour's gaze glimmers along with her damp, upturned lips.
“There is. If the idea of kissing me doesn’t terrify you.”
“Terrify me?” Now he has Y/n's attention – bewildered or not.
“Mm... Perhaps even send you into shock.”
He oozes confidence, balancing his elbows on the table, resting the curve of his stubble-scattered chin on his broad palm.
“The good or bad kind?”
Y/n knows she's stumbling right into his snare, and she also knows she doesn't have the restraint to let him think she's an unknowing, defenceless rabbit.
“Well, that depends on you… personally, I think the good kind.”
He talks a big game, and Y/n fears he might actually be telling the truth. Or, at least, what he believes to be.
“Confident, are we?” Y/n hopes he's all bravado and no substance.
“You should know this by now.”
Harry bats his pretty long lashes, actually bats them – like a flirtatious heroine from a rom-com – and fuck, it's almost enough for Y/n to ignore the arrogance he's projecting. Almost.
“Funny… I would’ve said cocky.”
“Both get the point across.”
His flippancy is maddening, but they're in too deep for Y/n to back down now. So, instead, she rests her elbows on the table, linking her fingers to create the perfect bench for her chin to rest on.
“So, you send me into shock… What then?”
“Then I say I told you so.”
He says it like it's a guarantee, and Y/n's skin flushes from more than the wine at the realisation that maybe he isn't joking.
“Do you always make a point of shutting people up by kissing them?”
Harry pretends to ponder, but the answer is simple: no. In fact, he’s never considered doing anything other than telling off whoever happens to be pissing him off – let alone kiss them.
“Only the ones that give me a hard time.”
“And does anyone give you as much of a hard time as me?” Y/n thinks that if anyone gives him a harder time, they must be the root of all evil.
“Nobody even comes close.” His nostrils flare cutely as he brazenly snorts.
“Aw, well now, that makes me feel special.” Her coos are facetious, but a foreign part of her chest still clenches with pride.
“Oh, you should. I don’t spend my free time scheming about pissing off just anyone.”
“I'll get a big head if you keep the compliments up.”
And it will – get bigger. She's had enough praise this week to inflate that pretty little head to at least twice its size.
“How could your head possibly get any bigger?”
“Wanna test that theory out, Styles?”
Well, at least they can say they made it to the end of dinner before a blatant challenge was placed on the table between them, like a dessert too rich and delicious to resist.
So, in true Harry Styles fashion, his stare is heavy as it drags her further into his orbit. So heavy that she can feel his smugness latching around her like a lasso, inching her nearer even as he leans back in his chair, casually crossing his flexed arms atop his proud chest and shrugging,
“Evidently, I have a lot of free time.”
“Give it your best go, then.”
Suddenly, the space in his head that Harry keeps reserved for schemes and pranks is replaced with idea after idea about how to get under his neighbour's skin in another, more subtle way.
And Y/n can see the cogs turning – can practically hear the ticking schemes that circle the green spheres. Harry doesn’t bother with responding. He’s gonna give it more than his best go; he’s gonna make sure there’s no doubt about his intentions to shower her in compliments until she has to shut her eyes, and if all goes to plan, her mouth.
He’s already looking at her with a teasing stare that Y/n’s never seen – it's lacking all mischief – and that unnerves the hell outta her. It’s so much softer and… fonder.
Dinner is long finished, and the last of the wine sits shallow in their glasses as they exchange tidbits about themselves – the type of lighthearted stuff that can’t be held against them if things inevitably revert to rivalry.
Harry’s pointer finger swirls around the rim of the glass, his pupils dark and dilated under the cosy yellow lights. He’s bordering on haziness, relishing in the toasty flush of wine that does nothing but erode the fence he usually hides behind. If anything, it makes him want to delve further into honesty. So, he does.
“You know… This isn’t so bad.”
Y/n’s forehead crinkles subtly with cute curiosity as she peers over at him through lashes thick and heavy from drinking, her gaze less discerning than ever.
“What?”
“This.” He gestures lazily between them. “Us”
Only then does Harry realise that he unintentionally gave the perfect opening for Y/n to disagree and start a bickering match, but to both of their surprise, the thought doesn’t flitter through her mind for even a moment as she easily agrees.
“Yeah… It's actually kinda nice.”
Harry knows he’s asking for an argument when a cheesy smile swells his cheeks into apples of cheeky amusement, folding his arms atop the table and leaning in. His tone is an adorably annoying coo as he teases.
“Are we becoming friends?”
“Don't push it.” Y/n grumbles, but makes zero attempts to put any fire into it.
“Oh, c'mon, we'd be such a good duo.” He stirs with sugary sweet conviction.
And though Harry really is mostly just playing, it's becoming undeniable that the two of them could have a decent ‘relationship’ if they were willing to lower their swords and wave the white flag. But what’s more dangerous than a deviously-minded person living in the neighbourhood? Two of them. On good terms.
“We’d be dangerous.” She snorts, entertaining the idea. “Total menaces to the neighbourhood.”
“That's what makes it so fun.” His grin is as pretty as it is infectious.
🍑
The evening wrapped up, back in his home, with his teeth brushed, skin moisturised, and black boxers slung low on his waist, Harry’s bare feet pad over to his bed where he promptly flops down and sighs contentedly.
With a full belly and a foggy head, he knows tonight's sleep will be nothing short of amazing. Maybe he should do this more often.
And he’s still thinking about it as he reaches his ridiculously long arm out to turn off the light.
Instead, his palm lands on his walkie-talkie, and before he can welcome sensibility into his orbit, Harry rolls over onto his side and holds down the button.
“Psst. Peaches.”
There’s a pause, but not long enough for Harry to doubt if his neighbour is still awake, because soon, his walkie-talkie crackles with static, shortly followed by the gruff, amused voice of his neighbour.
“Miss me already?”
Snuggled up in her own bed, lights already off, and a ginger cat curled at her ankles, Y/n doesn't hesitate to splay her arm about in search of her own walkie-talkie, and doesn't think twice before teasing him.
“Thanks for dinner. Over.”
He says it earnestly. And Y/n’s too sleepy and satiated to fret over how soft and snuggly he sounds when he’s not so busy being a sarcastic nuisance. If he’s gonna water this olive branch, who is she to snap the stem?
“Thanks for the company. Over.”
Her simple honesty is foreign, and maybe that's why Harry feels the divots of his dimples deepening as a sleepy smile forms; either way, he doesn’t stop it.
“My place next time. Over.”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, a lengthy and obnoxiously loud yawn follows. Back in her own bed, Y/n cradles the walkie-talkie like a precious gem as her limbs start to get heavy, her eyes shut and fluttering with overtiredness.
“We'll see about that…” She gathers the last of her alertness to respond and there’s another, shorter pause before the speaker hums with her voice, “Sweet dreams, moron. Over.”
It’s like her soft, yet stern words of departure are the final push Harry needs to let sleep take over, because as he reaches over and switches off the sidelamp, he has to hold back another yawn to get his final words out.
“Hope yours are even sweeter. Over.”
Y/n hums to herself, drifting off towards the soft repetitive echo of Harry’s words wishing her sweet dreams, the walkie-talkie still resting by her cheek when she comes to the next morning.
-
Omg omg better late than never?? :( I'm so sorry for the delay guys! I hope this semi-makes up for it! 🥺 thank you so much to everyone who checked up on me and waited so so patiently for this part! 💞💞
Do we have a little friendship blooming between the duo???
Taglist: @gem1712 @mellamolayla @ellastyles13 @teenwolf9-1-1lover @cherreigh @mads3502 @lizsogolden @natyk @mothersversiononly @hannah9921 @harryswifeyyyy @rpwprpwprpwprw @cowboylikeliv @angeldavis777 @daphnesutton @ellamariee @magicalmorg @sunflowervol2007 @stylesftcher @iguessyourejustwhatineeded @mema10 @maddiesalvatore189 @aoxetic @this-is-tiny-mia @gem1712 @pops234 @fangirl509east @stylesftcher @triski73 @psicostyles @maddiemikaelson28
So, what are we thinking guys??? Some friendship FINALLY? But..... god knows they wont be for long before things start to seem a little too familiar and coincidental 🤭🤭🤭
It’s my close personal friends 32nd birthday !!
Cinnamon & Salt.
<This story takes place in the 1800s and inspired off Lana Del Ray's, Cinnamon Girl, and it's part of @jarofstyles's prompt challenge and I was more than grateful and happy to participate in this!! >
{If anyone asks because Ik a lot of ai is going around, the cover art I used came from various pictures, that's why some of them are reused.}
"There’s things I wanna say to you, but I’ll just let you live..."
In the rigid social circles of 19th-century England, Harry Styles is a man of carefully curated silences. To the ton, he is merely a reserved gentleman of books and quiet corners. But beneath the stiff cravats and polite bows lies the soul of a poet—passionate, fiercely emotional, and deeply scarred by a world that treated his sensitivity as a weakness to be exploited. He has learned that to stay safe is to stay hidden.
When Yn, an aspiring artist with a spirit as vibrant as the paints she carries, moves in next door, Harry’s world begins to thaw. She doesn't just look at him; she sees him. But as Yn’s own world shatters, they soon begin to see they were simply waiting for someone who knew how to hold a flame without getting burned.
Warnings: 18+ for themes/suggested spice. Period-typical social constraints. Major spoilers for emotional triggers: abandonment, themes of parental rejection/neglect, depressive episodes/heavy sadness, and a scene involving accidental near drowning/thin ice.
Word count: IDK, but a lot! :)
◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊
The year was 1886 and the time was pushing towards six in the morning. Winter had rung in early that year and with the cold, had brought a surprising— yet more nettling— bite to the wind that was currently taking its angst out on Harry's frostbitten geard. The flowers had been uprooted from the soil, but to preserve the ground for the next rich batch of petunias Harry had planted via seeds, he decided he'd knead his fingers into the icy dirt to help it along for the next spring. Harry had assured himself that this was for the flowers, but he was simply ignoring his own three AM thoughts that could drown on for hours.
This morning, Harry's mind had collected a new entry for another worry. The upcoming engagement ball of Lord Mitch and his fiancée Sarah, who's party with this Saturday. The cold continued to nip Harry even as he concerned himself with the ground; it was easier than thinking about anything else. He didn't trust himself to think anymore. The sun was barely peering over the ridge of the night, and yet still Harry couldn't be bothered to be tucked inside his own duvet.
Hooves sounded against the sturdy path that was the main road into Harry's neighborhood. The young man froze in his pose— fingers still ingrained in the dirt, before he quickly shuffled them out and with soil ladened hands, made his way through threshold and into the cramped foyer, eyeing the passerby through the small rectangle glass lens of the front door. The rich smell of fresh earth ran under Harry’s nose as the carriage trudged by, a small dim ray of the porch light glistening over the carriage before it passed. Harry swallowed the breath clogged in his throat, before releasing it into a silent sigh. Biting his bottom lip, Harry felt the warmth of the fireplace host through the narrow air, the heat following him to the kitchen sink as he washed his hands.
Even after his hand were dried, Harry still felt the cool dampness of them as he graveled up the stairs, a small storm in his gait. The walls of the corridor squeezing in like a box just as Harry’s bedroom.
The sheets felt frosty and crisp, warming under his body heat as he stared up at the ceiling, the words of an unwritten poem he had forgotten to write danced around his mind. Always dipping a toe, but never quite stepping a foot. Harry was distracted anyway; the engagement ball was expecting and so was his fret. The knot in his gut had suffocated all rationalism and just replaying a loop of himself speaking out term— impolite or churlish— despite Harry’s impeccable engagements, were the nightmares that chased him more than the nag of not being creatively active for the month.
Harry could persuade himself of his foolish ideas; he just couldn’t stop the etched faces of shame and distaste from entering them. It was like all eyes took hold of him and latched on like a hook to a wagon. The fear held him like chokehold, strangling out the last drip of peace Harry tried to sip from out of his everyday.
Harry sat up. He looked over to his empty desk— books of famous works piled into a little stack, while a blank square of paper sheets sat blank and untouched much like his quill pen that had been nestled in the rose gold holder for almost three weeks. Harry had lost count of the other weeks. With slow steps, he made his way to the desk, hovering over it with a this hunched over stance that haloed his own shadow above it. He finally let himself get cozy in the chair. The sound of his breath was the only promising motion alive. A flicker of life wanted to stir from Harry’s chest as ink bled through his finger with every scribble of words he curated into sentences of meaning, but there was none. Every word, every thought of the subject that had floated and invited itself into the creases of Harry’s brain had now somehow dispersed like a mist into air.
It was a supposed promise— a relief to his system to breathe out the smoke he had been inhaling like a puff from a cigar. A net to catch and store his jagged understandings and shape them into beauty of unsaid truths he had a difficult time swallowing. It was something Harry could fall into and still land softly in.
It’s just that tonight wasn’t the night. It never was.
◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊
Harry stood there gripping the neck of his glass holding the now flat champagne as the matrons danced and twirled, some in their bulky ballgowns and others in silk scarves and collars. Harry felt the upper rim of his own collar tightening around his neck like a rope. The noose of the garment was doing little to soothe Harry’s racetrack of a mind, as he stood with this loose smirk over his face imitating an actual charm, smiling shyly at the guests and felt the soles of his own spats nailed rigidly to the linoleum.
Swirling around the air was thick perfumes and tobacco accompanied by hungry eyes and a sea of pearls and foot scuffles. “I bet Lord Mitch pitied the girl; it’s the only explainable excuse that would answer for their marriage.” Harry looked up and saw Lady Marjorie and her elder sister fanning themselves with their customed fans as they clicked up the velvet stairs. A slight furrow had nerved in between Harry’s brows. He turned his attention back to the floor, where he quickly traded his pinched nerve for a small smile, before he excused himself.
Harry carved a path through the crowded floor, feeling every ounce of his weight with each step. The corridors felt shallow carrying voices from his past he couldn’t always quite name, but just remembered how they always existed. Harry felt his heart pound a bit louder like an off beat drum. A fog fell over him like thunder to muted cloud. It was silences like this Harry wanted to avoid— the cold voices and whipping words that felt like lashes against gaunt skin. His shoulders tensed and his slouch became a gait as he carried on to an anywhere. He found a small solace in the library behind the thick curtains that were tucked and curved like pigtails.
A small chair became his rest, where he begged himself not to dwell anymore on his fog, but he knew the fight could be futile. Harry had sat at the dark mocha desk, hands clasped in front of him in his silent trance before a sharp jolt of the curtains coupled by a young woman falling into them and nearly landing on Harry’s lap before yanking herself up and began apologizing profusely. “I’m my goodness— I’m so sorry!” She said, her voice a rich balmy sound.
“Oh, it’s quite alright, really…” Harry uprooted himself a bit brashly as well, searching the girl over to make sure he didn’t rip her dress or cause any collateral damage. “I was just… waiting for the ballroom to clear up— I didn’t really know anyone to talk to— and… yeah.” Harry seemed to breathe out in one gulp. It just made Yn smile; she had pearly teeth that made Harry notice that she was wearing some kind of light pink lipstick. She giggled. “It’s fine, I didn’t know anyone either and then some guys started trying to get me to dance with them because it’s an engagement ball,” She said, her eyes sparkling and widening for a spilt moment with raised brows, “I felt claustrophobic anyway.” She laughed.
Harry found himself chuckling. “Tell me about it,” He blew a sharp breath from his lips, “I mean, I love my friend, Mitch and all but… balls were never my thing.” He smiled looking down at the floor. Looking at the rim of the girl’s skirt he had just realized her dress was purple with some specks of gold to it like studs.
“I’m Yn, by the way,” Harry looked up to see Yn sticking her hand out.
“I’m Harry,” He went to shake it, feeling how uncalloused and soft her palms were. Harry had realized he was holding onto Yn’s hand a minute too long. “Oh, sorry… you’re hand is so gentle—” He wanted to snatch the words back just as they were coming from his mouth.
Yn just snorted, covering her mouth quickly and glancing towards the outside. “Why thank you!” She leaned in closer, lowering her voice in a mocking conspiracy. “Must be the new bath salts.”
Harry chuckled, grinning for the first time in the entire week. Yn’s eyes crinkled. “You have dimples!”
“Ha, yeah,” Harry instinctively ran his fingers over his right cheek.
“Just an observation. They say people with dimples are some of the sweetest people you’ll meet.” Yn flashed her own dimply smile. Harry’s body shook with a hummed giggle. “Maybe I should add that in my next poem…”
“You’re a writer?” Yn’s head perked up.
“Well, aspiring, but… I have what they say a pipeline blockage… my brain is pipeline blockage.”
Yn laughed. “Oh yeah… well that’s what all the best writer’s say. Like Jane Austen for instance and then here she is a decade later!”
Harry shot his brows up quickly in agreement. He turned towards the door. “Do you think they’ve noticed we’re missing? Or are they too busy debating the price of Lady Sarah’s lace?”
