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Jan 1

[4] Scrub in | H.S

Pairing: Surgeon!Harry x Stuborn!internY/N

Summary: Harry Styles is a brilliant but infuriating surgeon who’s constantly butting heads with his stubborn intern. Their bickering is practically a daily surgery in itself.

A/n: Thank you all for all the love these two. Thank you for your patience while i took a break from Tumblr. To make up for it, this part is extra long. Hope you enjoy :)

Masterlist

Read Part 1 here first

Part 1.5 in his POV

Part 2

part 3

Harry strides down the corridor toward his office, his jaw tight with tension he's been holding since leaving the residents' lounge. The look on Y/N's face when he'd used her title, that flicker of hurt she'd tried to conceal, haunts him with every step.

He'd done the right thing. The professional thing. The only thing that made sense given their positions.

So why does he feel like he's made a terrible mistake?

He pushes open his office door, already loosening his tie, and stops short at the sight of Louis sprawled in his desk chair and Zayn perched on the edge of his bookshelf, both wearing identical expressions of barely contained amusement.

"Gentlemen," Harry says flatly, closing the door behind him. "To what do I owe the pleasure of finding you've invaded my office?"

Louis glances around, exaggeratedly checking his watch before leaning back in the chair. "Should I be worried we didn’t make an appointment? "

Harry rolls his eyes, dropping his bag onto the desk with a dull thud. "Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t do appointments. This isn’t office hours."

"Ah," Louis nods solemnly. "So we’re trespassing on personal time. Even better."

"We heard you were back from San Francisco," Louis adds, spinning lazily in the chair. "Thought we’d pop by and see how our favorite cardiothoracic surgeon survived three whole days away from his precious OR."

"And with such...interesting company," Zayn adds, his dark eyes glinting with mischief.

Harry moves to his filing cabinet, deliberately keeping his back to them as he retrieves a patient folder he doesn't actually need. "The conference was productive. Dr. Y/L/N's presentation was well-received. The networking opportunities were valuable."

"That's it?" Louis exchanges a look with Zayn. "Productive? Valuable? You sound like you're writing a grant report, mate."

"What else would you like me to say?" Harry asks, finally turning to face them, his expression carefully blank. "It was a medical conference. We attended panels, presented research, made professional connections."

Zayn pulls out his phone, scrolling through something with exaggerated casualness. "Funny, because I heard from Dr. Grey over there that you and your 'colleague' performed quite the heroic rescue at some fancy restaurant. Saved a man's life right there between courses."

Harry's composure wavers slightly. "Word travels fast in the medical community."

"It does," Louis agrees, leaning forward with predatory interest. "Especially when the notoriously solitary Dr. Styles is spotted having an intimate dinner with his gorgeous surgical intern, then rushing off together to play hero."

"It wasn't intimate," Harry says, perhaps too quickly. "It was a professional dinner to discuss her research trajectory."

"At 9 PM?" Zayn raises an eyebrow. "At a restaurant that requires reservations three weeks in advance?"

"I happened to have a connection," Harry deflects, moving to stand by the window, looking out at the hospital grounds rather than meeting their knowing gazes.

Louis and Zayn exchange another loaded glance.

"Pay up," Louis says, holding out his hand toward Zayn.

"Not yet," Zayn counters. "The bet was whether something happened, not whether they had dinner."

"What bet?" Harry turns, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Oh, just a friendly wager," Louis says breezily. "I bet Zayn five hundred quid that you'd finally make a move on Dr. Y/L/N during this trip. He thought you were too emotionally constipated to act on your feelings."

"I do not have feelings for— " Harry begins.

"Harry." Zayn's voice is gentle but firm. "We've known you for seven years. We've watched you date exactly two people in that time, one of whom you dumped because they 'didn't challenge you intellectually.' And now there's this brilliant, beautiful resident who argues with you in the OR, who pushes back against every criticism, who you can't seem to stop talking about..."

"I don't talk about her that much," Harry protests weakly.

"Last month you spent an entire surgery telling me about how she'd identified a complication you'd missed in a pre-op scan," Louis points out. "You were practically glowing with pride."

"That was professional admiration for a promising surgeon," Harry insists, but even he can hear how hollow the words sound.

Zayn hops down from the bookshelf, approaching Harry with the careful movements of someone approaching a skittish animal. "What happened in San Francisco, Harry? Really?"

The silence stretches between them. Harry turns back to the window, his reflection showing the conflict playing out across his features.

"We kissed," he admits finally, the words barely audible. "The night of the cardiac event. We went back to the hotel, she came to my room because neither of us could sleep, and we..." He runs a hand through his hair, disrupting its careful styling. "It just happened."

"YES!" Louis pumps his fist in the air. "Pay up, Malik!"

Zayn ignores him, his attention focused on Harry. "And then what?"

"Then we fell asleep," Harry continues, his voice strained. "We overslept, nearly missed our flight, didn't have time to talk about it. And now..."

"Now you're pretending it never happened," Zayn finishes, realization dawning on his face. "That's why you've been walking around like someone killed your favorite patient all morning."

"I'm her supervisor," Harry says, finally voicing the justification he's been clinging to. "There are ethical considerations. Power dynamics. Hospital policies. My entire reputation— "

"Bollocks," Louis interrupts, standing up from the chair with sudden intensity. "That's bollocks and you know it."

Harry turns, surprised by the sharpness in his friend's tone.

"You're not hiding behind professionalism because you're worried about ethics," Louis continues, moving closer. "You're hiding because you're terrified. Because for the first time in years, you actually feel something for someone, and that scares the hell out of you."

"Louis— " Harry begins.

"No, he's right," Zayn interjects. "Harry, I watched you after your breakuo. I watched you build walls so high that no one could get close enough to hurt you again. And I understood it, I did. But it's been five years. At some point, you have to let yourself live again."

Harry's jaw tightens at the mention of his last relationship. It was a topic they rarely discussed. "This is different. She's a resident. My resident."

"She's also an adult who can make her own choices," Louis points out. "And from what you've described, she chose to kiss you back. So what did you do today? How did you handle seeing her?"

Harry's silence is answer enough.

"Oh, Harry," Zayn groans, covering his face with his hand. "Please tell me you didn't go full Ice King on her."

"I maintained appropriate professional boundaries," Harry says stiffly.

"Which translates to: you treated her like she meant nothing after sharing an intimate moment," Louis says, his voice rising with frustration. "Do you have any idea how that must have felt for her? She probably thinks you used her, or that you regret it, or that she imagined the whole connection— "

"I didn't use her," Harry snaps, genuine anger flashing in his eyes. "I would never— "

"Then act like it!" Louis throws his hands up. "For God's sake, Harry, you're a grown man. You can navigate a complicated situation without resorting to emotional avoidance."

"What the hell do you want me to do?" Harry demands. "Declare my intentions in front of the entire surgical staff? Pull her into an on-call room and— "

"Talk to her," Zayn says simply. "Like a human being. Acknowledge what happened. Tell her how you feel. Figure it out together instead of making unilateral decisions about what's best for both of you."

Harry sinks into the chair Louis vacated, suddenly looking exhausted. "What if I've already ruined it? You should have seen her face when I called her 'Dr. Y/L/N.' Like I'd slapped her."

"Then you apologize," Louis says, his tone softening slightly. "You explain that you panicked, that you handled it badly, that you need time to figure out how to navigate this. But you don't just pretend it never happened and hope she'll forget."

"She won't forget," Zayn adds quietly. "And neither will you. The only question is whether you're going to let fear ruin something that could be genuinely good for both of you."

Harry stares at his hands, the same hands that had cradled Y/N's face so gently the night before, that had held hers as they fell asleep. "I don't know how to do this," he admits, his voice rough. "I don't know how to be...that person anymore. The one who takes risks, who lets people in."

"You start by trying," Louis says, settling onto the arm of the chair beside him. "And maybe by not being a complete wanker to the woman you clearly care about."

Zayn moves to Harry's other side, placing a hand on his shoulder. "She's not your ex, Harry. She's not going to leave because you showed vulnerability. From everything you've told us about her, she's the type who'd respect you more for it."

Harry considers their words, the weight of his behavior settling heavily on his conscience. He thinks of Y/N's face in the residents' lounge. The hope that had flickered there briefly before he'd extinguished it with his coldness.

"I need to talk to her," he says finally.

"Yes, you do," Louis agrees. "Preferably before she decides you're not worth the emotional whiplash and moves on."

Harry nods slowly, a plan beginning to form in his mind. "Tomorrow. After the Zimmer surgery. I'll ask her to stay behind, and we'll...talk."

"Actual talking," Zayn emphasizes. "With words and feelings and honesty. Not your version of talking, which usually involves medical jargon and emotional deflection."

Despite everything, Harry feels a small smile tugging at his lips. "I'll do my best."

"That's all we ask," Louis says, clapping him on the shoulder. "Now, about that five hundred quid Zayn owes me..."

"The bet was that something would happen AND that Harry would handle it like a functional adult," Zayn argues. "He's only fulfilled half the criteria so far."

"I hate you both," Harry mutters, but there's no heat in it.

"You love us," Louis corrects cheerfully. "We're the only ones who tell you the truth. Speaking of which, don't mess this up, Styles. Dr. Y/L/N is one of the best residents this hospital has seen in years, and more importantly, she makes you act like an actual human being instead of a surgical robot. That's worth protecting."

Harry nods, the gravity of the situation settling over him. "I know. Believe me, I know."

As Louis and Zayn finally leave his office, Harry turns back to the window, watching the afternoon light shift across the hospital grounds. Somewhere in this building, Y/N is going about her duties, probably convinced that he doesn't care about her at all.

Tomorrow, he'll fix this. He has to.

Because the alternative of losing her before he ever really had her is unthinkable.

The Zimmer surgery runs nearly seven hours of meticulous work on a particularly complex aortic root replacement. Harry is in peak form, his hands steady and precise, his instructions clear and measured. Y/N assists with focused determination, refusing to let her personal turmoil affect her performance in the OR.

When they finally close, Harry strips off his gloves and turns to the assembled team. "Excellent work, everyone. Dr. Y/L/N, a word in my office when you've finished post-op notes?"

It's not a question, and Y/N feels her stomach flip at the request. "Of course, Dr. Styles."

She takes her time with the notes, partly out of professional thoroughness and partly to steel herself for whatever conversation awaits. By the time she makes her way to Harry's office on the fourth floor, nearly an hour has passed.

As she rounds the corner toward his door, she nearly collides with a woman walking in the same direction. She was tall, elegant, and with sleek dark hair pulled back in a sophisticated chignon and the kind of effortless poise that comes from years of confidence. She's dressed impeccably in a tailored blazer and silk blouse, a visitor's badge clipped to her lapel.

"Oh, excuse me," the woman says, her smile polished and professional. "I'm looking for Dr. Styles's office?"

"It's just here," Y/N replies, gesturing to the door they're both standing in front of. "I was actually headed there myself."

The woman's perfectly shaped eyebrows rise slightly. "Ah, well, I have an appointment with him. Daniela Marx." She extends a manicured hand. "I'm an old colleague."

Y/N shakes it, noting the firmness of the grip, the subtle assessment in the woman's gaze. "Dr. Y/N Y/L/N. Surgical resident."

"A resident," Daniela repeats, something unreadable flickering across her features. "How lovely. Harry always did have an eye for talent."

The casual use of his first name sends something cold settling in Y/N's chest. An appointment. Of course. Whatever Harry wanted to discuss with her clearly wasn't urgent enough to block out time for someone else. Someone who apparently knew him well enough to call him 'Harry' without hesitation.

Y/N steps back from the door, her decision crystallizing in an instant. "Please, go ahead. I'm sure Dr. Styles is expecting you. I can speak with him another time."

"Are you certain?" Daniela asks, though she's already reaching for the door handle. "I wouldn't want to interrupt anything important."

The words feel pointed somehow, though Y/N can't pinpoint exactly why.

"It's nothing that can't wait," Y/N says, forcing a professional smile. "Nice to meet you, Dr. Marx."

She turns and walks away before Daniela can respond, her heels clicking against the linoleum with measured precision even as her heart pounds erratically in her chest. She doesn't look back, doesn't allow herself to wonder what Harry's face will look like when Daniela walks in instead of her.

It doesn't matter. Clearly, she'd been foolish to think their conversation was a priority.

Niall finds her in the cafeteria twenty minutes later, stabbing viciously at a salad she has no intention of eating.

"There you are," he says, sliding into the seat across from her. "So? How did the big conversation go?"

"It didn't," Y/N mutters, spearing a tomato with unnecessary force.

Niall's eyebrows shoot up. "What do you mean it didn't? I thought he asked you to meet him after surgery?"

"He did. But when I got there, some woman showed up for an 'appointment' with him." She makes air quotes with her fingers, nearly flinging her fork across the cafeteria. "So I left."

"You left?" Niall stares at her incredulously. "Without even checking what was going on?"

Niall's expression shifts from curious to exasperated as she finishes. "So let me get this straight. Harry finally asks to speak with you privately, which is exactly what you wanted, and you just...walked away? Because some random woman showed up?"

"She had an appointment," Y/N protests. "I wasn't going to interrupt— "

"Y/N." Niall leans forward, his blue eyes serious. "He asked you to come to his office. That means he wanted to talk to you. Whatever this other woman wanted, it probably wasn't more important than finally having the conversation you've been agonizing over for two days."

"You didn't see her," Y/N mutters. "She was...polished. Confident. Called him 'Harry' like they were old friends."

"And that intimidated you?" Niall asks incredulously. "You, who argues with the man in the middle of surgery? "

"That's different. That's professional."

"That's you being a coward," Niall says bluntly. "You're looking for excuses not to have this conversation because you're scared of what he might say."

Y/N opens her mouth to argue, then closes it again. He's not wrong.

"What if he was going to tell me it was a mistake?" she asks quietly. "What if he asked me there to formally establish that nothing happened and nothing ever will?"

"Then at least you'd know," Niall replies, echoing his words from the night before. "But you won't find out by running away every time things get uncomfortable."

Before Y/N can respond, her pager buzzes with a summons to the main conference room for an emergency team briefing.

"Saved by the bell," Niall says dryly, standing up. "But this conversation isn't over."

The conference room is already filling with surgical staff when Y/N arrives, residents and attendings alike finding seats around the large table. She spots Harry at the front of the room, his expression characteristically unreadable, and carefully positions herself near the back, partially obscured by Dr. Max's considerable height.

What she doesn't expect is to see Daniela Marx standing beside him, now wearing a white coat with hospital credentials.

"Thank you all for coming on short notice," Harry begins, his voice carrying easily through the room. "I wanted to introduce someone who will be joining us for the next several weeks. Dr. Daniela Marx is a cardiothoracic surgeon from Johns Hopkins who previously completed her fellowship here at this hospital. She'll be collaborating with our department on a series of complex cases and scrubbing in on select surgeries."

Daniela steps forward with a gracious smile. "Thank you, Harry. It's wonderful to be back. I have such fond memories of my time here, and I'm looking forward to working with all of you."

Her gaze sweeps the room, landing briefly on Y/N with a flicker of recognition before moving on.

"Dr. Marx will have full privileges during her time with us," Harry continues. "I expect everyone to extend her the same professional courtesy you would any attending surgeon. She'll be assisting on the Clarkson triple bypass tomorrow, and we'll be co-leading a mitral valve repair later this week."

Y/N observed the exchange between them. The easy familiarity, the brief touch to Harry's arm Daniela made when emphasizing a point, and his acceptance of the contact. It was a stark contrast to his usual aversion. To anyone truly watching, their shared history was evident.

And Y/N is paying very close attention.

She doesn't like the way Daniela looks at Harry. The proprietary edge to her smile, the way her eyes linger on him a beat too long. It's the look of someone who knows him intimately, who has seen the man behind the surgeon.

The briefing concludes with scheduling details and case assignments. Y/N slips out before Harry can catch her eye, her chest tight with emotions she doesn't want to examine too closely.

She's charting in the residents' workroom an hour later when Niall appears, dropping into the chair beside her with theatrical exhaustion.

"So," he says without preamble. "Dr. Daniela Marx."

"What about her?" Y/N asks, not looking up from her notes.

"You really don't know?" Niall's voice carries genuine surprise. "I thought everyone knew."