Yn leaned in a bit closer to Harry as he was peeking out at the ball from the gap in the curtains. “Last I checked, was it was Lady Marjorie’s dress that carried the most…. with a rear like that she’d have to.”
Harry let out a laugh that was a bit too informal for the ball, inciting a few heads to turn. Yn joined in with a more quieter laugh. “Shh, they’re gonna know we’re back here!” She held up a finger to her mouth while nursing a smile.
“But, it’s true! And I thought my artistic absurdity was troublesome!” Harry suppressed his laugh a bit to mellow it out as to not get caught.
“No, this is,” Yn held up her thumb that ink stained, “my charcoal brush exploded right when I was trying to begin my piece.”
Harry raised his brows. “An artist?”
Yn nodded. “Aspiring.” She grinned, the glint still lingering through her irises. She did a little jump as she clasped her hands behind her like a giddy child who had just announced they cleaned their plates. A sharp cheer interrupted, causing Harry and Yn to both glance back out to the ball. The matrons dancing wildly, hands and arms stretched out as the ladies twirled and the men spined them. It all looked so rambunctious for an event of sophistication. A cheeky idea had somehow snaked and teleported into the brains of Harry and Yn into each other. A smirk played over their lips before they slowly turned to each other. Harry straightened his posture and offered a playful mock bow. “My lady, shall I have this dance as it would be an honor,” Harry exaggerated his already pommy accent.
Yn straightened up and followed Harry’s gesture. “I shall, my fair Lord.” She took his hand and they both began to do a goofy version of the ballroom’s dancing. Harry and Yn hopping and skipping around the room like two dizzy bunnies while laughing at the unseriousness of their actions. Harry leaned into Yn a little more; the smell of lavender twinging her braid crown and a hint of cinnamon pierced the air like the old spice of aged books. Yn just as much smelled Harry’s amber scented body from the side of his neck that was much taller than her head if she weren’t in three-inch heels.
As the ball came to a close, so did the evening. To Harry, it was almost as if he were in a different time on a whole different earth than the musty old library he shared with Yn in that sparingly short moment. A piece wanted to bottle up just a fringe of the purple cloth from Yn’s dress or even just one of the silver studs and let the lavender scent fill the cadence of his lonely desk. A souvenir of the engagement without a ring. But at last, Yn just happened to be the last person besides himself to brush against the doorjamb between the spew of the snow and the warmth of the ball.
“I had a wonderful time,” Harry said, slipping on his coat. Yn smiled. “Me too.”
A pregnant pause sat between them for a moment. “Would you like me to take you home? My carriage is right outside.”
“Thanks… but… I’ll be fine. But thank you very much… Harry.” Yn breathed out a silent sigh of relief as she had gotten the Harry’s name properly.
“Goodnight, Yn.” The glint still stayed, even more sparkling now in the moonlight.
“Goodnight, Harry.”
◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊
The smell of lavender seemed to waft through the air around Harry’s desk like it followed him home. Harry sat still and focused with a plight in between his brows as he felt his thumb and pointer grip the charcoal pen more sturdy now, but with a grit seething through it. Harry decided to move his quarters to the garden in his backyard, despite his still halted train of thought— that was as blank as the sheet in front of him— getting the better of him. An irk began to take form when suddenly the balloon of unsaid words and movements had seemed to collapse over him like a tide to a sand dune.
Out of his periphery, Harry thought he caught a glimpse of royal purple in the tulips. Shooting his glance towards the green, a bolt of shock catching him in his chest before it was understood to him his brain was playing tricks. Being cooped indoors, his eyes were bound to produce photopsia.
Harry’s shoulders dropped and his face slowly turned back to his sheet, stalling to begin as if the purple might actually be real. Gripping around the pen tightly again, Harry couldn’t even take in the swoon of the mellow weather now. It was still icy, but less rapid than the past week. The balloon didn’t seem to escape though— running through Harry’s mind now like a million passing lights he couldn’t quite catch. Angry voices with more exaggeration and the face of stern familiars that belonged to even his own past. His parents, his father never seeming to care when Harry shed a tear or raged on about how unfair everything was at the time. He was met with a cold dismissal of the actual events and it always ended with Harry being the irrational one, when Harry himself believed he had the cause for complaint to begin with.
Harry grew lost in the memory; his father’s face like statue of stone, his apathy unnerving Harry for a moment, before the embers cooled into a detach that unlinked itself from the flare before the pain would take shape. Though some days he wasn’t as luck as it still seeped in from time to time. Today, the embers still fanned on, even as a background. His brain still running through the searing edge of the past like running a finger along the sharp blade of a dagger.
"You're bleeding ink, Harry" someone remarked from the stone wall, her voice cutting through his frustration like a sunbeam through fog.
Harry froze, his thumb stained black where he’d pressed too hard against the nib. He should have bowed and excused himself. Instead, he felt a sudden, hot prickle of defiance. "Better to bleed ink than to have nothing inside to spill at all, wouldn't you agree?"
His face blanched before turning a deep crimson. He bolted up, letting the sheet drop to the ground. “Oh heavens— my sincerest apologies! I-I was lost in my thought and completely thinking of something else—” Harry’s eyes finally met the strangers and it belonged to a face that he’d known… and cherished now.
“Yn! You’re… next door?”
Yn didn’t even break her smile. She found Harry’s whole stuttering reply amusing and quite humorous to be honest. A giggle escaped her throat. “Yep. Moved in just today. My old cottage was too cramped and the last straw was when the basement became a breeding ground for mice.” Her and Harry both shared a disgusted grimace with each other, making Yn quiver from the just the mention of her words.
Yn watched Harry pick up his fallen sheet and pen, as she adjusted her lean against the garden wall they shared as neighbors. Her head looking small in contrast to the muted green around her. “So, what was your sharp-witted thought about? Must’ve been pretty intense.”
Harry raised an eyebrow and made his lips crooked. “It was… a story I’m working on. Really, it’s about a man raised in a small English town who attends a very stoic college.” Harry’s accent was more evident once the word English left his lips, clicking over his teeth with such an ease. He came closer to the wall, starting Yn eye to eye now. Yn squinted her eyes a bit. “Really? What’s he like?”
Harry cleared his throat and shrugged making a quick sideways smile. “I don’t know just yet. Maybe he’s got a ruggedness to him…. maybe Italian. I hear Italians can be emotional, but in a good way. I like emotion, I’m very sensitive myself.” Harry looked down, wondering how awkward, out of context and overshared he must’ve sounded. He felt Yn tousle his mousy curls playfully. “You have thick hair,” She said, her smile feeling goofy.
Harry looked back into Yn’s eyes with a smile. He huffed a chuckle. “Thanks.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to Italy. I heard some of the best art institutes exist there.”
“I thought it was New York?” Harry sniffled, the cold now getting better of him.
“Me too. But…. the one I like is in Italy. It’s run by Fabian Augustus.”
Harry raised a bow quickly as it came down. “He’s a famous artist. Wow. That would be very nice.”
Yn’s smile had now become a smirk. “I think my parents are there too….”
“Your parents?”
“Mmhmm,” she nodded, “I was an… an orphan my entire life, so… it would be nice to know them once.” Yn suddenly felt a flush creep over her face. She was uncomfortable with how much she shared of that. Harry stayed quiet, his eyes drifting down to his side before coming back up to meet Yn’s unsteady glance towards the rim of the wall. “Well, I better get back to unpacking, but— I’ll see you in the meantime.”
Harry smiled. “You too. I’ll enamor you more with my rugged Italian man later.”
Yn giggled before retreating back to her front door, giving a gentle wave bye.
◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊
The next few weeks spanned into muse for Harry. He had found an enchantment in every character that Yn’s memory bled through. His favorite was Cordelia. She had Yn’s little skip with her walk, her hair tugged in loose gypsy curls at the ends and she wore shades of lavender silk and rich violets, her hair bouncing with each pounce she took, hopping along stream lined paths of meadows where the sun blared the brightest, shading every line of her smooth irises with its love. Her smile— a dimpled expression of glee was doodled on the margins of the top paragraph that carried the most insight to Cordelia and her born out of the torrents of caramel makeup.
Meanwhile, across the way in the homely living room, Yn laid against the couch, her back upright against the arm rest, while her legs laid crossed over each other as she sketched out the bone of her anticipated drawing. She carved out a jawline— angular but not sharp— the edges where jaw met head and smile met chin were etched out in a dainty trail curving neatly and generous to compliment the man’s lanky but firm built. A flash of Harry entered her mind; he had these features. Soft smooth hands like a warm silk cover and even the lines around his smile felt neat and cooing like a haze. It fluttered Yn’s heart, skipping a beat until she pulled the leash of it enough to articulate this aura into her sketch. The pencil tracing carefully along the paper as if it were controlling itself.
A mutual allure seemed to command the pair’s attention like a siren call. This carried on through the days and weeks that passed. Harry would find Yn in her front yard with her chalk pens scratching color over her created sketch, shading the muted bricks and shingles of the neighborhood in vibrant spring colors, her long hair braided behind her back, only glancing up at Harry to give her dimply grin, before she went back to coloring. She’d always side-eyed when the sound of Harry’s carriage rolled into the shed. The brown and black stallions chugging along in a steady rhythm, clicking along the pavement like tap dancers. She watched him hop from the cargo bed, his satchel looking less like a vessel of dreams and more like a millstone. He did not even glance toward her house. His shoulders were hunched against the cold, or perhaps against the weight of yet another dismissal. Yn chalked it up to rejection letters or personal snubs of his works that felt much mote impersonal to Harry.
She’d never tell him that one day— after a particularly rough and brash editor had practically threw Harry’s novella in his face— she had caught Harry sputtering curses under his breath, calling the editor— who’s name could’ve been Jared or Arnold from what she could make out of it— a slew of naughty words. “What a shrew cur he was,” he slammed his shed door sounding like a gunshot in crystalline air, which even startled the horses a bit, “I outta rip his tongue from his fat mouth. Pig!” Harry stormed into the house, not even noticing Yn’s back was against the shrub wall, trying to form an idea into another painting.
A profound ache bloomed within Yn’s chest. An idea, as quirky and unorthodox as the woman herself, began to form. It was audacious, perhaps foolish, but the determination in her heart overruled the caution in her mind.
She waited until she saw the lamp kindle in his window across the way, painting a small, lonely square of gold onto the fresh powder of snow. Wrapping a thick shawl around her shoulders, she ventured out into the bitter twilight. She did not go to his door. Instead, she marched to the barren patch of her front yard, the very spot where she created her vibrant spring illusions. There, she sank into the snow, her skirts billowing around her. With arms outstretched, she began to move them up and down, sweeping the snow away with a rhythmic, deliberate swishing sound.
From his window, Harry, nursing a glass of bourbon — and his wounded pride— saw the movement. He frowned, peering through the frost-fern patterns on the glass. What on earth was she doing? It looked for all the world as if… as if she were making a snow angel. But not just any snow angel. She was performing the act with a theatrical, almost ceremonial flourish, her movements exaggerated and precise. She swept her arms up, paused, swept them down, then carefully—most carefully—began to shuffle her legs apart and together, as if following the steps of a solemn, silent waltz with the sky.
A startled chuckle, the first in weeks, escaped him. It was utterly bizarre. It was completely Yn. He watched, mesmerized by the sheer absurdity of the performance. She finished her creation with a final, sweeping gesture of her arms and then, quite deliberately, turned her head towards his window. Even from this distance, he could see the challenge in her gaze, the dimply grin that was both an invitation and a dare. She raised a hand and beckoned him.
Curiosity, a sensation he thought had been extinguished, flickered to life. He found himself pulling on his coat and crossing the narrow lane between their houses, his boots crunching in the silence. She remained in her snow angel, looking up at him with cheeks flushed cherry-red from the cold, her breath pluming in the air.
“Have you taken leave of your senses?” he asked, though his tone held more wonder than reproach.
“Quite the opposite,” she declared, her voice bright. “I was attempting to capture the attention of a particularly brooding neighbor. It seems to have worked. My methods are unorthodox, but my success rate is impeccable.”
“And to what do I owe this… aerial display?” he inquired, a reluctant smile touching his lips.
“The cold has leached all the color from the world, Harry. I thought it needed a spot of whimsy. And you,” she said, her expression softening, “look as though you could use some tea and a warm scone. Mrs. Abbott brought over a fresh batch this morning. They are still warm, and I detest eating alone.”
Before he could muster a refusal, she had risen, brushing the snow from her skirts with an efficient hand, and looped her arm through his. “Come. Before we both turn to ice.” Her touch was electric, even through the layers of wool, and he found himself powerless to resist, allowing himself to be led into the warmth and light of her home.
Her parlor was a reflection of her art: vibrant, layered, and wonderfully chaotic. Sketches and half-finished paintings leaned against the walls. A rainbow of chalk dust seemed to have been permanently ground into the rug before the fireplace, where a healthy blaze now crackled. The air was sweet with the scent of vanilla, bergamot, and linseed oil. It was the antithesis of his own quiet, ordered, and increasingly joyless study, despite the little candies and quirky book nick-nacks he had around the shelves and desk.
She bustled about, pouring tea—Peppermint, his favorite, he noted with surprise—and placing a generously buttered scone on a china plate before him. He ate and drank, the warmth seeping into his bones, the tight knot of anger in his stomach beginning to loosen under her quiet, undemanding presence.
“They are fools, you know,” she said after a comfortable silence, her eyes on the fire. “Those editors. They wouldn’t know literature if it bit them on the nose.”
Harry sighed, the familiar bitterness rising. “They know what sells. And apparently, what I write does not.”
“Pish-posh,” she dismissed with a wave of her hand. “They sell words. You write them. There is a vast and heartbreaking difference.” She turned to him, her gaze direct and unwavering. “I should like to hear them. The words you write.”
He stiffened. “Yn, no. I couldn’t.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because… because it is the work that was just thrown back in my face. It is failure. I cannot sit here and subject you to its flaws.”
“You are not subjecting me to anything,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “I am asking you. I am begging you. Harry, I see the fire in you when you speak of it. I see the world you carry inside that satchel of yours. Please. Let me see it, too. Read it to me.”
Her earnestness was a key turning in a lock he had thought rusted shut. He looked at her—really looked at her—seeing not pity, but a genuine, burning curiosity. A desire to know the world as he saw it. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached into his satchel and withdrew a thick sheaf of handwritten pages. The title page read simply: The Marble Heart.
He cleared his throat, the words feeling clumsy and inadequate at first. But then, he found his rhythm, his voice gaining strength and texture as he was pulled back into the world he had created.
He read of Demitri, a young Italian of profound sensitivity, who had journeyed from the sun-drenched cliffs of Sorrento to the grim, grey stone of a prestigious writing college in Edinburgh. The institution, run by a dour, unyielding headmaster named Alistair Finch, was a fortress of rigid tradition, where emotion was considered a weakness and individuality a sin to be disciplined out of a young man. Demitri’s florid prose, his heartfelt odes to the sea and his family, were met with scornful red ink and public ridicule. “Sentimental drivel,” Finch would sneer. “Unmanly. Prune it back. Harden it.” Harry’s voice took on the headmaster’s cruel, clipped tones perfectly, and Yn shivered.
He read of Demitri’s loneliness, his feeling of being a hothouse flower thrust into a Arctic frost, his spirit shrinking, his once-bold handwriting becoming small and fearful on the page.
And then, he read of Cordelia.
She was the headmaster’s niece, a splash of defiant color in the monochrome world of the college. She was found not in the lecture halls, but in the library, tucked into window seats, or sketching the rooks in the barren trees on the grounds. She was vibrancy itself, with a laugh that sounded like bells and a way of looking at you that felt like the sun breaking through clouds.
Harry’s entire demeanor transformed as he read their meeting. His voice, which had been taut with remembered pain, softened, grew lyrical, infused with a wonder that made Yn’s breath catch. He became animated, his free hand gesturing to illustrate a point, his eyes alight with the vision of his own story. He was no longer a rejected author in a cozy parlor; he was Demitri, feeling the first stirrings of hope. He was the narrator, fervent and passionate, painting a picture of a salvation he deeply believed in.
He read the scene where Demitri, bruised by a particularly harsh critique from his professor, retreated to a forgotten corner of the library, on the verge of surrendering his dream entirely. Cordelia found him there, his shoulders shaking with silent, ashamed tears.
And then Harry spoke her words, his voice dropping to a hushed, intimate tremor that was meant for Demitri but felt seared into Yn’s very soul.
“‘I know what the world has told you about yourself,’” he read, and his eyes lifted from the page to meet Yn’s, holding her gaze with an intensity that made the room fade away. The fire, the snow outside, the tea growing cold—it all vanished. There was only his voice, weaving a spell around them.
His expression was soft but thoughtful, utterly immersed in the moment. He continued, the words flowing from him not as lines on a page, but as a direct, heartfelt address.
“‘But I want to tell you that they’re wrong.’ Gentle fingertips stroked under her eyes…” Harry’s own hand lifted slightly, a ghost of the gesture, as if he could feel the tears on Demitri’s face. “‘I know people have been cruel to you, honey. I know they have tried to dull who you are and make you feel ashamed of it but I want to see every little bit. I want to know you inside and out.’”
Yn felt a tear escape her own eye and trace a warm path down her cheek. She did not wipe it away.
Harry’s voice thickened with emotion, low and fervent. “‘No one has ever enchanted me so quickly, so thoroughly. It’s been an honor getting to know you… but I’d like the honor of getting to show you how I see you, too.’”
The final word hung in the air, a sacred echo in the silent room. The pages in his hand trembled. He seemed to return to himself, to the parlor, to her, a faint flush of self-consciousness coloring his neck. He looked down at the manuscript, suddenly unable to meet her eye.
“It’s… it’s sentimental, I know,” he mumbled, the confidence gone, replaced by a still burning wound.
Yn rose from her chair. She did not speak. She simply crossed the space between them, took the pages from his slackened grip, and placed them carefully on the table. Then, she took his hands in hers. They were cold from holding the paper, and she warmed them between her own.
She looked at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears, her dimples appearing in a smile of utter awe.
“Harry,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “That was the most beautiful thing I have ever heard.”
He finally looked up, his own eyes searching hers, looking for the lie, the polite platitude. He found only devastating sincerity.
“You… you think so?”
“I know so,” she said, her grip on his hands tightening. “It is not sentimental. It is true. Every word of it. I felt it. Harry, you didn’t just write a story. You put a soul on the page. You…” She shook her head, laughing a little through her tears. “You made me fall in love with Demitri. And with Cordelia. And with the man who had the courage to create them.”
He let himself cling to her, burying his face in the soft wool of her shawl, inhaling the scent of chalk and vanilla and her. He was not a failure in this room. In her eyes, he was a genius.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were red-rimmed — irritated from the wool — but clear. “They called it maudlin. A ‘lady’s romance’.”
“Then they are blind,” Yn stated, her voice firm. “They read the words, but they did not hear the music. I heard it, Harry. I heard every note.”
The mutual allure that had hummed between them for weeks now swelled into a deafening, undeniable chord. His hand came up to cradle her cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear that had traced its path there. He saw the same realization dawning in her eyes, a reflection of his own awe.
“Cordelia was right, you know,” she whispered, leaning into his touch.
“About what?”
“About the honor,” she said. “The honor of being shown how you see the world.” She paused, her smile deepening. “And it is an even greater honor to finally see you.”
Outside, the winter wind whispered against the windowpane, but inside… spring had arrived early.
◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊
March in England unfurls like a reluctant bloom—timid, hesitant, and yet insistent upon its beauty. The frost still clutches at the edges of hedgerows and the riverbanks, silvering the reeds with a thin lace of ice, but the air itself brims with promise. The wind, though it carries the last shivers of winter, now bears a breath of something softer: damp earth, the suggestion of green, the faint, far-off hum of things returning. Spring, like a lady’s glove drawn slowly over a trembling hand, slips over the land with quiet inevitability.
On such a morning, when the sky hung in pale washes of oyster and misted blue, and sunlight fell in cautious beams through the frayed clouds, Yn walked into the town of Elswick—an unremarkable place in most respects, save for its prideful centre: the Verveuil Gardens, a gilded parterre of wrought iron and clipped yew, where the wealthy gathered like songbirds on gilded perches. The Verveuil, once a manor estate, had been transformed into a sanctuary of culinary artistry, where one might sip tea under parasols the size of marquees, nibble on finger sandwiches laced with caviar, and discuss the latest Italian operetta as if one had composed it oneself.
Yn did not belong there. Not by purse, nor by pedigree.
She knew it. And yet, she had come.
Clad in a dove-grey coat threadbare at the cuffs, a bonnet slightly too large for her face, pinned with a single tarnished brooch of beetle-wing glass, Yn stepped through the iron gates with the quiet defiance of a trespasser who believes she bears a divine invitation. Her boots, though carefully polished, whispered of mended soles and too many seasons of hard use. Still, she carried herself with a certain rebellious grace, as though the world had never taught her shame, or perhaps had, and she’d simply forgotten it in the act of living.
For three sleepless nights, her canvas had stared back at her, blank as a judgment. A painting—a promised commission, no less—meant to depict a family reunited beneath a willow tree, joyous, tender, bathed in dappled light. But she could not paint joy she did not understand. She had no memory of a mother’s lullaby, no echo of a father’s voice, only the cold facts: orphaned in infancy, raised in a musty old rectory by distant employers, told that her parents had perished together in a fire that consumed their home. She’d accepted it. Not with peace, but with the numb resignation of one who has known absence longer than presence.
And so she had come to the Verveuil, hoping to steal a scene—the kind of effortless intimacy that breathes between families who have never known loss. She would sketch, quietly, from a distance. Fill her eyes with what her heart could not remember.
She took a seat upon a wrought-iron bench, tucked between a flowering quince and a statue of a nymph with a missing finger. From here, she could see the open-air terrace where linen-draped tables gleamed under the weak sun, attended by waiters in white gloves who moved with insect precision. The air smelled of warm bread, bergamot, and the faint metallic twang of a nearby fountain.
And then she saw them.
A family. Not unusual in this setting, but arresting in their effect. A man and woman—perhaps in their early forties, though life had been gentle to them—sat across from two children. The girl, perhaps sixteen, wore a lilac dress with puffed sleeves, her hair in thick braids wound with ribbons. The boy, younger still, kicked his heels beneath the table, his face alight with impatience as his mother gently chided him for dripping jam on the tablecloth.
It was not their wealth that drew Yn’s gaze—though it was evident in the cut of their clothes, the horse and carriage waiting at the garden’s edge, the way the staff treated them with a deference bordering on reverence.
No. It was something else.
Something deeper. Older than memory.
The woman—her face smooth, lined only by laughter—tipped her head back as her daughter said something witty. And in that tilt, in the curve of her throat, Yn felt a jolt, like a needle in the spine.
She looked like her.
Not her reflection—no—but a shadow of herself, a reflection across time. The same arched eyebrow, the same way of parting her lips before she laughed, the way she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear with three fingers, not two.
Yn’s breath caught.
Then the man leaned forward, tugging his son’s waistcoat straight with a fond frown. His features—broad brow, the faint cleft in his chin, the way his eyes crinkled at the edges—sent a shiver through her, a ripple across the still water of her certainty.
Her hands trembled. She gripped the edge of her sketchbook, her charcoal pencil snapping in two.
She watched, rapt, as the family conversed. The daughter mimicked the waiter’s accent, and the parents laughed—warm, rich, unhurried. The mother reached across the table to tuck a napkin into the boy’s collar, and Yn felt her chest cave inward like a collapsing bellows.
There was a rhythm to them, a quiet harmony in their gestures, a language spoken in glances and knee-bumps beneath the table. They were comfortable. Not merely in wealth, but in one another.
And Yn realized—horror threading through her veins like cold ivy—she knew them.
Not by memory, not by fact, but by bone, by blood, by some forgotten thread that tugged at the core of her being.
She was not imagining it. It was too precise, too synchronized, to be coincidence. That tilt of the head—she’d seen it in the mirror. That laugh—she’d laughed it herself in private, unaware.
A waiter approached with a tray of petits fours. The man reached for the bill.
“See that it’s sent to the usual account,” he said, voice warm, amused. “And add a tip—these young men work harder than Parliament, I suspect.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, Mr. L—”
The name came then. Softly, clearly.
“—Mr. LN.”
L.N.
Yn’s breath vanished.
L.N.
Her surname.
The name she had carried like a lonely flag, the one word that tethered her to a past that supposedly ended in smoke and silence.
And now it was being spoken here, casually, over tea and raspberry tarts, as if the world had never broken.
Her vision tunneled. The quince tree swayed. The fountain’s splash became a roar.
They were her family.
Her parents.
Alive.
Thriving.
Unscarred.
And they had never come for her.
The air turned thick and suffocating. A bee bumped against her sleeve, and she flinched violently, as if struck.
She watched—detached, ghostly—as the father helped his wife from her seat, placing a hand at the small of her back, as natural as breathing. The daughter looped her arm through her mother’s, chattering. The son ran ahead, chasing a butterfly.
They moved like a unit, a whole, untouched by the chaos of absence.
And Yn—Yn who had climbed trees to feel taller, who had sung her own lullabies to sleep, who had once carved her initials into a church pew just to prove she existed—they had left her. Not by death. By choice.
Or perhaps not choice. Perhaps betrayal.
Her mind reeled. Why had they never sought her? Was she given away? Forgotten? Did they think she was dead? Or had they simply... moved on?
The thought was a knife, slow-turning.
She had believed them lost. She had mourned them in silence, built a life on the bones of that grief. She had painted their ghosts—faceless, shadowed figures in the corners of other works. She had spoken to them in dreams.
And all this time, they had picnics.
They had strawberry tarts.
A sob rose in her throat, sharp and hot. She clamped her teeth down on her lower lip, drawing blood. She would not weep. Not here. Not where they might—God forbid—notice her. She would not give them the spectacle of her sorrow. She would not be seen like this, a ragged spectre haunting their idyll.
She rose.
Slowly.
Gracelessly.
Her limbs heavy, as if filled with wet sand.
She turned from the terrace, from the laughter, from the life that should have been hers, and walked—no, staggered—back through the garden.
The world had changed.
The sunlight, once tender, now felt like a mockery. The birdsong was garish, overbright. The scent of flowers—hyacinths, lilies—turned cloying, sickly sweet. She walked past lovers sharing secrets, past children chasing hoops, past an elderly couple feeding crumbs to sparrows. She walked as though underwater, each step a battle.
She reached the iron gates, her fingers trembling as they brushed the cold metal.
Outside, the town bustled with its ordinary life—the clatter of hooves, the cry of a newsboy, the baker loading trays of sourdough. Normalcy. Indifference.
And Yn stood between two worlds: one of gold and laughter, the other of dust and silence.
And she belonged to neither.
The walk back to her home—on the outskirts of the village, near the bramble-choked lane—should have taken forty minutes. It took her nearly two hours.
She did not walk straight. She wandered—through alleys, across fields, along the river’s muddy bank, where the willows trailed their fingers in the slow current. She stopped often, not because she was tired, but because she could not move.
The vibrant Yn—she of the wild hair, the saucy tongue, the laughter like chimes in a breeze—was gone.
In her place: a husk.
She did not sob. She did not rage. That would come, perhaps, in the dark hours. But now, she was emptied. Hushed. Hollowed.
Her mind — even in its gloom— still thought of her forgotten portrait. Cluttered with canvases leaning against the walls, tubes of paint scattered like fallen soldiers, palettes crusted with forgotten hues. A large canvas stood on the easel—the unfinished family portrait. Just a sketch still: a willow tree, the vague shapes of figures beneath it.
She stared at it.
Then, slowly, she walked forward.
She wanted to sink to her knees.
And for the first time since she was a child, Yn wept.
Not the noisy, theatrical weeping of her youth—when she’d sobbed over a broken kite or a lost kitten—but a deep, silent trembling. Her shoulders shook. Her breath came in sharp, broken gasps. Tears fell without sound, carving paths through the dust on her cheeks.
She did not curse. She did not scream. The storm within had no voice. It only was—a vast, black sea filling the caverns of her chest.
She thought of the mother’s hands, so gentle as she wiped her son’s mouth. Had those hands ever held her? Had they rocked her to sleep? Had they brushed her hair?
Had they let go?
And the father—his voice, so warm, so present. Did he ever speak her name? In dreams? In regret?
Or had she been erased as cleanly as she had wanted to erase the painting?
The wind rose. Rain began to fall, gentle at first, then insistent, drumming on the roof like fingers tapping for entry.
And in the silence, the truth settled upon her like a burial shroud.
She had believed herself a daughter of tragedy.
Now she knew she was a daughter of abandonment.
And that was a different kind of death.
Yn wiped her cheeks roughly, scrubbing away the last traces of tears before they could freeze in the chill. The numbness in her chest was a relief in its own way—better than the ache. Better than the gnawing hollow where love had once been.
She walked with stiff purpose, boots crunching over the brittle remnants of winter. The lake lay just beyond the bend, its surface still slick with a late-season glaze of ice, though the sun had begun to weaken it in patches where the water glinted black beneath.
And then she saw him.
Harry—wild-haired and ink-stained, perched beneath the skeletal branches of an oak, bent over a notebook with the feverish intensity of a man chased by inspiration. The sight was so familiar, so Harry, that for a moment, the weight in her chest lightened.
She opened her mouth to call out—something bright, something teasing, something that might fool even him—but the wind snatched her voice and tossed it aside. He didn’t look up.
Harry snapped his notebook shut, stood, and began to walk away.
No.
Yn’s breath hitched. She couldn’t bear to be alone again. Not now. Not with the ghosts pressing in.
"Harry!" she tried again, but the wind was merciless. His figure grew smaller, farther.
A reckless thought seized her. The lake was a shortcut—shaved precious minutes off the winding path. She hesitated only a second before stepping onto the ice.
The first crack was a whisper beneath her boot.
Then—
A sound like thunder split the air. The ice surrendered beneath her, swallowing her into its frigid jaws. The shock stole her breath, her muscles locking in reflex as the water closed over her head.
Darkness. Silence.
Then—
Hands.
Harry’s hands, frantic and sure, hauling her back into the world with a strength that belied his wiry frame. She gasped, the air burning her lungs, her body convulsing in the cold.
"Christ, Yn—Christ—" His voice was ragged with panic, his fingers trembling as they gripped her coat, dragging her onto solid ground. His face was pale, eyes wide and wild. "Are you—? Can you move? Are you hurt?"
She tried to laugh. Tried to force out some quippy reassurance, something to ease the terror in his face. But her teeth chattered violently, and instead of laughter, a wretched sob wrenched free from her throat.
Harry didn’t hesitate.
"Aww, love," he murmured—soft, tender, the way one might soothe a startled animal—before scooping her into his arms, bridal-style, as if she weighed nothing at all. His warmth seeped into her, his heartbeat a steady drum beneath her ear.
"Don’t you dare apologize," he said fiercely, sensing the protest forming on her lips. "Just hold on, alright? We’re nearly there."
Harry’s house smelled of cedar and cinnamon, a sanctuary against the storm that had begun to howl outside. He worked with brisk efficiency—peeling off her soaked outer layers, bundling her in blankets, pressing a steaming cup of tea into her shaking hands.
"You’re a menace," he informed her as he knelt to light the hearth, his tone more exasperated affection than true irritation. "An absolute, unrepentant menace."
Yn sniffled, her cheeks still damp. "You’re the one who didn’t hear me."
"Because I was writing," he retorted, tossing her a dry—if slightly threadbare—shirt to change into. "For you, mind. A new story. Because someone declared the last one ‘lacked sufficient dragons.’"
Yn raised a brow in confusion. Harry shook his head, a slight smirk hinging against his lips. “A publisher… I sent my story to.” He nodded.
The flicker of a smile tugged at her lips, despite herself.
Harry noticed. Seized on it.
"Ah, there it is," he murmured, nudging a plate of butter cookies toward her. "Knew I’d get a proper smirk eventually."
The rain lashed against the windows, but inside, the fire crackled. The candles burned low, their scent sweet and comforting.
Yn watched Harry from the corner of her eye—his unruly hair haloed by the firelight, the way his fingers drummed idly against his knee, the quiet intensity in his gaze as he studied the storm beyond the glass.
She had thought herself hollow.
But here, in this moment, she felt—just a little—less alone.
Harry turned his head, catching her stare. He didn’t ask. Didn’t pry.
He simply passed her another cookie.
And Yn, for the first time that day, breathed easy.
◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊
The trembling rain carried on through the afternoon, skirting towards early evening. Cinnamon echoed the air like a whisper, a dream even and there Yn sat, her heart still pounding like hundred race horses darting against the track, her hair nursing a soft loose braid that streamed like a thick spine over her back. The house was quiet— Harry was seated next to her, watching the rain shower down so hard it probably was overflowing the lake anyway. The fireplace crackled like a voice smacking through the silence.
Yn felt Harry’s side eye glance before he faced the window again. She sucked in her lips. “Is your ankle alright?” Yn turned hearing— listening to the sound of Harry’s husky voice chime through breaking the ice of inaudible tension.
She cleared her throat. “It’s fine. I never hurt it, I think…” She looked down to the window seal. “Just…. being stupid and all.”
“You’re not stupid… maybe a bit careless, but not stupid.” Harry didn’t turn from the window once.
“I walked across ice and fell in. I should’ve known better,” Yn swallowed.
“I’ve touched a hot pan coming out of the fire without mitts. That’s stupid.”
Yn stifled a chuckle. “Okay, maybe that one is stupid…” she said, a warm yet small smile creeping over face again.