Y/N's pen stills. "Knew what?"

Niall glances around, ensuring they're alone, then leans in conspiratorially. "Daniela Marx was Harry's fellow when he was a senior resident here. They were together for almost three years."

The words hit Y/N like a physical blow. "Together as in..."

"Together as in together," Niall confirms. "It was apparently quite the scandal at the time. Attending and fellow, very hush-hush but everyone knew. Word is it ended badly when she took the position at Johns Hopkins. Some people say she's the reason he became so...you know." He gestures vaguely. "Emotionally unavailable."

Y/N stares at him, pieces clicking into place with sickening clarity. The casual first-name basis. The familiar touches. The way Harry hadn't seemed surprised to see her.

"He knew she was coming," Y/N says slowly. "He must have arranged it."

"Probably," Niall agrees. "Department heads usually have input on visiting surgeons."

Y/N thinks about the kiss in San Francisco, the way Harry had held her hand as they fell asleep, the gentle promise to talk about it in the morning. Then she thinks about him inviting his ex-girlfriend to work alongside him mere days later.

"Hey," Niall says softly, noting her expression. "This doesn't necessarily mean anything. People work with their exes all the time. It's a small field."

"He asked me to his office to talk," Y/N says, her voice hollow. "And she was there. With an appointment."

Niall winces. "Okay, that's...not great optics. But maybe— "

"Maybe what?" Y/N interrupts, finally looking at him. "Maybe he wanted to let me down gently before his ex arrived? Maybe San Francisco was just a momentary lapse and now he's moved on to someone more...appropriate?"

"You don't know that," Niall insists. "You're catastrophizing."

"Am I?" Y/N laughs bitterly. "She's a cardiothoracic surgeon from Johns Hopkins. Accomplished, sophisticated, his equal in every way. And I'm just a resident who was stupid enough to think one kiss meant something."

Niall reaches out, covering her hand with his. "Y/N, you are brilliant and beautiful and absolutely his equal, regardless of what stage of your career you're in. If Harry Styles can't see that, he's an idiot."

Y/N squeezes his hand gratefully, but the cold weight in her chest doesn't lift.

"I need to focus on work," she says finally, pulling her hand back to pick up her pen. "I have patients who actually need me. That's what matters."

Niall looks like he wants to argue, but something in her expression stops him. "Okay. But I'm here when you're ready to talk more."

He leaves her alone with her charts and her thoughts, both equally demanding of her attention. But as she tries to focus on medication dosages and post-op protocols, her mind keeps drifting back to the image of Daniela's hand on Harry's arm, the history written in every familiar gesture between them.

She'd been foolish to hope. Foolish to think that one kiss in the dark could compete with years of shared experience.

Tomorrow, she'll be professional. She'll assist on surgeries, take direction, learn everything she can. She'll be the best damn resident this hospital has ever seen.

And she'll pretend that her heart isn't quietly breaking every time she sees Harry Styles look at someone else the way she'd hoped he might one day look at her.

Her phone buzzes with a text message. She pulls it out, her heart stuttering when she sees Harry's name.

Hey. You never showed up. Everything okay?

Y/N stares at the message for a long moment, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. Part of her wants to respond, to give him a chance to explain. But another part, the part that's tired of feeling uncertain and confused, decides she's done waiting for Harry Styles to figure out what he wants.

She doesn't reply.

Instead, she shoves her phone back in her pocket and throws herself into her work, determined to prove that she doesn't need his attention or validation to be an excellent surgeon.

Even if her heart isn't quite convinced yet.

The locker room is blessedly empty when Y/N finally allows herself to stop moving. She's been running on autopilot for hours. Checking vitals, updating charts, assisting on a routine appendectomy that required none of her higher brain functions. Now, at nearly 9 PM, the exhaustion hits her all at once.

She opens her locker, mechanically exchanging her white coat for her jacket, her mind still churning over the events of the day. Daniela Marx's polished smile. Harry's unreadable expression during the briefing. The text message she'd left unanswered, still burning a hole in her pocket.

The door swings open behind her.

She doesn't need to turn around to know who it is. The air in the room shifts, charged with a tension that's become achingly familiar.

"You didn't come to my office."

Harry's voice is low, controlled, but there's an edge to it she's never heard before. Y/N continues gathering her things, refusing to give him the satisfaction of her full attention.

Y/N keeps her back to him, sliding her bag off the bench and shouldering it deliberately. "I changed my mind."

"That's not an answer." His footsteps echo against the tile as he moves closer. "I asked you to meet me after surgery. You agreed. And then you just...didn't show."

Y/N finally turns to face him, her bag clutched against her chest like a shield. "You had an appointment. I didn't want to interrupt."

Harry's brow furrows. "Appointment? What are you— " Understanding dawns on his face. "Daniela. You saw Daniela. It wasn't an–"

"Dr. Marx was very clear that she was there to see you," Y/N interrupts, proud of how steady her voice sounds despite the turmoil beneath. "I assumed whatever you needed to discuss with me could wait."

"It couldn't, actually." Harry takes another step forward, close enough now that she can see the tension in his jaw, the tightness around his eyes. "I've been trying to talk to you for two days, and you keep finding ways to avoid me."

"I'm not avoiding you," Y/N lies. "I've been working. You know, doing my job? The one you're constantly reminding me requires my full attention?"

Harry's eyes narrow. "Don't do that. Don't deflect with sarcasm when we both know what this is really about."

"And what is this really about, Dr. Styles?" She emphasizes his title deliberately, watching him flinch almost imperceptibly. "Because from where I'm standing, it seems like you've made your priorities perfectly clear."

"My priorities?" Harry's voice rises slightly, frustration bleeding through his careful control. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you asked me to your office to 'talk,'" Y/N air-quotes aggressively, "and when I got there, your ex-girlfriend was waiting with an appointment. It means you introduced her to the entire department today without so much as a heads-up. It means— "

"How do you know she's my ex?" Harry interrupts, something complicated crossing his features.

Y/N laughs bitterly. "This is a hospital, Harry. People talk. And apparently, your history with Dr. Marx is common knowledge to everyone except the idiot resident who thought— " She stops abruptly, pressing her lips together.

"Thought what?" Harry presses, stepping closer still. "What did you think, Y/N?"

The use of her first name cracks something in her carefully constructed composure. "It doesn't matter what I thought. Clearly, I was mistaken."

"You weren't— " Harry runs a hand through his hair, visibly struggling. "Daniela showing up wasn't planned. The hospital board arranged her visit weeks ago as part of a research collaboration. I only found out she was arriving today when she walked into my office."

"And yet you seemed perfectly comfortable with her during the briefing," Y/N shoots back. "All those familiar touches, the way she calls you 'Harry' like she has every right to— "

"Are you jealous?" The question comes out sharp, almost accusatory.

Y/N's cheeks flush with anger and embarrassment. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Because you have no reason to be," Harry continues, ignoring her denial. "Whatever Daniela and I had ended years ago. She's here as a colleague, nothing more."

"That's really none of my business," Y/N says stiffly, moving toward the door. "Your personal life is your own, Dr. Styles. I have no claim on it."

Harry blocks her path, not touching her but close enough that she'd have to push past him to leave. "What happened in San Francisco— "

"Was a mistake," Y/N finishes for him, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. "I know. You've made that abundantly clear by pretending it never happened."

"That's not— " Harry's composure finally cracks, real emotion bleeding through. "I wasn't pretending it didn't happen. I was trying to figure out how to handle it without destroying both our careers."

"How noble of you," Y/N says acidly. "Making that decision all on your own without bothering to consult me."

"I was going to talk to you today!" Harry's voice echoes off the lockers. "That's why I asked you to my office. That's why I've been trying to get you alone for two days. But you keep running away before I can— "

The door swings open, cutting him off mid-sentence.

Daniela Marx stands in the doorway, her expression shifting from surprise to something more calculated as she takes in the scene. Harry and Y/N standing far too close, both flushed with emotion, the air between them practically crackling.

"Harry," Daniela says smoothly, recovering quickly. "I've been looking for you. The board wants to discuss tomorrow's procedure, and I thought we could review the imaging together over dinner."

The interruption shatters whatever fragile moment had been building between them. Y/N steps back, putting distance between herself and Harry, her walls slamming back into place.