A pregnant pause sat between them again. “I saw my parents today….”
Harry turned. “I thought you said you were an orphan?”
Yn swallowed, the lump in her throat threatening to suffocate her again. “I am. Or… at least I thought so.” Harry turned his body a bit, the rain now background murmur. “I went to Elswick today— Verveuil… and I was sitting at this table, just trying to gather some scenery for my next painting… and there they were… children and everything.” Yn slowly glanced at Harry before turning away, her eyes glossy and untrusting. “They could afford to eat there everyday if they wanted. Having a ball and not even noticing.”
Harry bit the corner of his lip for a moment. “Are you sure it was them?”
Yn slowly nodded. “They looked and acted just like me… their mannerisms, my mother’s neck is dainty and a bit gaunt, and my father’s laugh is unmistakable. I didn’t want to believe it myself… until he said his last name,” Yn turned towards Harry finally, quiet gentle tears stringing down her face, “LN.”
A quiet stood for a minute— Yn’s sniffles could be heard only.
Her heart hitched itself in her windpipe. It choked on her own breaths— ragged and sharp like her throat had been slit. “You know— imagine going your whole life not knowing, but always wondering what type of people they would’ve been to you. If the best parts of yourself were their best traits too. And then you walk in and see how their life is… that without you.” Yn cried, sobbing into her hand. “It’s like being slapped in the face— no— kicked in the stomach and then throwing up in front of everyone at a banquet.”
A deep furrow rested between Harry’s brows. Breaking his stiff and rigid polite clasp, he moved an arm around Yn like a rope pulling a raft back to shore, scooching closer and bridging the physical gap in the middle. He didn’t whisper. He didn’t reassure. He just… sat there. With her. Breathing when she breathed. Holding her trembling body like it was own. To Harry, it was like watching his own heart outside of his body— the remembrance of crushing weight that was too heavy to lift at the time all on his own was staring him right in the face. Burying his face into Yn’s neck, he breathed in the scent of lilac and wet earth as if it were the air he breathed.
Yn’s hands rested over Harry’s arms; the grip on them just as docile as his own.
Yn’s cries soon soothed into just small sniffles and damp eyes. Her nose as red as a rose and her eyes bloodshot and still leaking spare tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice rough and broken still.
“No. Don’t apologize….it’s okay.” Harry didn’t let go, until Yn gently glided her own body from his hug.
Yn began to wipe her eyes, until Harry passed her a handkerchief from his pocket. “Thank you,” Yn wiped her nose and eyes. Harry tucked a loose strain of hair behind Yn’s ear, giving her a gentle smile, his green orbs carrying a mist of warmth into the cadence of his delicate haven.
Without even having to speak a word, Yn just looked at Harry; her eyes knowing more than what Harry wanted to pretend let on. “What?” Yn wiped her eyes and let a faint smirk cross her lips. Her eyes begin to prod— looking through Harry as if he were a glass statue.
Harry was a very smart and wise man. He knew this. Even if he pretended not to. He swallowed, his eyes went to his hands that had now clasped together, his thumbs were the only moving bone.
“My parents….” he shook his head, “they didn’t understand.” Harry shifted in his seat, trying to find a ‘comfortable’ position before he would speak again— stalling the moment. But Yn was leaning on and hanging by a thread to every second that ticked by.
Harry cleared his throat. “I’m… I’m sensitive,” he gave a quick raise of his brows with a partially sucked in smile, “so, when things happened and I took them hard…. they brushed it off like every other adult I met. In fact, if there was an adult that was at least trying to understand, my parents dismissed them too and would keep me only in their influence just to…” Harry’s hands were in mid air gesturing in a frantic rowing motion before they settled down, slapping lightly against his lap, “invalidate it.”
Yn watched, starting into Harry’s eyes as if she were now understanding everything. And she was. “Harry…” She prodded with a voice as soft as cotton. He slowly turned, his pupil wide and his bore intense.
“What exactly did they do?” she leaned in closer to his physical heat.
Harry swallowed. “What do—” he stopped himself. He knew better. Clearing his throat again and looking up to the rain beaded window again. His shoulders fell slump. “He was cold. My father… just didn’t care. I was scared to break the rules because it would all be met with stern punishment that showed no mercy. My father believed he was right to do this…. my mother… she just sponged it all up.” A rattle crept into his voice. “In his eyes, the adults were superior and… they could do whatever… and get away with it— lying about it to everyone… to you, to themselves. And… I just…. I was helpless— I was a child and it was like I was being forced to accept this… accept that… no one truly… cared for me. No one truly loved me, I know realize.” Harry’s voice choked a stifled sob out.
The memories were a vengeful hurricane writhing inside of Harry. Echoes of harsh and stern words, mean brush offs and the fear of no safety vest— no lifeline to hang onto to shield him from the harsh winds or pull him out of the storm completely. Just… just a little boy. Stuck in the storm of it all with nothing and no one. Just books. Just his imagination of hope and what it could look like. And that’s what bled on those pages to this very day.
A lone tear escaped Harry’s eye, trickling like the last drop of rain from the cloud; the proof that there was indeed a shower. Harry just stared out the window, stiff, silent and watchful. He gave a quick side glance to Yn before quickly turning back. The scent of cinnamon and cedar still dancing around them like a beckon. Yn shuffled closer into Harry. Her hand making its way to his cheek, her thumb wiping the trace of the tear. Her touch feather light against his dry skin. Hands still smooth just as the day they first met. Harry’s jaw leaned into Yn’s grasp, a sniffle escaping his nose that was now moist and piqued. Yn leaned in and kissed his red bunny nose; a butterfly touch to burn.
A soft smile caressed her lips just as her own eyes glistened with unshed knowings. “You,” she breathed softly, “are my love. Always.” she whispered.
The rain outside wove a tapestry of whispers against the glass, a steady rhythm that seemed to mirror the growing pulse between them. Harry’s chest rose in a slow, shuddering breath as Yn’s fingers lingered against his cheek—not pulling away, not yet, as if savoring the warmth of him beneath her palm. His lashes lowered, shadows kissing the delicate skin beneath his eyes, still damp with emotion.
“You,” she had breathed, and the word had seared into him, branding his ribs with something tender and aching.
His hands, usually so steady, trembled slightly as they found her waist, pulling her closer until the heat of her pressed flush against him. He could feel the way her breath hitched, the quiet, yearning sound she made as his fingers splayed across the small of her back. His heart hammered, a wild, unspoken plea that she could surely feel beneath her touch.
Yn tipped her face up, lips parting in silent invitation. Harry did not hesitate.
Their kiss was not hurried; it was a slow unraveling, a language written in sighs and parted lips. His mouth slanted over hers with an aching reverence, every brush of his tongue against hers a question, a devotion. She answered in kind—a soft moan slipping free as her hands tangled in his hair, tugging gently, just enough to make him groan.
His fingers traced the curve of her spine, memorizing the delicate ridges, the way her body arched into him as if drawn by some invisible thread between their souls. He could not tell where his heartbeat ended and hers began—only that they thrummed together now, a single cadence beneath the storm’s lullaby.
Their clothing slipped away like whispers—buttons undone, laces loosened—each brush of fabric against skin a fleeting ghost before it was gone. The air around them was thick with the scent of cedar and cinnamon, mingling with the salt of Yn’s damp skin as Yn pressed her lips to Harry’s collarbone, her teeth grazing just enough to make him gasp.
"Yn," he breathed, half warning, half prayer.
She only smiled against his skin, her fingers trailing lower, tracing the tension coiled in his abdomen before slipping further still. His jaw clenched, a tremor wracking through him as her touch coaxed a groan from deep in his chest.
His restraint was slipping—thread by thread, kiss by kiss—until what remained was only fire.
He caught her wrists, gentle but firm, guiding her back until the plush cushions of the settee cradled her. His eyes, darkened with need, drank in the sight of her—flushed, breathless, waiting.
And then he was upon her—not with haste, but with a slow, consuming intensity that left her gasping. His lips traced the hollow of her throat, the swell of her breast, the curve of her hip—every inch of her a scripture he worshipped without words. The rain outside had grown heavier, drowning out all but the sounds of their shared breaths, the soft, broken sounds Yn made as his mouth moved lower, as his hands learned her in ways that stole her voice.
She threaded her fingers through his hair, tugging him back up to her before he could unravel her completely. "Harry," she whispered, her voice ragged with longing. "I need—"
He knew. He always knew.
Their bodies entwined then, seamless and slow, a dance they had known in dreams before flesh made it real. There was no urgency, only the lingering press of skin against skin, the way their breaths tangled in the scant space between them. Harry moved with excruciating tenderness, his hands trembling where they gripped her hips, his forehead pressed to hers as if he could not bear to be parted even an inch.
But beneath the sweetness burned something deeper, hotter—the quiet storm beneath his skin that Yn alone could summon. His thrusts grew harder, deeper, drawing cries from her lips that he swallowed hungrily. The gentleness had not vanished—only transformed, melding with something primal and aching until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.
Yn met him stroke for stroke, her nails biting into his shoulders as she dragged him closer, as if she could fuse them together beyond the boundaries of bone and sinew. The world beyond the window, beyond the scent of rain and the firelight’s glow, ceased to exist. There was only this—only the way he filled her, the way her name sounded like a plea on his tongue, the way their bodies spoke in a language older than words.
When the crescendo came, it was not a crash but a slow, trembling unraveling—a wave that pulled them under, stealing breath and thought until all that remained was the quiet certainty of her, of him, of them.
Harry collapsed against her, boneless and spent, his lips brushing the damp skin of her shoulder as she cradled him close. The rain still murmured against the panes, the fire still crackled low in the hearth, but everything had changed.
Yn traced idle patterns across his back, her own heartbeat slowing to match his. "Do you feel it?" she whispered.
Harry lifted his head just enough to meet her gaze.
"Love," she murmured simply.
And he did. Not just in the way their bodies had known one another, but in the quiet after—the way his soul had settled, as though it had finally found its missing shade.
Outside, the storm softened. Inside, they clung to each other—breathing, alive, whole.
And that was more than enough.
◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊
The firelight flickered low in the hearth, casting shifting shadows over the entwined bodies of Harry and Yn. Rain whispered against the windowpanes, blurring the world beyond into a watercolor wash of gray and gold. Outside, the trees bent beneath the wind, their bare branches clawing at the sky like desperate hands.
Yn’s fingertips traced the sharp line of Harry’s jaw, her touch light as a moth’s wing against his skin. “Do you know,” she murmured, “how many shades of blue there are in the sky just before dusk?”
Harry turned his head, pressing a kiss to her palm. His lips were warm, lingering. “Tell me.”
“Too many to name,” she whispered, smiling. “But I’ve tried. I paint them—every one—hoping one day I’ll find the one that matches your eyes.”
A shuddering breath escaped him, and his arms tightened around her. He had been a man of words, weaving poems and prose with ink-stained fingers, but Yn spoke in colors he had never known before. Every day with her was a symphony of hues, each more vibrant than the last.
But as spring deepened into March’s grasp, something else bled into their idyllic union—a single letter, sealed with crimson wax and written in elegant, looping script.
The letter lay open on the oak desk, its edges trembling in the faint breeze from the open window. The ink gleamed wetly in the candlelight, the words still fresh, still raw.
Signorina Yn,
It is with great honor that I extend to you an invitation to study at the Accademia d’Arte di Firenze under my tutelage…
Yn’s breath caught in her throat. Fabian Augustus—the maestro whose work had haunted her dreams since she first held a brush. Italy. Florence. The very soul of art itself.
Harry stood by the fireplace, his back to her, the rigid line of his shoulders the only betrayal of his emotions. The flames cast his profile in sharp relief—his lips pressed into a thin line, his lashes lowered as if shielding something too fragile to name.
“Harry,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper.
“You must go.” His words were quiet, steady, as if he had rehearsed them a hundred times in the silence of his mind.
She reached for him, but he turned away, fingers curling into fists at his sides.
“I want you to.” He forced a smile, though it did not touch his eyes. “God, Yn, this is what you’ve always dreamed of.”
But dreams, she realized with a sinking heart, had a way of shifting shape when love entered the equation.
The morning of her leaving dawned cold and brittle, the last frost of the season etching delicate patterns across the windowpanes. Harry helped her into the carriage, his hands lingering on her waist a moment too long, his breath warm against her temple.
“Write to me,” she whispered, clutching his coat with trembling fingers.
His throat worked as he swallowed. “Every day.”
But the promise was hollow. She saw it in the way his jaw clenched, the way his fingers twitched as if aching to pull her back.
The carriage door clicked shut. The horses whinnied. And then she was gone, the wheels carving tracks into the damp earth—marking the path where his heart had been torn open.
London without her was a sepia-toned world, drained of warmth and light. Harry moved through it like a ghost, drifting from room to room, his pen hovering over blank pages that refused to be filled.
His study, once alive with scribbled lines of love and longing, now held only silence. The poems he attempted to write were jagged things—fragments of grief, sharp as broken glass.
Yn, Yn, Yn. Her name was a wound that would not close.
Sleep became a stranger. He took to his bed, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer answers. The scent of her still clung to the sheets—cedar and cinnamon, salt and saffron—a cruel reminder of what was no longer his to hold. And then, one sleepless night— after the ache of a void kept him from even fluttering his eyes— the realization struck him with the force of a storm. The pierce of an arrow through thick skin.
She is my love. My heart walking outside my body, yet still pumping life into me with every beat.
Not just a fleeting passion, not just a muse, but the very soul he had been searching for—the missing shade in the vast spectrum of his existence. Without hesitation, he rose, packed his things, and boarded the first train to Florence.
Italy was a dream woven in gold and ochre, its streets thrumming with life, its air thick with the scent of olive oil and wine. Harry moved through them like a man possessed, his pulse a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. The Accademia loomed before him, its marble façade gleaming in the afternoon sun. Students milled about, their laughter ringing through the courtyard, but Harry’s gaze swept past them, searching for one face—one impossible, beloved face.
And then—
There she was.
Yn stood beneath a vine-wrapped archway, her skirts dusted with paint, her fingers smudged with charcoal. She was arguing with a fellow student, her brow furrowed in concentration, her lips moving with the same fierce passion that had first drawn him to her.
And then, as if sensing his presence, she turned.
Their eyes met.
The world stopped.
For a breathless moment, neither moved. Then, a gasp—her hands flying to her mouth, her chest rising with something between disbelief and joy.
“Harry?” His name was a whisper, a prayer, a question wrapped in trembling hope.
He crossed the distance between them in three strides. His hands found her face, cradling it as if she were made of spun glass.
“I couldn’t let you go,” he breathed, his voice rough with emotion. “Not without telling you—not without—”
She cut him off with a kiss, her fingers tangling in his hair, her body pressing flush against his. The taste of her was the same—sweet as summer wine, sharp as longing—and for the first time in weeks, Harry felt whole again.
When they finally pulled apart, her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “You idiot,” she whispered, laughing. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed you?”
He rested his forehead against hers, his thumbs brushing the apples of her cheeks. “I think,” he murmured, “that I’ve just begun to understand.”
Around them, the courtyard buzzed with life, the golden light of Florence gilding their reunion in hues as rich and eternal as the art that surrounded them.
And in that moment, nothing else mattered—not distance, not time, not the vast and uncertain future ahead.
Only them. Only this. Only love.
The clouds around them thundered before a shallow shower begin to pour. But the pair stood there in the mist of rain drenched vines and soggy clothing— hair sticking to their temples as if they had been bathed by earth itself.
Harry’s lip trembled. “Yn, you need to know this… I love you. And there’s not a single day that goes by where I doubt God for bringing you to me. Where you are, there is passion; my passion is yours and so is my heart. I want to spend every waking moment of every day looking into those eyes, because that’s where my future— my life, my beginning is.” Harry crouched down, placing a knee against the wet granite.
“With God as my witness and the heaven’s as my audience… will you be my lady, Yn?
Tears could be traced even amongst the dripping rain. Yn felt her face collapse in pure breathtaking love. “Y-Yes, YES!” she choked out in a stutter. As she sobbed tears of utter glee, Harry stood again and took her face into his fire and kissed her with a blaze of unsaid, unearthly adorn.
The rain continued to pour over them, but it could never wash away the absolute devoted enthrallment and adoration the two souls carried for one another. A soul that would become one and become a love—
the only one they would ever know as if it were the reason they existed.
THE END.
(Tell me what you think as I LOVE the feedback!! :)))
I have an idea...... maybe i should do a texting headcannon for bad neighbours of loverboy and pastry princesses' online chats??
I think the feeling of betrayal would be HUGEEEE between them! Them finding out they’ve been talking one line would be so angsty! I feel like in some ways peach may feel “violated” since well she cams but it’s suppose to be anonymous for a reason. Or maybe she might think Harry knew the truth all along and just “lied” to get with her?? Idk I have a feeling it will hurt lol
Dude SAME! There's no way they wouldnt feel at least a little confused and betrayed and overall just silly for missing it.