"Dr. Styles was just leaving," Y/N says, her voice perfectly professional despite the tremor she's fighting to suppress. "I'm sure he'd be happy to join you."

"Y/N— " Harry starts.

"Goodnight, Dr. Styles." She slips past him, past Daniela, her shoulder brushing the doorframe in her haste to escape. "Dr. Marx."

She doesn't look back as she walks down the corridor, even when she hears Harry call her name again. Her vision blurs slightly as she pushes through the hospital's main doors into the cool night air, from exhaustion she tells herself, not tears.

Behind her, she imagines Harry standing in the locker room with Daniela, imagines them leaving together for their dinner, imagines all the history and familiarity that exists between them that she can never compete with.

She was right to leave. Right to protect herself from hoping for something that clearly isn't meant to be.

So why does walking away feel like the biggest mistake she's ever made?

Her phone buzzes in her pocket. She pulls it out, half-expecting another message from Harry.

It's Niall.

How did it go? Do I need to bring wine or ice cream?`

Y/N types back with shaking fingers.

Both. And maybe something stronger.

She shoves the phone away and keeps walking, putting as much distance as possible between herself and the man who keeps finding new ways to break her heart without even trying.

Three weeks.

Twenty-one days of navigating the surgical floor like a minefield, of timing her rounds to avoid crossing paths with Harry in the corridors, of perfecting the art of being present but unreachable.

It was exhausting in a way that residency alone had never managed to be.

Y/N had survived Harry's exacting standards before. She'd weathered his sharp criticisms, his impossible expectations, the way he pushed her harder than any other resident. That version of their dynamic had been difficult, yes, but it had also been clarifying. She'd known exactly where she stood as a surgeon in training, nothing more.

This was different. This was worse.

Because now she knew what his hands felt like threaded through hers. She knew the sound of his laugh when he wasn't guarding it, the softness in his eyes when he looked at her across a hotel room in the early hours of the morning. She knew the taste of his mouth, the gentle pressure of his lips against her forehead as she drifted to sleep.

And she had to watch him every day with Daniela Marx.

The woman was frustratingly everywhere. In the OR assisting on Harry's most complex cases, in the conference room presenting research findings, in his office with the door half-open as they reviewed patient files together. She moved through the cardiothoracic department like she belonged there, like she'd never left, and perhaps most infuriatingly, she was genuinely lovely.

Y/N had tried to hate her. God, how she'd tried.

But Daniela was unfailingly professional, offering helpful guidance to residents without condescension, remembering names and details with impressive recall. She'd complimented Y/N's suturing technique during a valve replacement last week with what appeared to be genuine admiration. She brought coffee for the nursing staff and remembered birthdays and laughed at jokes that weren't particularly funny with gracious warmth.

It would have been so much easier if she'd been awful.

Instead, Y/N was left with the bitter taste of jealousy she couldn't justify and heartache she couldn't explain to anyone except Niall, who had taken to checking on her with increasing frequency.

The worst part, the absolute worst part, was catching Harry's eyes on her.

It happened constantly. During rounds, when she'd feel the weight of his gaze and look up to find him watching her with an expression she couldn't decipher. In the OR, when their hands would brush during an instrument pass and he'd hold her stare for a beat too long. In the hallways, when she'd turn a corner and find him there, his mouth opening as if to speak before she'd pivot and walk the other direction.

She never gave him the chance. Every time he tried to approach her outside of strictly surgical contexts, she found somewhere else to be. Found a patient to check on, a chart to update, a consultation that suddenly required her immediate attention. It was cowardly, and she knew it, but the alternative felt impossible.

How was she supposed to have a conversation with him when she didn't even know what she wanted him to say?

Thursday afternoon finds her in the residents' workroom, buried in research for a case presentation she's been assigned. The room is quiet, most of her fellow residents either in surgery or catching precious hours of sleep, and she's grateful for the solitude.

The door opens, and she tenses automatically before recognizing Louis Tomlinson's compact frame.

"Dr. Y/L/N," he greets, dropping into the chair across from her with characteristic informality. "You look like hell."

Y/N huffs out something that might be a laugh. "Thank you, Dr. Tomlinson. Your bedside manner is, as always, impeccable."

"I save the gentle approach for patients," Louis replies, propping his feet on the edge of the table. "With colleagues, I find honesty more efficient." His blue eyes study her with uncomfortable perceptiveness. "You've lost weight. You're not sleeping. And you've been dodging Harry like he's carrying a communicable disease."

Y/N stiffens at the casual mention of Harry's name. "I haven't been dodging anyone. I've been focused on my work."

"Mmm." Louis doesn't sound convinced. "Is that why you switched your schedule three times last week to avoid being on his service?"

She feels heat rise to her cheeks. "I needed more experience in other specialties. It's important to be well-rounded."

"It's important not to bullshit a bullshitter," Louis counters mildly. "I've been doing this a long time, Y/L/N. I know avoidance when I see it."

Y/N sets down her pen, meeting his gaze directly. "With respect, Dr. Tomlinson, whatever is or isn't happening between Dr. Styles and myself is none of your concern."

"See, that's where you're wrong." Louis swings his feet down, leaning forward with sudden intensity. "Harry is one of my closest friends. Has been for years. And I've never— " He pauses, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I've never seen him like this."

Despite herself, Y/N feels her heart clench. "Like what?"

"Sad," Louis says simply. "Not angry, not frustrated, not his usual brand of emotionally constipated. Just...sad. He goes through the motions, performs his surgeries, attends his meetings. But the light's gone out of him somehow."

Y/N swallows hard, trying to maintain her composure. "I'm sure Dr. Marx's presence has been...an adjustment for him."

Louis actually laughs at that. "Daniela? You think this is about Daniela?"

"They have history," Y/N says stiffly. "Everyone knows that."

"They have past tense," Louis corrects. "History that ended five years ago when she chose her career over him and moved across the country without looking back. Whatever you think is happening between them now, I promise you, it's purely professional."

Y/N wants to believe him. Wants it so badly it aches. "She's always with him. Every surgery, every meeting, every— "

"Because she's a visiting surgeon collaborating on his cases," Louis interrupts. "That's literally her job while she's here. Do you think Harry invited her? Do you think he wants her following him around, reminding him of a relationship that nearly destroyed him?"

The vehemence in his voice gives Y/N pause. "Destroyed him?"

Louis sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Look, it's not my story to tell. But Daniela leaving...it changed him. Made him build walls so high that nobody could get close enough to hurt him again." His eyes meet hers meaningfully. "Until recently."

Y/N's throat tightens. "Dr. Tomlinson— "

"Louis," he corrects. "And before you tell me again that this isn't my business, let me just say one thing. Then I'll leave you alone."

She nods, not trusting her voice.

"Whatever happened between you two, and I'm not asking you to confirm or deny anything, it mattered to him. More than I think even he realized." Louis stands, straightening his white coat. "He's been trying to talk to you for weeks. Every time he works up the courage to approach you, you disappear. And I get it, I do. Self-preservation is a powerful instinct. But if you care about him at all...maybe consider giving him a chance to explain."

Y/N stares at the table, unable to meet his eyes. "What if I don't like what he has to say?"

"Then at least you'll know," Louis says gently. "And you can both stop torturing yourselves with uncertainty." He moves toward the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. "For what it's worth, Y/L/N, I've watched Harry with a lot of residents over the years. The way he looks at you...that's not professional interest. That's not mentorship. That's a man who's terrified of his own feelings and has no idea how to handle them."

He leaves before she can respond, the door clicking softly behind him.

Y/N sits motionless for a long moment, Louis's words echoing in her mind. She thinks about all the times she's caught Harry watching her, the weight of his gaze heavy with something she'd been too afraid to interpret. She thinks about his voice in the locker room, cracked with frustration and something that might have been desperation: I was going to talk to you today.

She thinks about Daniela Marx, polished and accomplished and everything Y/N isn't, and yet apparently not what Harry wants at all.

Her phone buzzes. A text from Niall.

Lunch? You need to eat actual food and not just coffee and spite.

She almost smiles, typing back a quick agreement before gathering her things. But as she leaves the workroom, her mind isn't on food or research or even Niall's reliable comfort.

It's on Harry. On the sadness Louis described. On the possibility that she's been so focused on protecting herself that she's been hurting them both.