And like, if Harry figures it out and doesnt say anything, theres no way peaches wouldn't feel some type of way - so many conflicting feelings.
What we can guarantee is that things will certainly be hella awkward once they realise they've been talking online. I'd personally crawl under a bed and wait for the end of the world if I found out my online crush is also my biggest opp 🥴
Dirty Boy
harry styles is your new intern and he just can’t get anything right.
3k words
warnings: smut, submissive harry, dominant reader, degrading, pet names (baby, darling, good boy, ma’am etc), humiliation kink, oral sex (f receiving), pain kink, slapping, tied up
authors note: HAPPY HOLIDAYS! i’m making my return to tumblr with this one shot i wrote a bit ago :) let me know if you want more of them! enjoy <3 leave a comment on what you think!
———————————————
i'm fed up.
being the boss to a bunch of fucking lunatics will do that to you.
getting a call from the supervisors telling me that yet again another one of my interns has sent the wrong report out ,was my last fucking straw.
being a women holding such a high position at a job that was occupied with majority men, was so fucking aggravating. i have to demand respect.
but boy was i gonna get it.
i've called all of my imbecile interns into my office skipping my lunch just to yell at a bunch of idiots.
this has been a continuous problem for the past week now and i can't keep fixing their mistakes, they'll never learn that way.
but today they will.
i'm mellowed out of my thoughts when i turn around to see all five of them filing into my office.
as soon as the door clicks shut i blow my top.
"would anyone like to explain why i've gotten the third email this week, about how one of my interns can't seem to send the right report?" i seeth.
i scan all of their faces with a scowl, the silence deafening, before a voice softly confesses.
"m-ma'am that would be me" a voice squeaks out.
i flit my eyes over to where the voice came from to see a man who's... pretty, very pretty. his jawline is so sharp i could cut the apple that's perched on the side of my desk with it. his black slacks and white dress shirt with a black tie loose around his neck doing very little to hide the prominent muscles he's got underneath. his sleeves rolled up to show the ink tattooed on his skin that i want to trace with my finger tips. i rake my eyes up to his hair that sits beautifully on his head as if the stress of the day caused it to turn shaggy, a few curls covering his emerald green eyes with glasses perched on his nose.
he's quite literally the walking reincarnation of sex.
"the rest of you get out," i speak a little to calmly for how much anger i have for the man standing before me "me and this intern here have got to figure out his punishment."
the rest quickly file out at my words ,eager to get out of my presence.
"harry."
"what?" i utter confusedly.
"well, um, you said intern, my name, it's harry."
i chuckle but the smile doesn't reach my eyes because i'm fuming.
"i don't care what your name is, harry" my words make his eyes avert to the ground "what i care about is why i keep getting calls from my supervisor telling me you've messed up my reports yet again"
"i-"
"no you know what," i cut him off to stop him while he's ahead "lock the door."
"wha-"
"lock the door harry"
i watch as he scampers over to my office door and locks it, as i make my way around my desk walking over to where he's stood by the door.
he goes turns around, but let's out a gasp when i push him against the door by his chest, pulling our bodies flush together.
"harry you've been a very bad boy, wouldn't you agree"
he nods, words stuck in the back of his throat.
"use your words harry" i demanded.
"y-yes ma'am, i've been a very bad boy" he pants.
him submitting so easily makes me believe he's wanted this for a long time.
dirty boy.
"and what do bad boys get?" i asked.
"punished." he answers way to easily.
"mhm" i breath out connecting my lips to his jaw, there not being much of a height difference between me and harry because of how tall i am. still, he beats me by a few puny inches.
"oh- fuck, oh my god" he moans into the air, almost startled by the sudden pleasure.
i disconnect my lips from his jaw to ask him a simple yes or no question, knowing he's to pent up.
"do you want me to keep going, baby?" i whisper into his ear seeing the goosebumps arise in my wake.
but when i drop one of my hands from his chest and trail it down his body until i reach the jutting bulge that's straining against his slacks so badly that i'm surprised it hasn't ripped past them, i know i've got my answer.
instead of responding he brings his hips forward, rutting into my hand to release some tension.
"nu uh" i tutt, bringing my free hand down to keep his hips in place.
"ma'am, please keep going, i need you to touch me" he pleads, with his eyes pinched shut in pleasure and pain.
"you don't get to just say please once and i give you what you want." i seethe.
i take my hand off his bulge ,emitting a whine from him that he tries to suppress but fails, curling my finger through is belt loop and pulling him over to the black leather couch that sits to the left of my desk.
i lay him across the couch with his head sitting by the arm rest of the couch and his knees are bent to accommodate for how much smaller it is compared to him.
i hover over him noticing his chest rising and falling and how he's got his hands digging into the leather of the couch in anticipation.
"here's how this is gonna go," i bellowed "i'm going to ride your face, you're going to make me cum, and if i'm feeling generous, i'll help you out with your not so little problem," i bring my hand down to his bulge watching his stomach tremble, "how does that sound, harry"
"that sounds- fuck- good," he pants.
i bring my hand off of his front and slide my skirt and top off leaving my panties for last, quickly sliding them off slightly embarrassed of how eager i am to ride his pretty face.
i immediately swing my leg up so that my knee rest near his head and do the same with my other leg.
"fucking hell you're dripping all down your thighs," his voice is low and sultry as he brings his hands up and rubs soothing circles around the tops of my thighs.
"take your pants and boxers off" i order trying to ignore just how turned on i am.
he takes his hands off my thighs as i watch them disappear, hearing him shuffle and squirm under me trying to get his pants and boxers off.
"they're off" he speaks lowly bring his hands back to their original placement, on my thighs.
i align my core up with his face before i speak again.
"apologize harry."
he immediately lifts his head to run his tongue up my slit completely ignoring the place i need him most.
i quickly grip his hair, pulling his face out of my heat.
"after the shit you've pulled all week, for your own good don't be a fucking tease."
"yes ma'am" he complies making me loosen my grip on his hair so he can continue.
i didn't expect him to dive right back in but gasp when he brings his tongue circling it around my clit.
"fuck" i groan.
he pulls me closer into his face, his nose hitting my clit which makes me whine quietly into the air. he continues swiveling his tongue through my slit in all the right places making me slap my hand over my mouth to stifle my moans.
i'm surprised that i don't come on the spot when buried his face impossibly closer and shakes his head into my pussy.
i bite down on my bottom lip to suppress my moan as he works me closer to my release.
i'm caught off guard when i hear movement behind us and his hips rising ever so often.
that's when i notice one of his hands has been removed from my thigh so i look over my shoulder only to see him with his hand wrapped around his length ass he rutts slowly against his fist.
i whip my head back around to him and try to ignore the pleasure he's granting me to focus on the task at hand.
"what the fuck do you think you're doing harry?" i rise off of his face causing a string of whines to leave his lips.
he immediately goes red in the face at being caught, quickly bringing his hand back up and placing it back on my thigh.
"sorry, please c'mere lemme make you cum" he pants.
he makes it so hard to be mad at him.
"this is strike one harry, get to strike three and i'm not letting you cum" i order.
"yes ma'am" he complies quickly.
i lower my core to his face again and this time i'm so desperate to reach my orgasm. and it seems harry is desperate to help me get there because he immediately dives in, dipping his tongue into my pussy making me immediately clench around it as close i am.
his hand leaves my thigh again so i go to scold him but am quickly cut off when i feel two fingers start pumping quickly inside of me, only taking a few thrust before he finds my spot and it becomes to much when he continues working on my clit with his tongue, making me look up at the ceiling to stop pleasurable tears from falling out my eyes.
all it takes is the vibrations from him moaning into my core to push me over the edge.
"fuck, i'm go- i'm-"
"i know baby it's okay" he speaks softly only disconnecting his face from my center for a split second.
"shit-, oh god please don't stop" i nearly scream as his fingers don't stop working me through my release.
i don't think it can get any better until he presses his nails into my thighs, breaking the skin, leaving crescent sized marks in his wake.
"holy fuck" i slump down on top of him, laying my head on the arm rest leaving my tits to basically hang above his mouth.
"mm" i hum when i feel his hands running up and down my sides to sooth me.
once i feel okay to move, i lift my head up to see harry lying there with a content smile on his face, curls even messier then they were before, and my arousal dripping from his chin.
i move back to straddle his waist but quickly remember his problem when i come into contact with his dick sitting pretty on his navel.
"oh god" he hisses when he finally receives a bit of relief when my still dripping core slides over his sensitive tip.
"you wanna come, darling" i coo softly knowing he's very sensitive right now.
"yes please, it hurts, please just touch me i cant-"
i cut off his frantic rambling with a tender kiss which he returns hesitantly.
"i think you've been a good boy so i'll let you cum, but i have 2 conditions" i order.
he nods, signaling for me to keep going.
"you don't come until i say so, and i get to tie you up." i assert.
"b-but-"
"do you wanna come?" i question.
"yes ma'am" he breathes out.
"then you'll do as i say"
i suppress a chuckle when he nods eagerly.
i know i've already asked but i can't take this to the next level without asking the question again.
"do you want this, baby?" i say softly bringing my hands to rest on both sides of his neck, my thumbs drawing soothing circles.
"so bad." he pants.
i sit us up to where harry sitting up right and my legs are on either side of him, his dick between us both.
i unbutton his shirt quickly, taking his tie off and laying it to the side. i throw his shirt over my shoulder letting it join the pile of clothes we've ripped away from our bodies. i grab onto the tie and bring his wrist together behind his back and tying it around his wrist not to tight but also to where he can't get out.
i don't give him time to process anything before i lift my hips to grab hold of his dick, not wasting anytime to slide all the way down his length until he bottoms out.
we both groan into each other's mouths from how pent up we are but i quickly cover the sound by pressing a swift kiss to his mouth.
"please move," he squeaks from bellow me after a minute and i can't even suppress my chuckle this time when i look down and he's squirming to get some sort of relief.
i glide back and forth, doing figure 8's on his dick while my clit hits his stomach making me moan out in the room.
i find a rhythm, slowly rolling my hips back and forth until harry can't take it anymore.
"i cant-," he pants "please, f-faster."
i decide to put harry out of his misery, slowly rising all the way off him to where the only thing in me is his tip, clenching around and seeing his face contort in pleasure.
"if you don't fuck me right n-"
he's cut off when i slap him across the face not to hard but enough for it to tinge red.
"i wouldn't finish that sentence if you know what's good for you." i seethe.
"m'sorry" he cries out still on the brink from me not letting up with clenching around his tip.
i catch him off guard when i start moving rapidly up and down, mesmerized by his sex face.
seeing harry face while being overwhelmed with pleasure could make me cum alone.
the only sounds in the room are the sounds of our skin slapping together, my moans i can't seem to stifle and harry's pleasurable cries.
i know harry won't last long and is only holding off for me so trail my hand down my body rubbing slow and teasing circles on my clit to speed things up.
"god harry," i moan tiredly, resting my head on his shoulder but not stopping the brisk thrusting my hips are doing below me.
"please untie me" he offers quietly.
"harry what did i sa-"
"you're getting tired, lemme help" he cuts me off.
i lift my head to decline the offer again but find it hard once i see his pleading big doe-eyes.
"i can't cum like this, i need to touch you" he begs.
i stop the roll of my hips to reach around his back, untying his wrist giving in finally.
i'm caught off guard when harry lifts me of his cock to where i'm sitting on my knees, we're chest to chest as he gives me no time to process anything before he starts thrusting upward into me while one hand rest on my back and the other circles my clit.
"oh god i cant" i moan, just now realizing tears are streaming down my face in pure ecstasy.
"are you gonna cum all over my cock?" harry questions through a grunt.
"mhm i'm gonna cum so fucking hard" i moan, laying my head on his shoulder, letting him do all the work.
one harsh thrust causes me to release, experiencing the best fucking orgasm i've ever had.
i rake my finger nails down his back for leverage, loving the sound he releases at that.
pain kink? i'll remember that for next time.
wait what? next time. oh god.
i'm brought back to reality when the oversensitivity
becomes way too much and i bite down on his shoulder to suppress a scream.
"ma'am can- fuck fuck fuck" at harry's words i take my head off his shoulder and come to the realization that he hasn't came yet.
"use your words harry." i say wanting to hear those pleading words come out his mouth.
his hips begin stuttering and i can feel his cock twitching inside of me.
"i-" he's cut off by a groan and i chuckle slightly as his body betrays him.
"can i- can i, fuck, come" he pants and when i don't respond immediately he begins to ramble, "i'm really fucking close, please just let me, i've been such a good bo-"
"let go, baby" i coo, knowing how vulnerable he's being right now.
he doesn't waste anytime because as soon as i give him the 'ok' he lets go.
"oh my fucki-, i'm coming, i'm gonna co-" his loud whines are cut off by him stilling inside of me.
i soothe him by peppering pecks all across his chest while he writhes underneath me so i pull back out of his neck to see his pretty face.
tears are rolling down his face, sweat is lining his forehead and light pink, tinged on his cheeks, lips parted.
we just lay there for what could be 5 minutes or an hour letting us just enjoy each other's company.
"are you okay?" he asks softly and if i hadn't of been right next to his mouth, i wouldn't have heard him.
i hum not having the energy to respond at the moment.
his soothing hands that run up and down my sides ever so often could've put me to sleep.
maybe working with a bunch of twats wasn't so bad after all.
———————-
WHY is this being slept on??!! I love me a lil sub harry more than anything 😭😭😍
I wonder if both of them would feel like they are almost leading their online personas on? Like irl Harry and peach are finally getting along but will that make it hard for both of them when talking online?
I've BEEN thinking about this! Especially if (and soon lol) harry and peaches start seeing each other in a 'romantic' light, the confusion they already feel 24/7 is bound to cause disaster 🤭🤭🤭
Also, what do we think their reaction would be to actually finding out that they've been talking online?? 🤔
Bad Neighbours: Four (Harry Styles fic.)
Premise: Harry despises the girl next door, and it's mutual. But Harry also really likes the girl he met online, and that, is also mutual.
Word count: 10k
Bad Neighbours Masterlist | Other Writing
🍑
The first knock on Y/n’s door came at nine a.m. on the dot. And in her sleepy, disgruntled state, she stumbled down the hallway, twisted the key, and came sleepy-face-to-smiling-face with a middle-aged blonde woman dressed far too formally for a Sunday morning.
She holds a plate of finger sandwiches in one hand and a pile of brochures in her other. Next to her stands a man and a woman, presumed to be a couple, brows furrowed at the disastrous state of the woman who just opened the door for them.
The fancy-dressed lady smiles enthusiastically and steps right into Y/n’s house, and the couple follows after her until there are now four people standing in her entrance hall when there should be zero.
“You must be Y/n,” the lady greets, holding out her hand.
“... Yes?” Y/n frowns, tone as puzzled as her thoughts and face right now.
“I’m Venelize. Harry told me about you. Said you might still be asleep when we arrived, but wouldn't mind being woken.”
Y/n’s forehead creases with bitter realisation at the sound of that name. She should have known. And now? This random woman is placing the tray of sandwiches on the dining table and laying out the brochures in a neat row.
And Y/n really wants to ask what the fuck is happening right now, but she feels the need to refuse giving Harry – wherever he is – any more satisfaction than he has probably been lapping up since the moment she opened her door.
She thinks he was probably outside, hiding behind the hedge fence in wait, like a ridiculous predator revelling in the little fox innocently and ignorantly stumbling straight into his snare.
And, yes, Harry was indeed peeking out from behind the fence with a ridiculously proud grin. He cannot believe how easy it was to execute this plan. After all, the biggest challenge in this scheme was whether his sleepy, hermit neighbour would even answer the door.
And this magnum opus of revenge for the rooster has only just begun.
He hasn't even retreated by the time another two people are parking and strolling up his unsuspecting neighbours' still-open front door. God, if she could see the look on Harry’s face – bemused, disbelief, borderline-evil delight – this might be the first time his face has ever morphed into something so pleased and satisfied.
And as his eyes trail along her front yard, where five For Sale signs are now scattered courtesy of himself, the laugh that escapes his chest is as evil as it is purely amused.
His neighbour, however, is starting to put the villainous pieces together. Mostly because this mysteriously cheerful neighbour has started guiding these unwanted guests on a tour of her home.
She just stands there like a babbling fish, dressed for bed and helpless to put an end to this nightmare. Christ, there are more than six people in her house now, excluding herself, and she can hear another car turning off its engine and promising that more doom is about to enter her home.
And when one of the accidental intruders starts asking her questions about the price and amenities and the bloody furniture, Y/n simply cannot believe that Harry has managed to set up an open house for a home that is not for sale.
She finds herself incapable of doing anything other than grouchily eating several mini sandwiches as the first group of people say farewell and depart, right as another couple and their two children come strolling in.
“Fucks sake,” she complains under her breath, stuffing her mouth with another sandwich to avoid saying something like, ‘tell your children to keep their hands off of my millions of trinkets.’