Maybe it's time to stop running.

Maybe it's time to let him explain.

The thought terrifies her more than any surgery ever could.

The walk to Harry's office feels like the longest of Y/N's life.

She'd barely tasted her lunch, pushing food around her plate while Niall watched with knowing eyes. When she'd finally told him what she was planning to do, he'd simply nodded and said, "About damn time." No fanfare, no lengthy pep talk. Just quiet support and a squeeze of her hand before she left the cafeteria.

Now, standing outside Harry's door, she can hear muffled voices inside. Her courage wavers, old instincts screaming at her to turn around, to find an excuse, to protect herself from whatever rejection might be waiting on the other side.

But Louis's words echo in her mind: I've never seen him like this. Just...sad.

She knocks before she can talk herself out of it.

"Come in."

Harry's voice, professional and measured. Y/N pushes the door open.

The scene that greets her is painfully familiar with Daniela seated in the chair across from Harry's desk, papers spread between them, their heads bent together over what looks like surgical imaging. But it's Harry's reaction that catches her attention.

He looks up, and his entire demeanor shifts. Surprise flickers across his features, followed by something raw and unguarded that he doesn't quite manage to hide before his professional mask slides back into place.

"Dr. Y/L/N." His voice comes out slightly hoarse. "I wasn't expecting— " He stops, swallows, starts again. "What can I do for you?"

Daniela turns in her chair, her expression pleasant but her eyes sharp as they assess Y/N. "Dr. Y/L/N. We were just finishing up the case review. Did you need something?"

The dismissal is subtle but unmistakable. Y/N feels her resolve waver.

But Harry is already standing, gathering the papers between them with quick, decisive movements. "Actually, Daniela, I think we've covered everything we need to for today. Would you mind if we continued this tomorrow?"

Daniela's face quickly betrayed her displeasure, a brief tightening of her expression that she couldn't quite hide."Of course. I'll leave the imaging with you." She rises gracefully, smoothing her skirt. "Dr. Y/L/N."

The acknowledgment is polite enough, but as Daniela passes Y/N on her way out, there's an unmistakable coldness in her gaze. A warning perhaps, or a claim being staked. Y/N barely registers it, her attention already fixed on Harry.

The door clicks shut behind Daniela, and suddenly they're alone.

The silence stretches between them, heavy with three weeks of avoidance and months of unspoken tension. Harry moves around his desk but doesn't sit, instead leaning against its edge with his arms crossed. It’s a defensive posture that doesn't match the vulnerability in his eyes.

"You came," he says finally, as if he can't quite believe it.

"I came," Y/N confirms, staying near the door. She's not sure her legs will carry her any further. "Louis talked to me."

Harry's jaw tightens. "Of course he did. I'm going to kill him."

"Don't. He was..." She searches for the right word. "Illuminating."

Another silence. Harry studies her face like he's trying to memorize it, like he's been starving for the sight of her and is finally allowing himself to look.

"I've been trying to talk to you for weeks," he says quietly.

"I know." Y/N's voice is barely above a whisper. "I wasn't ready to listen."

"And now?"

She takes a breath, steeling herself. "Now I'm here. So talk."

Harry pushes off from the desk, running a hand through his hair in that familiar gesture of frustration. "I don't even know where to start. Everything I planned to say sounds inadequate now."

"Try anyway."

He begins to pace, his long legs eating up the small space of his office. “San Francisco wasn't a mistake. I need you to know that. I know I handled everything wrong afterward, but what happened between us, that kiss— " He stops, turning to face her. "That was the most honest I've been with anyone in years."

Y/N feels tears prick at her eyes but refuses to let them fall. "Then why did you act like it never happened? Why did you treat me like a stranger the moment we got back?"

"Because I was terrified," Harry admits, the word seeming to cost him something. "You're my resident, Y/N. There are power dynamics, ethical considerations, hospital policies— "

"You said all that before," she interrupts, frustration bleeding into her voice. "And I understand those concerns, I do. But you didn't even give me a chance to discuss them with you. You just decided, unilaterally, that distance was the answer."

"I know." His voice cracks slightly. "I know, and I'm sorry. I've spent so long protecting myself that I didn't stop to think about what I was doing to you."

"What happened with Daniela?" The question escapes before Y/N can stop it. "Louis said she nearly destroyed you."

Harry's expression shutters momentarily before he forces it open again. "We were together for three years. I thought we were building something permanent. And then she got offered the position at Johns Hopkins, and she took it without hesitation. Didn't ask me to come with her, didn't try to make long distance work. Just...left." He laughs bitterly. "I found out she'd been interviewing for months without telling me. Our entire relationship was apparently less important than her career advancement."

Y/N's heart aches for him despite everything. "Harry..."

"I'm not telling you this for sympathy," he says quickly. "I'm telling you because I need you to understand why I am the way I am. Why intimacy terrifies me. Why my first instinct when something real starts to develop is to sabotage it before it can hurt me."

"Is that what you were doing?" Y/N asks. "Sabotaging us?"

"I don't know." Harry's voice is raw with honesty. "Maybe. Probably. All I know is that pushing you away has been the most miserable three weeks of my life, and I can't keep doing it."

Y/N feels something loosen in her chest, some knot of tension she's been carrying since San Francisco. "I've been miserable too," she admits. "I kept telling myself I was protecting myself, but really I was just...running. From you, from my feelings, from the possibility that this could be real."

"Is it?" Harry steps closer, close enough that she could touch him if she reached out. "Real, I mean?"

Y/N looks up at him— at the vulnerability etched into every line of his face, the hope warring with fear in his green eyes. "I don't know how to answer that. I know that I think about you constantly. I know that seeing you with Daniela has been slowly killing me. I know that when you called me 'Dr. Y/L/N' in the residents' lounge, it felt like you'd ripped something out of my chest."

"Y/N— "

"I'm not finished." She holds up a hand, needing to get this out. "I also know that you're my supervisor. That this is complicated and messy and potentially career-ending for both of us. I know that you have a history of shutting down when things get difficult, and I have a history of running away. We're not exactly a recipe for success."

"No," Harry agrees quietly. "We're not."

"So what do we do?" The question hangs between them, heavy with possibility.

Harry reaches out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and takes her hand in his. His fingers are warm, slightly calloused from years of surgery, achingly familiar from that night in San Francisco.

"I don't have all the answers," he says. "I can't promise I won't mess up again, because I probably will. I'm not good at this…at being vulnerable, at letting people in. But I want to try. With you. If you'll let me."

Y/N stares at their joined hands, watching his thumb trace gentle circles on her skin. "And what about the professional complications? The power dynamics you were so worried about?"

"We navigate them carefully," Harry says. "We keep things private until you've completed your residency. I recuse myself from any evaluations that affect your career. We're transparent with each other about any conflicts that arise." He squeezes her hand. "It won't be easy. But I'd rather do hard with you than easy without you."

A tear finally escapes, sliding down Y/N's cheek. Harry catches it with his free hand, his touch impossibly gentle.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "For the locker room, for not explaining about Daniela, for every moment I made you doubt what you mean to me. I'm sorry for being a coward when you deserved bravery."

"I'm sorry too," Y/N whispers. "For not giving you a chance to explain. For assuming the worst. For running every time you tried to reach me."

"So we're both disasters," Harry says, a ghost of his usual humor flickering in his eyes. "At least we're well-matched."

Y/N laughs despite herself, the sound watery but genuine. "Is that supposed to be romantic?"

"I'm working with limited material here." His hand slides from her cheek to cup the back of her neck, drawing her closer. "Give me time. I'll get better at it."

"Promise?" The word comes out breathless as she tilts her face up toward his.

"Promise." Harry leans down, resting his forehead against hers. "So is that a yes? To trying this? To seeing where it goes?"

Y/N considers the question. Considers all the ways this could go wrong, all the complications and obstacles and potential heartbreak waiting in the wings. Then she considers the alternative: walking away, going back to professional distance and lonely nights and the constant ache of wanting something she won't let herself have.

There's really only one answer.

"Yes," she breathes. "Yes, I want to try."

Harry's smile breaks across his face like sunrise, transforming his features from handsome to breathtaking. "Yeah?"

"Don't make me say it again," Y/N warns, but she's smiling too. "Your ego is already insufferable."

"My ego has taken quite a beating lately, actually," Harry murmurs, his lips brushing against her forehead. "I could use some building up."

"Later," Y/N says, pulling back slightly to meet his eyes. "Right now, I think we need to establish some ground rules."

"Always the pragmatist." But Harry nods, releasing her to lean back against his desk. "Alright, Dr. Y/L/N. What are your terms?"

They spend the next hour talking, really talking, in a way they never have before. They discuss boundaries and expectations, how to handle situations at work, what to tell their friends (everything, in Niall's case; need-to-know basis for everyone else). They argue about Harry's tendency to make unilateral decisions and Y/N's habit of catastrophizing. They apologize again, multiple times, for different things.

By the time Y/N finally leaves his office, the sun has set and the hospital corridors are quiet with the hush of evening shift. Nothing is resolved really as there are still complications to navigate, conversations to have, trust to rebuild.

But as she walks toward the exit, her phone buzzes with a text.

Dinner tomorrow? Somewhere private. I want to take you on a proper date.

She types back quickly, unable to suppress her smile.

Are you asking as my supervisor or as something else?

His response comes almost immediately.

Something else. Definitely something else.

Y/N pockets her phone and pushes through the hospital doors into the cool night air. For the first time in weeks, the weight on her chest has lifted.

She barely makes it into the driver's seat before she's fumbling for her phone, fingers trembling as she scrolls to Niall's contact. The engine isn't even running yet when she hits call, pressing the phone to her ear with barely contained energy.

He picks up on the second ring.

"Well? Did you— "

"NIALL."

The scream that tears from her throat is entirely undignified, the kind of sound she'd be mortified to make in any other context. It's half-shriek, half-laugh, the release of three weeks of tension exploding out of her in one glorious burst.

"Jesus Christ!" Niall's voice crackles through the speaker, equal parts alarmed and amused. "Are you being murdered? Should I call 911?"

"I talked to him," Y/N gasps, her words tumbling over each other in their rush to escape. "I actually went to his office and talked to him and Niall, oh my God, first of all, he kicked Daniela out for me. Then he said— he told me— we're going to try. We're actually going to try this."

There's a beat of silence, then: "Wait, seriously? Like, actually try? Not 'try' in the way you two have been 'trying' to avoid each other for three weeks?"

"Actually try!" Y/N is grinning so hard her cheeks hurt. "He apologized. He explained everything about Daniela, about why he shut down, about being scared. And I apologized too, for running away and not letting him explain, and then we talked about boundaries and how to handle work and he asked me to dinner tomorrow and— "

"Breathe," Niall interrupts, laughter threading through his voice. "For the love of God, Y/N, breathe. You're going to pass out."

She forces herself to take a breath, then another, her heart still racing. "I just can't believe it actually happened. After everything, after all the misery and the avoiding and watching him with Daniela— "

"Speaking of Daniela," Niall interjects. "How did she take being kicked out of his office?"

Y/N pauses, remembering the flash of cold displeasure in Daniela's eyes. "Not well, I think. She gave me this look when she left...but honestly, I barely noticed. I was too focused on Harry."

"Harry," Niall repeats, his tone teasing. "Not 'Dr. Styles'? We're on first-name basis now?"

"Shut up." But she's smiling as she says it. "He called me Y/N. Multiple times. Do you know how long it's been since he used my actual name?"

"I'm aware. You've only mentioned it about forty-seven times in the past three weeks."

Y/N laughs, the sound bright and unrestrained in a way it hasn't been in weeks. "He held my hand, Niall. And he touched my face. And he almost kissed me but we decided to wait until the actual date because we're trying to do this properly and— "

"Okay, okay, I need you to calm down before you crash your car," Niall cuts in, though his voice is warm with affection. "You haven't even started driving yet, have you?"

Y/N glances at the steering wheel, realizing she's been sitting in the hospital parking lot this entire time. "...No."

"Right. So maybe start the car, drive home safely, and then you can call me back and scream some more. Because I'm genuinely happy for you, love, but I'd prefer you alive to attend this dinner tomorrow."

"You're right, you're right." She fumbles for her keys, sliding them into the ignition. "I just needed to tell someone. I felt like I was going to explode if I didn't— "

"I'm honored to be your explosion receptacle," Niall says dryly. "Now focus on the road. The last thing you need is to get into an accident and end up in the ER."

A thought occurs to him, and she can practically hear the grin spreading across his face.

"Actually, wait. Maybe that wouldn't be so bad. You crash, they rush you to the hospital, Harry hears his girlfriend— ”

“I’m not–” “Shut up! His girlfriend is injured and he comes running. Has to operate to save your life. Sees you naked on the table. Very romantic, very Grey's Anatomy."

"Niall!" Y/N chokes on a laugh. "That's terrible!"

"I'm just saying, there are worse ways to move a relationship forward. Nothing says 'I love you' like emergency surgery and a glimpse of your bare— "

"I'm hanging up now," Y/N announces, still laughing. "You're a menace."

"A menace who was right about everything," Niall counters smugly. "I told you to just talk to him. Did I not tell you? I believe my exact words were— "

"Goodbye, Niall."

"Text me when you get home! And send me a picture of whatever you're wearing tomorrow so I can approve it!"

"Goodbye!"

She ends the call, tossing her phone onto the passenger seat with a grin she can't seem to shake. The parking lot is quiet around her, the hospital looming in her rearview mirror as she finally starts the car.

Her phone buzzes almost immediately. A text from Niall.

`For the record, I'm taking full credit for this. Best wingman ever. You're welcome.`

Then, a second later:

`Also Liam owes me twenty bucks. I bet him you two would figure it out before the month ended.`

Y/N shakes her head, pulling out of the parking space.

`You and Liam were betting on us?`

His response is immediate.

`Everyone was betting on you. You two were painfully obvious. The sexual tension was suffocating the entire cardiothoracic department.`

She's still laughing as she turns onto the main road, the lights of the city stretching out before her. Tomorrow, she has a date with Harry Styles. A real date, not a professional dinner or a conference obligation. Just the two of them, figuring out what this thing between them actually is.

Her phone buzzes one more time.

Harry.

`Got home safe?`

She pulls over briefly to respond, unable to keep the smile off her face.

`Almost there. Someone distracted me with life-changing conversations.`

His reply comes quickly.

`Sounds like someone worth keeping around.`

`Maybe. The jury's still out.`

`Harsh. And here I thought we'd made progress.`

Y/N bites her lip, warmth spreading through her chest.

`We did. I'm just not going to make it easy for you.`

`I wouldn't expect anything less, Dr. Y/L/N.`

She stares at the screen for a moment, at this new ease between them, this playfulness that feels like a promise of things to come.

`Goodnight, Harry.`

`Goodnight, Y/N. Dream of me.`

`Arrogant.`

`Confident. There's a difference.`

She laughs out loud, alone in her car on a quiet street, happier than she's been in weeks.

`Goodnight, Harry.`

`You already said that.`

`I'm hanging up on you too.`

`This is texting. You can't hang up on me`

She locks her phone and tosses it aside, still grinning as she pulls back onto the road.

Tomorrow can't come fast enough.

The morning starts like any other or at least, that's what Y/N tells herself as she steps through the hospital's automatic doors, coffee clutched in one hand like a lifeline.

She'd barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes, her mind replayed the conversation in Harry's office on an endless loop. The crack in his voice when he admitted he was terrified and the warmth of his hand wrapped around hers, it all created a fuzzy feeling in her chest.

And then, of course, there were the texts. The easy back-and-forth that had continued until nearly midnight, Harry's dry wit softening into something almost tender as the hours wore on. She'd finally forced herself to put her phone down when she realized she was grinning at the ceiling like an idiot, her cheeks aching from smiling.

Now, walking through the familiar corridors of the cardiothoracic wing, she feels almost nervous. Which is ridiculous. She's walked these halls hundreds of times. She's faced down impossible surgeries, demanding attendings, life-and-death decisions that would break lesser people.

But somehow, the prospect of seeing Harry in the daylight after everything they'd said and everything they'd agreed to, makes her palms sweat.

She spots him almost immediately.