By eleven thirty, Y/n has single-handedly eaten seven stupid cheese-and-ham snacks and has finally had enough, so when the presumed real estate agent concludes her umpteenth tour and says goodbye to the couple she was guiding, Y/n walks over and does what she can to stop this from happening.
“Listen, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what Harry told you, but I’m not selling my house. Please, for the love of god, help me get these people out of here.”
To say the agent was surprised is on point, as she begins apologising profusely, which prompts Y/n to start doing the same thing, until the two of them are just spewing “I’m sorry about this, I’m sorry about Harry.”
This goes on for a good couple of minutes before the poor woman hastily gathers the remaining brochures, tosses them on the near-empty food platter and ushers herself and five strangers off the property.
The door stands ajar, and that’s the last reassurance Y/n needs to kick into action and storm straight out, bare feet and all. That’s when she sees the signs on the lawn, and man, if that doesn't amuse and anger her all at once.
He’s gotta be holed up in that house of his, chuckling evilly to himself about what might be the prank of all pranks.
For Harry, she’s right on time, stomping over to his shut door, her fist pounding on the hardwood to the rhythm of rage, and Harry opens it so quickly that she almost bangs her fist straight into his chest.
Her stare is as loathsome as it is dangerous, like she’s staring down a villain who threatened her cat and not just her pesky trickster of a neighbour.
“This is an all-time low.”
Harry leans his back brazenly against the door frame, his gaze raking up her pyjama-clad figure – shirt crumbled and hair still messy with frustration over lost sleep.
“Really? I think it’s my best one yet.” His smile is smug.
“It is, and that’s why I hate it.” Her arms cross her chest with a heavy huff.
“How many people showed?”
“At least twelve.” Her words are coated with surprise, exasperation and utter disdain as Harry can’t stop himself from laughing out and filling the space between them with boastful pleasure as she pouts,
“It’s not funny!”
“C’mon, Peaches, you love talking to strangers.” He mocks.
“It sickens me that you know me so well.” She only grumbles with a scowl.
“Join the club.” He scoffs, his pretty green gaze rolling.
“You’re so childish!” She groans, foot stomping like it isn't hypocritical to do so while accusing someone of being juvenile.
“Oh, am I the one who put livestock in your living room?” Harry torts, still evidently very disgruntled by the whole Reaper situation.
“No, but you did steal my gnome.” Y/n scoffs so loud it feels like her entirety departs along with it, and she points an accusatory finger at him.
Just when Harry thinks he’s in the clear, his neighbour lets him know she was in on it all along, and that dulls half the satisfaction – after all, these types of moments, right here, are the whole point of using his free time to scheme and think about his favourite sassy brat.
“You knew about that?”
“Of course I did. What do you take me for?” She chides, quite fond of the way his rosy surprise-parted lips swoop into a precious pout.
“Well, you owned a garden gnome. So, as it stands, I take you for a quirky spawn of Satan.”
Harry’s shoulders do a little lift with so much nonchalance it's maddening, and his unfairly pretty eyes and audaciously wispy lashes are infuriating. Especially when he intentionally bats them like dandelions in the breeze, and offers an alternative,
“But you’re more than welcome to prove me wrong.”
“No, you pretty much hit the nail on the head.” The glimmer in her gaze counters the casual dismissal of her words.
“That’s a first.” He muses.
“And a last.” She hopes and prays.
She should definitely leave now. There’s still hope to salvage her Sunday, and staying a moment longer is sure to refuel the roundabout of useless arguing they so easily stride into.
But she doesn't move because there’s something pleasant about discussing the mechanisms behind their successful pranks. Come to think of it, Y/n doesn’t actually have anyone else who would even marginally understand this insane dynamic.
She certainly doesn’t tell her friends and family about the unnecessary amount of time she spends scheming and prepping for pranks that seem to only escalate this rivalry. She knows others would react with more confusion than amusement, and more than one would implore her to find something better to do in her spare time.
And now here’s Harry, the single person who can make any sense of this nonsensical back-and-forth, who clearly finds a similar sick joy in executing elaborate disruptions; it feels like a missed opportunity to turn on her heels.
“Did you drive all around town collecting For Sale signs?”
“Absolutely.” His prideful smile is so proud it's almost endearing.
“Your commitment is deadly.” She muses, struggling to hide the impressed approval that tries to slip through the cracks of her mouth.
Harry barks out a hearty laugh that is shortly followed by his voice lilting into a husky, perfectly in tune little song that takes Y/n as much by surprise as it makes her want to say anything to hear him sing again, “Rooster ruined my cushion.”
“One day you’ll love that precious poultry of mine, I guarantee.” She nods with such certainty that Harry almost feels inclined to believe her. Almost.
“You live on another planet, Peaches, I swear it.” He muses.
“Yeah? You should join me.”
Well, now that has Harry intrigued. And Y/n can see it even before he opens his mouth to respond,
“Oh? Gonna make me an offer I can’t refuse?”
“You’ll come around on your own…” Y/n’s lips creep upward as she softly snorts and shrugs with newfound smugness, cooing, “eventually.”
And now Harry’s beyond the point of returning to disinterest any time soon, and he can’t tell if it's because everything said between them somehow always circles back to a challenge, or if it’s because he’s genuinely interested in who the hell the girl living next door actually is under all that supervillain chaos.
“Your confidence is intriguing...” His words are dense as they trail off with fascination.
“God, next thing you’ll wanna get to know me.” She groans.
“Would that be so bad?”
He peers down at her with that all too familiar amused glimmer in his gaze, but this one feels just a tad different… like a flicker of intrigue, or fondness that floats along the span of his pretty stare and has Y/n doubting if it truly would be that bad if they got to know one another. All she can do is expertly raise her brows into a weary yet thoughtful bushy quirk.
“... I'll get back to you on that.”
🍑
The glee that flickers like glimmering flakes of glitter all along Harry’s skin is something he hasn’t felt in longer than he can recall. And it’s intoxicating. His body practically floats through the entrance hall towards the living room, landing on the sofa like a leaf carried by the summer breeze.
With his ruffled curls resting against the armrest and his legs that go on forever stretched out along the span of the cushions, he wastes no time in pulling out his phone and heading straight for his favourite chat to report back on the good news.
Loverboy: I think I finally got under my neighbour's skin!
Her response comes through moments later, and Harry tries to imagine what she might look like hearing the news face-to-face. If her lips parted and eyes widened with surprise would look as adorable as her personality.
PastryPrincess: Was the reaction worth it?
Loverboy: God, more than.
Loverboy: And I have a very witty girl behind a phone screen to thank for it.
He sure does. And fuck, Harry would laugh himself into an early grave if he knew his thanks were actually going to the exact person who suffered at the hands of this masterful prank.
PastryPrincess: You can thank me by keeping up all the compliments.
On her sofa across the way, sulking, as usual, Y/n's willing to take all the doting she can get.
Loverboy: Careful, now. Once I start, you’ll have to muzzle me to get me to stop.
Now that's an idea she can get behind. The mere implication sends her thoughts and twists her stomach into a spiral of filthy thoughts.
PastryPrincess: Don’t give me any ideas…
Loverboy: What, is the thought of me being a good boy too much to bear?
Yes, yes it is. How could it not with the vivid visual of sternly peering down at a good boy who'd kiss her feet without hesitation if she so pleased?
PastryPrincess: It is when you aren’t here, and I can't make you get on your knees.
Harry's slacks threaten to tighten at the mere thought. He isn't even ashamed to admit it would take less than a single ‘please' for him to drop to the floor for her. But he has to maintain some semblance of aloofness.
Loverboy: What makes you so sure I would?
PastryPrincess: Denial doesn’t suit you, loverboy.
Loverboy: Oh? And what would suit me better, Princess?
He knows exactly what she wants, but he goads her regardless. And Y/n’s fantasy is too fleshed out to even acknowledge the wriggling worm of validation that dangles on the thin line and blurs her line of vision, needily attached to the rod he clutches in anticipation.
PastryPrincess: You, on your knees, asking me very nicely to let you take care of me.
Loverboy: Huh. I thought you were the one who liked to beg.
True… But sometimes, after being in front of a webcam, pleading and promising to be a good girl, the last thing Y/n wants to do is follow through with said promises. And since most of her days are spent feeling a lack of control, she often finds herself slipping off into a daydream of what it might be like to have someone else be at her mercy.
PastryPrincess: Well, since you're my favourite and most loyal fan, I'll let you in on a little secret.
PastryPrincess: Sometimes I think I might not want to be as submissive as I thought.
Harry couldn't have predicted the way his skin clams up at the implication, his body suddenly ten times heavier like a pair of soaking denim clinging to and weighing him down. It's like he’s just plunged into a pool of sudden possibility, like he’s been holding his breath for so long, and he didn’t even know why.
Now, he’s gasping in fresh air, and it fills his lungs with the motivation to finally confront something he’s been questioning lately. Well, always, but now more than ever.
Loverboy: I'll let you in on my own little secret then.
Loverboy: I don't know if I even want to be in control anymore.
There. He finally said it. Was it through a phone screen to a virtual stranger whom he somehow knows better than nearly everyone in his real life? Yes.
But he’s also admitting to himself that, at his grown age, there are still parts of himself that question if he actually knows what he truly wants, and that is terrifying.
PastryPrincess: Yeah?
PastryPrincess: I think it’s cause I feel like I usually have no control.
The minute her response pops up on the screen, it envelops Harry in that familiar reassurance that he swears he cannot get enough of, and when her words are so opposite to his, and therefore so akin, Harry knows that there’s nobody else who fits him with such ease.
Loverboy: Guess I feel like I have too much.
Heating up quicker than the noon sun does a swimming pool, Y/n vehemently shakes her head in an attempt to rid the brigade of filthy thoughts that march forward and demand her to indulge – just a little – in the idea of being in charge for a change. Not just in charge of anyone, but of one very mysterious, tender stranger who seems in need of a little bossing around.
PastryPrincess: I think we're a match made in heaven.
Loverboy: I know we are.
Yeah, Y/n’s gonna have to do something – anything – to stop herself from getting carried away. Fantasies are just as dangerous as the real thing, and somehow, she feels they might actually be worse. Disappointment is a threat that acts as a horizon, yet she willingly turns her back to the sky as she types out a response.
PastryPrincess: It's dangerous, loverboy…
Loverboy: Darling, that's what makes it so good.
🍑
Around a week later, Harry has to blink twice when the movement of something akin to a human catches the corner of his eyes as he remains slumped comfortably on the navy sofa, gaze intently glued to the telly as the Real Housewives of New York are seconds away from having a full-on brawl at the dinner table.
The whiny tones of glitzed and gaudily garbed women are ever escalating, and Harry’s on the edge of his seat. He’s been anticipating this showdown for weeks now - eyes glued to the screen - when the flicker from just outside his living room window grows larger and finally disrupts his attention enough for him to spare a half-glance.
At first, he thinks the shuffling motion is surely a pigeon taking off for the freeing sky, but when the figure stays in place, neither flying nor dropping, Harry peels his stare from the screen completely and aims it at the odd distraction.
And that’s when he sees his neighbour, scaling the wall of her own house. Clumsily balancing the tips of her sneaker-clad feet on the minutest of gaps separating two cobblestones, her body stretched out like sticky taffy, arms reaching out in pursuit of hooking her hands safely onto the sill of her bedroom window.
With his eyes wide with bewilderment, still trained on the display of extreme sport occurring mere metres away, Harry can hear the voices on screen rising with dramaticism. But he can’t look away from his wall-climbing neighbour. Whether it has something to do with concern for her safety or the fear of being a witness to an avoidable accident, he exhales a gravelly groan and blindly grabs the remote to press pause.
Walking with panicked haste, Harry avoids all formalities and enters her tenderly nurtured property, gangly legs taking broad steps up the driveway, turning to the right and following the neat stepping stone path that leads him straight to the rock climber herself.
Peering up, Harry tries his best to avoid startling her, dulling his usual booming tone for one that hopefully avoids sending her body into a jolt and letting go of the windowsill that her fingers now grasp onto with desperation.
“Do you have a death wish?”
She doesn’t even flinch from the task at hand, as if she had sensed his presence all along. And she did - he’s not soft on his feet, and his bemused huff on arrival was louder than he thought.
“You do if you think distracting me is a good idea.” Y/n grumbles.
“And what's happening right now is a good idea?” He scoffs.
“No, it's a desperate attempt to get inside.” She snaps, craning her head ever so slightly to address the bothersome man, “What does it look like?”
He should have known that coming over wouldn’t solve the problem, as if she would do anything he suggests - and as if she wouldn’t double down on her stubbornness and attempt to do something even more reckless.
“Looks like your pride is getting in the way of asking for help.” His arms cross over his chest with frustration, “Again.”
“Oh, please, this has nothing to do with pride.” She scoffs, neck snapping back to focus on the task at hand, arms starting to ache, blood rushing away from her veins in pursuit of her head, throbbing against her forehead.
“You know damn well that I have a ladder. If you weren’t so stubborn, you could've asked to borrow it.” Harry scolds.
“And be indebted to you? Yeah, right.”
“You really do think so lowly of me.” Harry’s disappointed sigh is followed by a sad thought about how far things must have gone for her to resist the simplest offering of help. And pleading his good intentions will be pointless.
“Stop interrupting me!” She scolds.
So, with a dragged-out sigh, Harry walks back the way he came, straight into his yard in pursuit of his trusty ladder that still rests criminally against the cobble wall separating him from that marvellous peach tree.
Naturally, when it came time to purchase the partner to his peach-thieving crime, Harry gravitated towards an old-school tan wood ladder that reminded him of the one his mum used to pull out whenever the gutters got too clogged.
It’s lightweight and hooks perfectly atop the steep and broad dune of his shoulder, and Harry’s back in the yard of his neighbour in no time. Speaking of time, it’s running out; he can see the little tremors twitching at her bare legs as she struggles to maintain the strength to lift her upper body high enough to fit through the half-open window.
From where Harry stands, this task is impossible to complete, and she either doesn’t notice or does and chooses to attempt defying gravity nevertheless.
Regardless, his body rumbles with an amused chuckle, one that is fuelled by too much fondness for his liking, as he shakes his head and leans the ladder against the wall. Y/n’s attention snaps to the thwack of wood against cobblestone, her hands gripping the brick tighter with fright.
“Hey!” She scolds, risking a glance down to send Harry a harsh glare, but he’s already halfway up the make-shift steps and inching closer by the second.
He moves fast, Y/n thinks it's mostly due to his gangly legs, which she loves more than enough to punish herself for under the covers of darkness. Regardless, Harry covers the distance in seconds and cheerfully reaches her level, casually resting an arm against the step above him and blessing her with an almost cruel smirk, perfectly defining his dimpled cheeks.
His pride sickens Y/n… the type makes her want to suffocate him, with a pillow – better yet, with her lips. Maybe then he’d think twice before pulling out that classic cheeky smile that seems to be his default these days. It’s as infuriating as the next words that practically sing through the gap between his plump lips,
“Don’t be a brat.”
He leaves no space for her to strum up a typical snappy retort, his right hand anchored to the ladder as his left hooks onto her hip, his arm latching around her lower back like an electric wire, and for the first time in perhaps the entirety of their relationship, she can’t find it in herself to argue back.
All she can do is accept his help as he tightens the sparking cable of his arm and lifts lightly, hoisting her body nearer to the sill, and with such ease it renders her stunned, she finally has the momentum to press her hands into the cream panel, hoisting herself up as her legs work overtime to summit this self-made rock climbing wall.
With the grace of a newborn deer, Y/n’s limbs flail, to Harry’s greatest amusement, and as if the ajar window were the exit of a claustrophobic cave, she practically crawls through and mortifyingly stumbles to the floor with a hard thump.
After a moment, she reappears, and she looks like the aftermath of overexertion as strands of hair splay in all directions, cheeks swollen and flushed, chest almost tapdancing to the tune of breathlessness, and Harry is just looking up at her, a smug glimmer in his gaze that his body mirrors as he leans back on the ladder with an ease that it could convince the strongest sceptic that it wouldn't collapse on him even if an earthquake challenged the soil below.
Aside from the cheek-swelling embarrassment of having a dickhead audience up close to witness her clumsy gymnastics tumble through the window crack, the words ‘damsel in distress’ are ringing in Y/n’s ears louder than the blood rushing back to her thudding brain.
She’s got to start wondering if she’s putting curses on herself with her premonitions that are clearly best left unsaid. Like she’s trapped in a vortex with her notorious neighbour, and every senseless thought she conjures up goes straight to his soul and tugs him further into her orbit of chaos.
And that stupid, shamelessly charming smile of his does nothing but send her spiralling right back into shame. Her stare turns to that of a snake about to strike as she leans through ajar window and scoffs,
“My hero.”
Harry’s lazy satisfaction only strengthens, and this might be the worst interaction Y/n has had with this man – no, any man… any person, ever.
“Bout time you noticed.”
The shame of being caught scaling her own home is long gone, replaced by heightened distress over how easy this all was. Too easy for him to offer assistance, and even easier to relent, accept, and appreciate the moment.
The idea of asking Harry for help feels like pulling out each tooth one by one, but it sure hurts less than the grand piano of appreciation that dangles just above her head with daunting imminence.
“Thanks… for the help.”
That’s all she can muster. Followed by an instant pang of guilt for how underwhelming her appreciation is, but when Harry’s crossed arms rise and fall to the beat of his humoured chest - his entire face hauntingly entertained and egregiously pleased with himself - Y/n feels peculiarly reassured.
“Anytime, Peaches.” He’s descending the ladder before he can confirm the predicted reaction of her bunched brows and clenched cheeks as she semi-spits back,
“I told you not to call me that.”
His soles sinking into the grass, he cranes his neck to meet her frown with his own bemused tilted brows as his head tips in a gesture to the resting ladder, his dense, glucose-y voice projecting,
“I’ll leave this here… Y’know, to save you the trouble next time.”
Y/n doesn’t say anything – Harry’s strolling away before she can – and it's futile, but not enough for her to stop the disgruntled sigh-slash-scoff that fills the space between the ghost of their interaction.
🍑
If someone offered Y/n a free vacation in exchange for having to watch back footage of herself clumsily breaking into her home, she wouldn’t have hesitated to take a rain check.
So, imagine how it feels for her to have to rationalise the unfortunate fact that her biggest rival not only had the perfect view, but got to swoop in and save the day.
Afterall, the smugness he currently feels is exactly how she would feel had she found him in a similar position. And in all honesty, likely, Y/n wouldn’t have done nearly as good a job of hiding her righteous remarks. God, it would have been fun though.
Sitting like a sulk, feeling very sorry for herself on the couch, she can just picture the trip her neighbour is certainly on right now, probably the best high that washes over in heavy waves, reigniting his laughter over and over.
And she’s not far off. Harry finds this all so amusing that even now, back on the couch, even after he returns to the paused Housewives, every time the memory resurfaces, his body bubbles with the bemused giggles.
His focus is so deterred from the drink just thrown in a middle-aged blonde’s face that when his phone lights up with a favourable ‘ding’, he forgets the show altogether and unlocks the screen. And his heart truly flutters when he sees a notification from his favourite name.
PastryPrincess: Do you ever get tired of keeping people at a distance?
Harry sighs at the question reflecting back at him, because of course he does. And the perfect example of this lives just next door. He should be able to revel in these ‘neighbourly’ incidents with Y/n. Hell, they shouldn’t be in this weird dynamic to begin with.
But, he supposes it would be nice to share the amusing parts of it with someone… even if it’s her.
Loverboy: Honestly? All the time.
Loverboy: Do you?
Across the driveway and in the heart of the living room, curled up and feeling sillier than ever, Y/n does feel like the guarded life is getting a little lonely.
PastryPrincess: More and more as time goes by.
But by this point, it's second nature, an effort that solidified into such familiarity over the years that now, it doesn’t even take a thought to keep those walls stacked high. How can either of them trust that the person they allow to chip away at them will do so with the right amount of caution – of care?
Loverboy: But old habits die hard, hm?
PastryPrincess: Do you think that could change, though?
Though Harry is a self-proclaimed grump, he’s never been a pessimist – especially regarding love. It’s like he can’t rid himself of the hopefulness of falling in love that embraces him even in the face of heartbreak, and he stopped trying a long time ago.
Loverboy: I think, if you really want it to.
All it takes is one simple sentence, and Y/n’s focus almost completely shifts from that lingering mortification to soft and soothed.
PastryPrincess: A loverboy, a knight in shining armour, and a prophet. Quite the triple threat you are.
PastryPrincess: And somehow always reassuring.
And back on the sofa at Harry’s, he feels that reassurance she spoke of seeping through the screen and enveloping his splayed-out body.
Loverboy: I like that. Don’t think I’ve been called reassuring before.
PastryPrincess: What have you been called?
To nobody's surprise, Harry's thoughts refer back to the familiar words his disappointed neighbour so fondly refers to him as. And, maybe a couple extra traits that his cheekiness just can't pass up the opportunity to mention.
Loverboy: Stubborn, grouchy, mischievous… and devilishly handsome.
PastryPrincess: Sounds a lot like me… If you switch out grouchy for sassy and handsome for drop-dead gorgeous.
The irony of using Harry's favourite descriptors as a summary for her personality is not lost on Y/n, but it can't be helped that it's true…
Loverboy: Stubborn, sassy, drop-dead gorgeous? My favourite type of chaos.
PastryPrincess: You're an anomaly.
Loverboy: I'll be your anomaly if you so kindly ask.
This is dangerous territory. Each day is harder to maintain the distance. Not even physically, but the personal mystery that they've used as a crutch for too long now.
It was always a possibility that intrigue would get the best of them – well, at least her. But experience dictated her surety that seeing Loverboy as anything other than a sweet, charming, oddly funny anonymous boy who made the weeks easier to bear.
Which, if Y/n thinks about it, kinda sounds like she must be the biggest fool on earth to have missed that fact. That, or she knew and took the risk anyway. She doesn't know which is harder to live with.
All she knows for certain is that it's a pretty lonely life when you hold your hand out like a stop sign and wonder why people do just that.
🍑
With putting old habits to rest at the forefront of her mind, and the nagging feeling that she has to somehow repay Harry for that ‘damsel in distress’ disaster a few days prior, Y/n finds herself doing the unthinkable this morning – intentionally walking away from the safety net of her driveway towards the danger that lies behind the no-mans-land hedgewall… Harry’s front yard.
And unlike every other time, where her struts are fuelled by flabbergasted frustration, today they sink into the trimmed grass with weary resignation.
The whole sense of wrongness she feels doesn’t leave even as she stands on his doorstep, not even after he answers - and especially not when the door opens, and he’s wearing far too little clothing to be fair on anyone simply trying to hate him and not ogle at his unfairly thick, golden thighs.
And the cocky curiosity that arches his brow and laces his words, “Hey, neighbour,” only makes her regret whatever the hell she’s willingly getting herself into.
Still, Y/n persists, ignoring his lilted tone and stupidly stunning smile as she bites the bullet and does her damndest to dilute the cringing betrayal she feels just from opening her mouth,
“Do you like salmon?”
“Who doesn’t?” His amusement only increases as he sinks back into his familiar position of leaning back against the doorframe, and Y/n’s almost certain that when he confidently crosses his arms atop his broad chest, and his forearms flex just slightly, he’s doing it on purpose.
And it’s working like a charm because she has a lapse in memory, enough to distract her from even listening to what he said, instead rapidly blinking and nodding as if it might bring her back to earth,
“Good.”
Harry pauses and gives her the chance to continue, and boy, is he enjoying the anticipation of whatever brings her to his doorstep – especially when the conflicting doubt is morphing her features so animatedly. But she still hasn’t spoken, and Harry never was that good with patience,
“So…?”
“So… What?” She cluelessly questions.
“Salmon?” His brow quirks.
“Huh?” Y/n’s do the same.
“What is happening right now?” Harry’s chuckle is a combination of entertained confusion.
“Oh – shit. I have salmon.” Y/n blurts and makes a mental note to flog herself for it later.
“... Too much salmon?” It sounds like a question, and that deserves a second flogging. But she pushes through, “I wanted to know if you’d like to come over for some dinner?”
Harry is nonplussed, bewildered, intrigued and couldn’t hide it if he tried, his smirk morphing into a shiny grin that frames his mischievous tone as he drawls,
“Does the offer include spending time with Mac?”
“If it stops you from poaching him, then, fine.”
Her words are as conceding as they are begrudging and irritated, and there hasn’t been a single second of this interaction that Y/n hasn’t felt herself lathered in dread. Dread that he’d decline the offer, and even more that he might accept.
“What time should I come over?” His nonchalance is discerning.
And now that he’s agreed with such ease and a hint of, perhaps, enthusiasm, the coating of dread starts to melt into a waxy seal of surprise and nervousness. Especially when he’s staring down at her with that same warm stare from the other day that feels as unfamiliar as it does right.
“Oh. Uh, how’s six thirty?” Her uncertainty slips through and seasons her words and leaves a familiar feeling of needing to set time aside to chide herself for coming off as anything other than suave and disinterested.
“Perfect.” Harry’s words are sprinkled with sugary charm and melt into such sticky certainty that Y/n has no choice but to nod and brace herself for welcoming her own personal satan into her home.
🍑
Y/n’s been dealing with the type of dread that gets so heavy it sinks her stomach inward, and though she tries her damndest to keep distracted - to watch some YouTube videos on how to perfectly sear salmon skin, to do the laundry, clean the kitchen – she still can’t stop the anxiety of expanding the unknown territory of her and Harry.
Oddest of all, it’s not even the bad type of anxiety - not that there’s a particularly good type - it's the type that flutters like little dandelions in the breeze, that gets you so tickled with anticipation that your body goes into overdrive and all of a sudden, your nerves are fizzled.
Nevertheless, she goes through the motions, murmuring the mantra, ‘it's just a normal dinner between two people’, has a shower, fluffs the sofa cushions, and starts prepping the chromatic array of fresh vegetables.
But timing isn’t Y/n’s strong suit when it comes to cooking… at all. And if you were to tease her about it, she’d simply and factually state, “Good food takes time,” which she does believe, along with the belief that rushing ruins the process.
Unlike his untimely neighbour, Harry Styles is always early. The type of guy who sets his watch to five minutes ahead and sometimes tells people the wrong time to ensure they arrive when expected. If you asked him, he’d probably shrug and say, “I like to make a good impression”, which he certainly does, along with priding himself on punctuality as a principle.
So, when he knocks on his neighbour's door at two minutes to six thirty, Y/n nearly jumps out of her skin, her arms raising as she turns her head to be greeted with a massive shiny blade that stares at her with the promise that this night will be anything by simple.
Carefully returning the knife to the chopping board, she quickly rinses her hands and rushes through the entrance hall. But she has to take a second before facing him, leaning back against the wall and inhaling a deep, desperate breath as if it might provide her with some relaxation-laced oxygen.
On the other side of the hardwood, Harry waits patiently, hand loosely tucked into the pocket of his black wide-length cotton slacks, before restlessly raising his arm to ruffle his fingers through his silky curls.
Exactly what he does when he’s feeling out of his element, and nothing could prepare him for a peace treaty in the self-proclaimed Versailles of his neighbour. Not all the time in the world, nor the full contents of the green wine bottle in his other hand.
Especially not after the door finally clicks unlocked and reveals a slightly flustered, parted-mouthed, wide-eyed host, who peers up at him with the type of look you get right before hopping on a rollercoaster.
“You're early.” Her remark works as a greeting.
“I hope you like white.” Harry’s shoulders dip into a noncommittal shrug as he holds up the chilled wine bottle as his own form of ‘hello’.
“Who doesn’t?”
The left side of Y/n’s lips curves into a soft smirk as she silently praises herself for the little callback from this morning, extending her arm to accept the bottle and stepping aside to invite him in. And that smile would have kept growing if it weren’t for the next words out of Harry’s lips,
“Good girl.”
Her eyes widen, and Harry has to stop himself from doing the same because, God, is he looking for trouble tonight? He hasn’t even properly entered the house, and he wants to cringe his way out the door and down the driveway.
Thankfully, Y/n lets it slide and walks on further into the room. Harry closes the door behind him and follows after her like a lost pup. He does such a good job that when she comes to a sudden halt and turns on her heels to face him, he stops mere inches short of slamming right into her.
Y/n lets that one slide too. With a little smile, she gestures to the living room and, right before walking off into the kitchen, she casually informs,
“You can… make yourself at home.”
Something about the clear uncertainty and doubt that Y/n can do nothing to hide actually calms Harry down. In fact, it evokes that pleasant anticipation that he always gets whenever the two of them are in the same vicinity.
“You’ll regret saying that.” He calls offhandedly, watching fondly as her shoulders tense and sink back to normal before she disappears into the kitchen.
And then Harry turns his attention to his surroundings. For so long, this was a place he pictured as a lava-spewing, boulder-crashing, cobweb-covered, bat-dwelling cave, and now, standing here, in the centre of a very cosy, and very colourful living room, he feels his certainty dwindling and his curiosity piquing.
There’s so much to look at – too much – that Harry’s temperature starts to rise. All these colours and furniture and decorations make it impossible for him to maintain that perfectly curated version of a vengeful neighbour.
It's… charming, and therefore jarring. The monster living in that haunted house he had spent so many hours perfecting each brush stroke until it was so vivid, was supposed to be someone icy, prickly – someone overly put-together and as reserved as the guard she keeps up around him.
And now he’s here, in the heart of her home, enveloped by memories in the form of trinkets and pictures, in a nest structured with care and curation – one that’s been lived in, that holds moments and feelings and houses a human, instead of a monster lurking beneath the shadows.
There’s an entire shelf dedicated to mismatched - yet somehow perfectly themed - trinkets that range so vastly, Harry’s mind is a cloud of curiosity, like a sudden puzzle has presented itself, and though he has zero hints, his thoughts fog up with all the possibilities of figuring out the intention behind each and every curated item.
“Didn’t take you for a collector.” He calls out, gold-ringed thumb reaching out to glide along the silky ceramic curves of a deep blue cat figurine.
“Didn’t take you for the punctual type.” Her amused voice bellows melodically down the narrow hallway.
Harry snorts with an edge of fondness as he follows the echo of her words along the hardwood passage until the floors turn to marbled kitchen tiles. The soft rhythm of a Marvin Gaye song is playing, getting louder as he walks, like a moment from a movie where the character first sees someone who’s about to turn their lives upside down.
Then his snarky neighbour comes into view – her back turned to him, dressed in a simple pair of straight-cut jeans and a graphic tee with a poster for some eighties film, focus fixed on the task at hand, and now Harry really feels like he just stumbled through a television screen, straight into the middle of a half-written scene.
“Where do you keep the glasses?” He ponders, expecting a snarky remark.
“Second cabinet.” She simply hums, tilting her head in the direction of the instruction.
And as she offers upon his arrival, Harry embraces comfortability with ease as he gathers two glasses and strolls over to the cutlery drawer, hip gently brushing against her own as she slightly shifts to give him space to find a bottle opener.
The cork departs with a soft pop as Y/n finishes off the last of her prepping and finally turns around to face him. His body - his whole vibe, actually - is at ease as he now leans back against the countertop and holds out a glass for her.
She accepts it gratefully but cautiously. “Cheers to…” She tilts the glass slightly inward in a gesture for him to clink his against hers.
And he does, with a gentle tap that kisses her glass and sweetly sings out like a sound stamp for how bizarre a situation these two have stumbled into, “To good salmon.”
“To good salmon, and questionable company.” Y/n concedes, the corner of her lip betraying her as it inches upward, and that causes Harry to ease into returning her smile, twice as wide, showing off those adorable dimples.
An intriguingly comfortable silence drapes between the two of them like a snuggly blanket as Y/n finalises the prep and opens the oven, overly-cautious as she slides the baking tray in.
“How are you preparing the salmon, dear neighbour?”
“Parchment paper.” She opens her mouth to grumble, ‘if that suits your petulant ass’, but Harry chimes in with a charismatic follow-up,
“With peppers?”
“That’s the best way.” Y/n hums with approval, quickly busying herself with a hefty sip of wine to avoid full-on smiling at his little burst of enthusiasm.
“Yum.” Harry sighs fondly. Bringing the glass up to his glossy lips, he takes a sip, a faint memory floating to the forefront, and he doesn’t even fully register he’s speaking aloud, “I used to order it at this small French place in my hometown.”
“Oh?”
“Mm. Can’t even remember the last time I went back there.” His rich voice laced with reminiscence.
There’s something about the way his answer trails off, distant and dreamlike, that tampers down Y/n's sarcasm and cranks up her curiosity. Suddenly, she’s inundated by the realisation that ‘this guy is a real person’, and ‘who would’ve thought’.
And then there’s the way his creamy features start to soften, as if he’s letting the heavy winds of nostalgia sweep him up into the silent serenity of the eye of the storm. His mischievous stare is whisked away in favour of gentle fondness. It’s unnerving... how much Y/n likes it.
So much so that she finds herself asking him where he grew up, and when he actually answers with casual candour, she doesn’t resist telling him about her hometown when he returns the question.
The salmon bakes peacefully as Harry tells her about the flowers that used to bloom in his mum's garden each spring, and Y/n sweetly recounts days of her youth picking sour ruby grapes off the rickety vines of her childhood home.
And it's nice. Peaceful, even. Talking about something other than accusations and non-vague threats. About life in the neighbourhood when the days aren’t filled with the overstimulation of pranks and long work days. And as the warm aroma of roasting peppers and red onion envelops the air with the type of comfort that comes from feeling at home, neither Harry nor Y/n feel like ruining it.