He's standing at the nurses' station at the far end of the corridor, white coat pristine, stethoscope draped around his neck. He's reviewing a chart with Dr. Chen, nodding along to whatever the older surgeon is saying, the picture of professional focus.

But there's something different about him this morning.

It takes Y/N a moment to identify it Maybe it was the set of his shoulders, or the way he's standing. He looks...lighter. The tension that's been carved into his features for weeks has eased somehow, smoothed away like fog burning off under morning sun. There's a looseness to his posture that she hasn't seen since before San Francisco, maybe even longer.

He looks like a man who finally got a full night's sleep after months of insomnia.

Y/N forces herself to look away, turning toward the nurses' station closer to her. She has work to do. Patients to check on. She can't spend her entire shift mooning over Harry Styles like a lovesick teenager.

"Dr. Y/L/N!"

Nurse Martinez waves her over, tablet in hand. "I wanted to go over Mr. Patterson's post-op vitals with you. His blood pressure was slightly elevated during the night shift, and I wasn't sure if— "

"Of course," Y/N says, grateful for the distraction. "Let me take a look. His surgery was complex, so some fluctuation is expected, but we should keep an eye on— "

She feels it before she sees it. That prickle of awareness at the back of her neck, the sensation of being watched.

She glances up automatically, her gaze drawn across the corridor like a magnet finding north.

Harry is looking at her.

Not just looking but studying her. His green eyes warm with something that makes her stomach flip. Dr. Chen is still talking beside him, gesturing at the chart in his hands, but Harry's attention has clearly drifted. His lips curve into the smallest of smiles, private and knowing.

And then he winks.

Just once. Quick and deliberate, so fast she might have imagined it if not for the way his smile deepens in the aftermath, dimples creasing his cheeks.

Y/N's heart stops.

Actually, genuinely stops…or at least that's what it feels like, a sudden vacuum in her chest where her pulse should be. Her knees go weak, actually weak, like she's a character in one of those ridiculous romance novels Niall keeps trying to force on her.

She stumbles over her next words, her sentence fragmenting mid-thought.

"—we should keep an eye on the, um, the— " She blinks, trying to recover. "The systolic readings. If they continue to...to elevate, we might need to adjust his..."

Nurse Martinez is staring at her with barely concealed concern. "Dr. Y/L/N? Are you alright?"

"Fine," Y/N manages, tearing her gaze away from Harry with heroic effort. "Sorry. Didn't sleep well. What was I saying?"

"Systolic readings," Martinez supplies helpfully.

"Right. Yes. If they continue trending upward, we should consider adjusting his beta-blocker dosage. Can you flag it for Dr. Tomlinson's review during rounds?"

Martinez nods, making a note on her tablet, and Y/N uses the moment to take a steadying breath. Her cheeks feel warm. Her heart has resumed beating, but at roughly twice its normal rate.

A wink. A single wink, from thirty feet away, and she'd nearly collapsed in the middle of the nurses' station like a Victorian maiden with a case of the vapors.

This is going to be a problem.

She risks another glance in Harry's direction and finds him fully engaged with Dr. Chen now, his expression professionally attentive. But there's a hint of smugness in the set of his jaw, a self-satisfaction that tells her he knows exactly what he did.

Bastard.

She sees him pull his phone out. Then…her phone buzzes in her pocket. She pulls it out, already knowing what she'll find.

`You're blushing.`

She types back furiously, angling her body away from Martinez's curious gaze.

`I am NOT.`

`You are. It's adorable.`

`I'm going to kill you.`

`Promises, promises.`

Another buzz, almost immediately.

`You look beautiful today, by the way. That color suits you.`

Y/N's familiar navy blue scrubs did nothing to hide the traitorous heat rising in her cheeks as she glanced down at them.

`They're scrubs, Harry. Everyone wears the same ones.`

`And yet somehow you make them look better than everyone else.`

She shoves her phone back in her pocket before she can respond, because if she keeps texting him, she's going to smile, and if she smiles, Martinez is going to ask questions, and if Martinez asks questions, the entire hospital will know something's going on within the hour.

Hospital gossip travels faster than any virus.

She busies herself with patient rounds, checking vitals, reviewing charts, consulting with the nursing staff. But she's hyperaware of Harry's presence throughout the morning. It was driving her crazy: catching glimpses of him in the corridor, hearing his voice drift from an open doorway, feeling the weight of his gaze whenever they pass within sight of each other.

Each time, there's something new. A small smile. A raised eyebrow. Once, when they passed each other in the hallway, his hand brushed against hers. It was so brief it could have been accidental, except for the way his fingers deliberately curl against her palm before pulling away.

It's torture. Exquisite, wonderful torture.

Louis finds her in the break room around mid-morning, refilling her coffee for the third time.

"You look different," he observes, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. "Less like someone ran over your dog."

"I don't have a dog."

"It's an expression." His blue eyes narrow thoughtfully. "Something happened. Between you and Harry."

Y/N focuses very intently on adding creamer to her coffee. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Mmhmm." Louis doesn't sound convinced. "So it's just a coincidence that he's been walking around all morning like someone replaced his blood with sunshine? That man has been a miserable bastard for weeks, and suddenly he's practically whistling in the corridors."

"Maybe he had a good night's sleep."

"Harry doesn't sleep well. Hasn't for years." Louis pushes off from the counter, moving toward the door. "Whatever you did, Y/L/N, keep doing it. I haven't seen him this light since..." He pauses, something complicated crossing his features. "Well. In a long time."

He leaves before she can respond, and Y/N is left alone with her coffee and the warm glow spreading through her chest.

Her phone buzzes again.

`Dinner tonight. 7pm. I'll pick you up.`

She bites her lip, typing back.

`You don't know where I live.`

`I have my ways.`

`That's creepy, Harry.`

`I asked Niall. He was disturbingly eager to help.`

Of course he was. Y/N makes a mental note to kill her best friend later.

`Fine. 7pm. But I'm choosing the restaurant next time.`

`Next time. I like the sound of that.`

Y/N pockets her phone, unable to suppress her smile any longer. Let the nurses talk. Let the whole hospital gossip.

She has a date tonight with Harry Styles, and for the first time in weeks, everything feels possible.

The coffee in Y/N's hand has gone lukewarm by the time she finally leaves the break room, her mind still pleasantly fuzzy with thoughts of Harry's smile, Harry's wink, Harry's fingers brushing against her palm in the corridor.

She's so lost in her haze that she almost doesn't notice Daniela Marx until the woman is directly in front of her.

"Dr. Y/L/N!"

Daniela's voice is bright, her smile wide and welcoming. The kind of expression that belongs in a toothpaste commercial. She's impeccably dressed as always, her white coat pristine, her hair falling in perfect waves over her shoulders. Everything about her radiates competence and polish.

Y/N's stomach drops.

"Dr. Marx," she manages, forcing her own smile into place. "Good morning."

"I was hoping I'd run into you." Daniela falls into step beside her as Y/N continues down the corridor, matching her pace with ease. "We haven't really had a chance to talk properly since I arrived. I've been so busy with the research collaboration that I feel like I've barely gotten to know anyone outside of the surgical team."

"It's been a busy few weeks," Y/N agrees carefully, unsure where this is heading.

"It has. But I've heard so much about you." Daniela's smile doesn't waver, but something in her eyes sharpens. "Harry's star resident. That's what everyone calls you, isn't it? The prodigy. The one he's supposedly molding into the next great cardiothoracic surgeon."

There's a slight edge in her tone beneath the sweetness that makes Y/N's guard rise.

"I don't know about prodigy," she says, keeping her voice neutral. "I'm just trying to learn as much as I can."

"So modest." Daniela's laugh tinkles like wind chimes. "Harry always did appreciate humility. Though I have to say, when I heard about his 'star resident,' I expected someone a bit more... established. You're what, first year?"

"Second," Y/N corrects, a thread of defensiveness creeping into her voice.

"Second, of course. My mistake." Daniela waves a manicured hand dismissively. "It's just impressive, that's all. Getting so much of Harry's attention at such an early stage in your career. He must see something special in you."

The words sound like a compliment. They're shaped like a compliment. But the way Daniela delivers them with that slight tilt of her head, that knowing glint in her eye, transforms them into something else entirely.

"I work hard," Y/N says simply.