🍑
Sitting opposite one another, their plates, a vinaigrette, salt and pepper shakers, and the bottle of wine separating their uncharted territory like that hedge that separates their driveways, Y/n and Harry have an unpredictably peaceful meal.
They exchange small pleasantries, but mostly try not to argue about the ownership of Mac after his shameless ginger chunkiness struts into the room and practically prances straight over to affectionately pirouette around Harry's ankle.
It’s only after his final bite that Harry sighs with impressed content, leans back in his chair and revives that mischievous little smirk that always means he’s about to say something snarky or cheeky – or both.
“Wow, peaches, who knew you were a lil’ gold-star chef?”
“Don’t say that. Any of it.” Y/n almost chokes on a diced onion before chiding.
“Huh.” That stupid smile mixed with that stupidly righteous tone has Y/n’s fists clenching. Especially when he adds, “You take insults so well, never thought you’d be bad with compliments.”
“Because you aren’t complimenting me.” She grumbles.
“I’m trying to.” He mimics.
“And failing.”
After a soft snort of amusement and another bite of the tender salmon, Harry’s voice is far more sincere as he attempts a second round of praise,
“I mean it, though. This is delicious. Feels familiar… like, homely.”
Y/n’s mid-sip of wine when he speaks, and yes, compliments aimed at her are always foreign, but coming from Harry? They feel like stumbling upon a blue whale in the desert.
But that’d be kinda interesting, right? Not something you see every day. And what’s happening at this dining table is something you definitely don’t see every day. So, perhaps letting Harry’s words be that ‘desert-whale’ could be just as, if not more, interesting. Consider Y/n intrigued when she subconsciously licks her lips and responds,
“The wine is good too.” And she’s not lying. It’s like a simmer of fermented grapes heating her insides with soothing comfort.
“Perfect pairing.” It clearly does the same for Harry.
“Another glass?” She ponders, already reaching out for the bottle.
“I won’t say no to that.”
The glasses refilled, plates more empty than full, Harry has the urge to know more about the owner of this insanely cosy house and the chef of this insanely good dinner.
“What do you do?” He takes a slow sip. “Like, what’s your day job?”
“I correct people.” His neighbour shrugs through a bite, swallowing and enjoying the little furrow of his forehead before she elaborates. “Editor for an overrated newsroom.” Tilting her brow in a wordless prompt for him to provide his own answer.
“Corporate sellout.” The words are more like a rueful sigh than a full sentence. “Analytics department at a fancy-shmancy firm.”
“Sounds like you love it.” She softly snorts.
“It’s killing my soul.”
Harry is more surprised by his honesty than Y/n could ever be – and as surprised as she is, she’s well past being concerned about it. Now that he’s talking, she kinda doesn’t want him to stop. Not after each of his words adds a fragment of a contradiction to the blurry image of an irritating interference she was so used to interacting with.
“Is this what you always wanted to do?”
“No. I wanted the cute cottagecore life…”
Harry sighs, mossy stare stuck to the safety of the last of his supper, as he continues,
“Owning a bakery and riding my bike around town. Y’know, poetry by the creek, listening to crickets and watching sunsets from the porch.”
Hell, that sounds nice, Y/n thinks. The simple life... A life so simple that each moment ends up feeling more important than the last. One where time passes with purpose and lacks the taunt of inevitable endings.
“You can still do that, y’know.” Her tone is almost as soft as her words.
“I do…” His words trail off with underlying and undeniable doubt.
“But it’s complicated?” She finishes for him.
“Exactly.”
The relief that washes over Harry, like the first rain after a drought, is a downpour of gratefulness from being acknowledged with such ease and such a lack of snark or judgment.
And there’s no stopping his curiosity when Y/n’s lips lilt into a pretty smile that spreads with playfulness – the type that you reserve for friends and not enemies – and she teases,
“See, we can be on the same page about some things.”
Which, naturally, has the two of them wondering how many pages they could be on. Enough to write a few sentences? Perhaps, even a chapter – though that seems doubtful. Either way, Harry finds himself sharing the curiosity,
“Think there might be more we agree on?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Y/n shuts him down. As if she hadn’t just been pondering the same thing, and was a solid ten seconds from bringing up the possibility herself.
“Well, we both agree that Mac is a legend.”
Okay, he got lucky with that one. But it shouldn't count because there isn’t a person who has met Mac and hasn’t found him to be a polite, fluffy, ginger gentleman.
“Icon status.” She agrees with surety.
“And I’m pretty sure you like horrors.” Harry takes a fifty-fifty guess. And of course, he’s on the money.
“I’m gonna take it that you do too?”
“The scarier the better.”
In honesty, if Y/n had to consider what her neighbour might find entertaining, she certainly isn’t imagining him curled up in the dark watching the latest Jordan Peele release. But he nods so vehemently, there’s certainly no space to counter it.
And before she can nip this sudden bloom of commonality and salvage her portrait of him as Satan's firstborn, the tart wine and nagging intrigue to water that stem of similarity, and it's too late to do anything but encourage its growth, so she finds herself pursuing more.
“What about parking on the street?”
Harry’s gaze swells, wispy lashes almost long enough to brush the bottom of his brows, he’s looking like a man who just remembered a word stuck on the tip of his tongue, all sweet doe-eyes and plump grinning grape-glossed smile.
“Mrs Kremmons needs to get over herself and park that old wagon in the freaking garage where it belongs.”
“She’s gonna get uninvited from the Cambersons Christmas party if she keeps it up.” Y/n hums with a tone that promises inevitability.
“Like, just use your own driveway, lady.” Harry groans, pretty gaze rolling with dramaticism.
The most interesting thing to happen in the neighbourhood since last October’s ‘accidental home invasion’ scandal, which took two minutes to occur and almost a year to replace with something even marginally interesting… if two households fighting over parking spots can be deemed as entertaining.
“She’s making a ‘statement’.” Y/n’s tone drawl with emphasis on the exact word Mrs Kremmons used when recounting how important it is to double down.
“She’s always making a statement.” The little groan that accompanies Harry’s words sends an unwarranted tickle up Y/n’s spine.
“Mm. But this one’s about ‘the principle’.”
“At least she keeps it interesting.”
Still, Mrs Kremmons and her penchant for causing a commotion could never come close to the secret feud that stays consistent just across the street.
“Alright. So, we agree on Mac, horror movies, and using designated parking spaces. Anything else?”
Y/n's question comes from a place of genuine intrigue, but Harry's comes from a place of well-rehearsed chaos.
“We both have hot, nightmarish neighbours.”
“Oh, please.” The scoff that forms her words is fuelled by disbelief.
The teasing glimmer in Harry's eyes is like the silver moon bouncing along the seashore, his jade gaze swallowed by the shadows until they gloom as dark as the evening sea.
“Just admit it. You think I’m attractive.” He coos teasingly.
Y/n’s scoff is coated with amused disagreement, her lips glossy and unintentionally and hazily skiing along the slopes of his rosy cheekbones, his swooping jaw that creates the perfect ledge to leap from, landing rewardingly on the soft, snowy span of the crook of his neck.
Attractive? More than. Admitting it? Not in this lifetime. Y/n snorts with distasteful incredulity.
“So you can have another thing to hold over me? Yeah, right.”
“Well, I think you’re very pretty.” He says it so plainly. Like it’s as routine as ordering his coffee, as simple and mindless as tying his shoelaces.
“Thank you.” Her words are as soft as her tone, and for a brief moment, Harry believes she might actually mean it… Until her smile morphs into a sly simper that her stare mimics, “I’ll be using that to my advantage.”
“You’re literally the worst.” His body slumps back against the chair with bemused defeat, a glossy, charming grin at her ever-so predictable response.
“And you love me for it.”
With haste and a dire need to remain neutral about the words that slipped from her very own lips, she stops them from digging a trench too deep to return to the top of, bringing the bordeaux-brimming glass up to take a hefty gulp.
“Loathe you.” Harry corrects, but the conviction in his lilted, amused tone is nonexistent.
It shouldn't have Y/n's head swirling with newfound curiosity, and tipsily increasing interest in who exactly the man sitting opposite her, beaming absorbed by the cosy mustard side lamp, actually is.
“Are you sure about that, ‘Mister You’re Very Pretty’?” She coos tauntingly.
And that has Harry’s chest inflating with a sarcastic, but very amused huff, because there isn’t a world where he wouldn’t have teased the hell out of her for admitting she acknowledges him as more than the mortal enemy.
“Shut it before I shut you up myself.” And he will.
“Are you threatening me, Styles?” Her words are laced with far too much amusement for either of their liking.
“Warning you.” He corrects.
“Is there a difference?”
Her head tilts with challenging curiosity, and maybe it's because the moment Harry gets an inkling of a competition, he effortlessly regresses into their familiar defiance that has him doubling down. Or maybe he's just getting too caught up in the way his neighbour's gaze glimmers along with her damp, upturned lips.
“There is. If the idea of kissing me doesn’t terrify you.”
“Terrify me?” Now he has Y/n's attention – bewildered or not.
“Mm... Perhaps even send you into shock.”
He oozes confidence, balancing his elbows on the table, resting the curve of his stubble-scattered chin on his broad palm.
“The good or bad kind?”
Y/n knows she's stumbling right into his snare, and she also knows she doesn't have the restraint to let him think she's an unknowing, defenceless rabbit.
“Well, that depends on you… personally, I think the good kind.”
He talks a big game, and Y/n fears he might actually be telling the truth. Or, at least, what he believes to be.
“Confident, are we?” Y/n hopes he's all bravado and no substance.
“You should know this by now.”
Harry bats his pretty long lashes, actually bats them – like a flirtatious heroine from a rom-com – and fuck, it's almost enough for Y/n to ignore the arrogance he's projecting. Almost.
“Funny… I would’ve said cocky.”
“Both get the point across.”
His flippancy is maddening, but they're in too deep for Y/n to back down now. So, instead, she rests her elbows on the table, linking her fingers to create the perfect bench for her chin to rest on.
“So, you send me into shock… What then?”
“Then I say I told you so.”
He says it like it's a guarantee, and Y/n's skin flushes from more than the wine at the realisation that maybe he isn't joking.
“Do you always make a point of shutting people up by kissing them?”
Harry pretends to ponder, but the answer is simple: no. In fact, he’s never considered doing anything other than telling off whoever happens to be pissing him off – let alone kiss them.
“Only the ones that give me a hard time.”
“And does anyone give you as much of a hard time as me?” Y/n thinks that if anyone gives him a harder time, they must be the root of all evil.
“Nobody even comes close.” His nostrils flare cutely as he brazenly snorts.
“Aw, well now, that makes me feel special.” Her coos are facetious, but a foreign part of her chest still clenches with pride.
“Oh, you should. I don’t spend my free time scheming about pissing off just anyone.”
“I'll get a big head if you keep the compliments up.”
And it will – get bigger. She's had enough praise this week to inflate that pretty little head to at least twice its size.
“How could your head possibly get any bigger?”
“Wanna test that theory out, Styles?”
Well, at least they can say they made it to the end of dinner before a blatant challenge was placed on the table between them, like a dessert too rich and delicious to resist.
So, in true Harry Styles fashion, his stare is heavy as it drags her further into his orbit. So heavy that she can feel his smugness latching around her like a lasso, inching her nearer even as he leans back in his chair, casually crossing his flexed arms atop his proud chest and shrugging,
“Evidently, I have a lot of free time.”
“Give it your best go, then.”
Suddenly, the space in his head that Harry keeps reserved for schemes and pranks is replaced with idea after idea about how to get under his neighbour's skin in another, more subtle way.
And Y/n can see the cogs turning – can practically hear the ticking schemes that circle the green spheres. Harry doesn’t bother with responding. He’s gonna give it more than his best go; he’s gonna make sure there’s no doubt about his intentions to shower her in compliments until she has to shut her eyes, and if all goes to plan, her mouth.
He’s already looking at her with a teasing stare that Y/n’s never seen – it's lacking all mischief – and that unnerves the hell outta her. It’s so much softer and… fonder.
Dinner is long finished, and the last of the wine sits shallow in their glasses as they exchange tidbits about themselves – the type of lighthearted stuff that can’t be held against them if things inevitably revert to rivalry.
Harry’s pointer finger swirls around the rim of the glass, his pupils dark and dilated under the cosy yellow lights. He’s bordering on haziness, relishing in the toasty flush of wine that does nothing but erode the fence he usually hides behind. If anything, it makes him want to delve further into honesty. So, he does.
“You know… This isn’t so bad.”
Y/n’s forehead crinkles subtly with cute curiosity as she peers over at him through lashes thick and heavy from drinking, her gaze less discerning than ever.
“What?”
“This.” He gestures lazily between them. “Us”
Only then does Harry realise that he unintentionally gave the perfect opening for Y/n to disagree and start a bickering match, but to both of their surprise, the thought doesn’t flitter through her mind for even a moment as she easily agrees.
“Yeah… It's actually kinda nice.”
Harry knows he’s asking for an argument when a cheesy smile swells his cheeks into apples of cheeky amusement, folding his arms atop the table and leaning in. His tone is an adorably annoying coo as he teases.
“Are we becoming friends?”
“Don't push it.” Y/n grumbles, but makes zero attempts to put any fire into it.
“Oh, c'mon, we'd be such a good duo.” He stirs with sugary sweet conviction.
And though Harry really is mostly just playing, it's becoming undeniable that the two of them could have a decent ‘relationship’ if they were willing to lower their swords and wave the white flag. But what’s more dangerous than a deviously-minded person living in the neighbourhood? Two of them. On good terms.
“We’d be dangerous.” She snorts, entertaining the idea. “Total menaces to the neighbourhood.”
“That's what makes it so fun.” His grin is as pretty as it is infectious.
🍑
The evening wrapped up, back in his home, with his teeth brushed, skin moisturised, and black boxers slung low on his waist, Harry’s bare feet pad over to his bed where he promptly flops down and sighs contentedly.
With a full belly and a foggy head, he knows tonight's sleep will be nothing short of amazing. Maybe he should do this more often.
And he’s still thinking about it as he reaches his ridiculously long arm out to turn off the light.
Instead, his palm lands on his walkie-talkie, and before he can welcome sensibility into his orbit, Harry rolls over onto his side and holds down the button.
“Psst. Peaches.”
There’s a pause, but not long enough for Harry to doubt if his neighbour is still awake, because soon, his walkie-talkie crackles with static, shortly followed by the gruff, amused voice of his neighbour.
“Miss me already?”
Snuggled up in her own bed, lights already off, and a ginger cat curled at her ankles, Y/n doesn't hesitate to splay her arm about in search of her own walkie-talkie, and doesn't think twice before teasing him.
“Thanks for dinner. Over.”
He says it earnestly. And Y/n’s too sleepy and satiated to fret over how soft and snuggly he sounds when he’s not so busy being a sarcastic nuisance. If he’s gonna water this olive branch, who is she to snap the stem?
“Thanks for the company. Over.”
Her simple honesty is foreign, and maybe that's why Harry feels the divots of his dimples deepening as a sleepy smile forms; either way, he doesn’t stop it.
“My place next time. Over.”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, a lengthy and obnoxiously loud yawn follows. Back in her own bed, Y/n cradles the walkie-talkie like a precious gem as her limbs start to get heavy, her eyes shut and fluttering with overtiredness.
“We'll see about that…” She gathers the last of her alertness to respond and there’s another, shorter pause before the speaker hums with her voice, “Sweet dreams, moron. Over.”
It’s like her soft, yet stern words of departure are the final push Harry needs to let sleep take over, because as he reaches over and switches off the sidelamp, he has to hold back another yawn to get his final words out.
“Hope yours are even sweeter. Over.”
Y/n hums to herself, drifting off towards the soft repetitive echo of Harry’s words wishing her sweet dreams, the walkie-talkie still resting by her cheek when she comes to the next morning.
-
Omg omg better late than never?? :( I'm so sorry for the delay guys! I hope this semi-makes up for it! 🥺 thank you so much to everyone who checked up on me and waited so so patiently for this part! 💞💞
Do we have a little friendship blooming between the duo???
Taglist: @gem1712 @mellamolayla @ellastyles13 @teenwolf9-1-1lover @cherreigh @mads3502 @lizsogolden @natyk @mothersversiononly @hannah9921 @harryswifeyyyy @rpwprpwprpwprw @cowboylikeliv @angeldavis777 @daphnesutton @ellamariee @magicalmorg @sunflowervol2007 @stylesftcher @iguessyourejustwhatineeded @mema10 @maddiesalvatore189 @aoxetic @this-is-tiny-mia @gem1712 @pops234 @fangirl509east @stylesftcher @triski73 @psicostyles @maddiemikaelson28
So, what are we thinking guys??? Some friendship FINALLY? But..... god knows they wont be for long before things start to seem a little too familiar and coincidental 🤭🤭🤭