"I'm sure you do." Daniela pauses outside an empty conference room, turning to face Y/N fully. "You know, I remember what it was like, being a young resident trying to prove myself. The pressure to stand out, to be noticed by the right people. It can be...overwhelming."

Y/N nods slowly, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"The thing is," Daniela continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone, "sometimes the attention we receive isn't really about us at all. Sometimes attendings take an interest in residents for reasons that have nothing to do with talent or potential. Political reasons. Personal reasons." She shrugs elegantly. "It's important to be realistic about these things. To not let flattery go to our heads."

The implication lands like a slap.

"I'm not sure what you're suggesting," Y/N says, her voice carefully controlled.

"I'm not suggesting anything." Daniela's smile widens, all innocence. "I'm just offering perspective. Woman to woman. Harry can be very...charming when he wants to be. Very focused. It's easy to mistake professional mentorship for something more personal."

Y/N feels heat rise to her cheeks and not from pleasure this time. From a toxic mixture of anger and humiliation.

"I don't think I've mistaken anything."

"Of course not." Daniela reaches out, patting Y/N's arm in a gesture that's meant to seem supportive but feels patronizing. "I'm sure you're very talented. It's just...well, I've known Harry for a long time. I've seen how he operates. He has a tendency to invest in people who remind him of himself; brilliant but rough around the edges. People he thinks he can shape."

She pauses, letting the words sink in.

"The problem is, his interest tends to fade once the shaping is done. Once the challenge is gone." Daniela's eyes meet Y/N's, and there's no warmth in them now. "I'd hate to see you build your career on a foundation that might...shift."

Y/N's throat tightens. She wants to argue, to defend herself, to tell Daniela exactly where she can shove her 'perspective.' But the words won't come. Because buried beneath the obvious manipulation, there's a kernel of doubt that Daniela has expertly planted.

What if she's right?

What if Harry's interest in her, professionally, personally, all of it, is just a phase? A temporary fascination that will fade once the novelty wears off? She's seen it happen before, attendings who champion residents only to discard them when someone newer and shinier comes along.

What if she's not special at all? Just convenient?

"I should get back to my rounds," Y/N manages, her voice coming out smaller than she intended.

"Of course." Daniela steps aside graciously, her mission clearly accomplished. "It was lovely chatting with you, Dr. Y/L/N. I hope I haven't overstepped. I just believe in honesty between colleagues. Especially between women in this field. We have to look out for each other."

The hypocrisy is staggering, but Y/N can't summon the energy to call it out. She nods mutely and walks away, her coffee now completely cold in her trembling hand.

She makes it to the supply closet before the tears start.

It's stupid. She knows it's stupid. Daniela is obviously bitter about Harry and about whatever is happening between them that she's clearly picked up on. This was a calculated attack, designed to undermine Y/N's confidence and drive a wedge between her and Harry before their relationship can even properly begin.

But knowing something intellectually and feeling it emotionally are two different things.

Daniela's words echo in her mind, poisonous and persistent. Rough around the edges. His interest tends to fade. A foundation that might shift.

She thinks about all the times Harry pushed her harder than other residents. Was that because he saw potential in her, or because she was a project? A puzzle to solve? Something to occupy his attention until something better came along?

She thinks about Daniela. Polished and accomplished Daniela. The kind of woman who belongs in Harry's world. A peer, not a subordinate. Someone who can stand beside him as an equal rather than trailing behind as a student.

She thinks about the wink this morning, the texts, the dinner planned for tonight. Had she been foolish to believe any of it meant something real?

Her phone buzzes in her pocket. She pulls it out with shaking hands.

Harry.

`Counting down the hours. Is it 7pm yet?`

Yesterday, this message would have made her glow. Now it just makes her feel sick.

She shoves the phone away without responding, pressing her palms against her eyes until she sees stars.

Get it together, Y/L/N. You're a surgeon. You don't fall apart in supply closets because some bitter ex said mean things.

But the doubt lingers, curling through her chest like smoke, and suddenly the day ahead feels impossibly long.

The supply closet door swings open and Y/N steps out blindly, her vision still blurred with unshed tears, her mind a chaotic swirl of Daniela's poisonous words.

She collides directly with a solid chest.

"Whoa— "

Hands catch her elbows, steadying her before she can stumble backward. Large hands, warm and familiar, the grip firm but gentle.

Harry.

Of course it's Harry. Because the universe apparently has a sick sense of humor.

"Y/N?" His voice is tinged with surprise, then sharpens with concern as he gets a proper look at her face. "Hey, what's wrong?"

She can't meet his eyes. Can't look at him without hearing Daniela's voice in her head: rough around the edges, his interest tends to fade, a foundation that might shift.

"Nothing," she manages, trying to step back, to put distance between them. "I'm fine. Just— allergies. The supply closet is dusty."

Harry doesn't release her elbows. If anything, his grip tightens slightly, anchoring her in place.

"Y/N." Her name in his mouth, soft and serious. "Look at me."

She doesn't want to. Looking at him means he'll see the doubt, the insecurity, the way Daniela's words have burrowed under her skin like splinters. Harry has always been too perceptive, too attuned to the things she tries to hide.

But his hand moves from her elbow to her chin, tilting her face up with impossible gentleness, and she has no choice.

His green eyes scan her features, cataloging every detail. The redness at the corners of her eyes, the tension in her jaw, the way she's holding herself like she's bracing for impact. Something shifts in his expression, concern deepening into something fiercer.

"You've been crying," he says quietly. It's not a question.

"I haven't— "

"Don't." The word is gentle but firm. "Don't lie to me. Not after everything we said yesterday."

Y/N's throat constricts. She wants to tell him. Wants to spill everything about Daniela's backhanded comments, the insecurities they've awakened and the fear that's been gnawing at her since she walked away from that conversation. But the words stick in her chest, tangled up with pride and shame and the desperate need to not seem weak.

"It's nothing," she repeats, but her voice wavers.

Harry's jaw tightens. He glances around the corridor that was empty for now, but that could change at any moment. He makes a decision.

"Come with me."

He takes her hand, not waiting for agreement, and leads her down the hall toward his office. His stride is purposeful, his grip on her fingers secure, and Y/N finds herself following without protest.

The door closes behind them with a soft click, and suddenly they're alone. Private. Away from prying eyes and hospital gossip.

Harry releases her hand but doesn't step back, positioning himself between her and the door like he's afraid she might bolt.

"Talk to me," he says simply.

Y/N wraps her arms around herself, a defensive gesture she can't quite suppress. "It's stupid. I'm being stupid."

"I highly doubt that." Harry walks to his desk, leaning against it, arms crossed, watching her with that intense focus she's come to both crave and fear. "Something happened between this morning and now. You were fine earlier. Better than fine actually. And now you look like someone's ripped your heart out."

The accuracy of the description makes her flinch.

"Was it a patient?" Harry presses, his voice softening. "A surgery? Did something go wrong with— "

"It was Daniela."

The name falls from her lips before she can stop it, landing in the space between them like a grenade.

Harry goes very still.

"What about Daniela?"

Y/N laughs bitterly, the sound catching in her throat. "She wanted to 'get to know me.' Harry's star resident, apparently. That's what everyone calls me."

She sees confusion giving way to dawning understanding, then something darker.

"What did she say to you?"

"Does it matter?" Y/N's voice cracks despite her best efforts. "She was just being honest. Woman to woman. Looking out for me."

"Y/N." Harry pushes off from the desk, closing the distance between them. "What. Did. She. Say."

The intensity in his voice breaks something loose in her chest.

"She said— " Y/N swallows hard, forcing the words out. "She said your attention doesn't mean anything. That you take interest in residents who are 'rough around the edges' because you like the challenge of shaping them. And that once the shaping is done, once the challenge is gone, you lose interest."

Harry's jaw muscles tightened.

"She said I shouldn't build my career on a foundation that might 'shift,'" Y/N continues, the words tumbling out faster now. "That I shouldn't mistake professional mentorship for something personal. That she's known you a long time and she's seen how you operate."

Silence stretches between them, heavy and charged.

When Harry finally speaks, his voice is low and dangerous in a way she's never heard before.

"She said that to you."

It's not a question, but Y/N nods anyway.

"And you believed her?"

The question struck her. She opens her mouth to deny it, to insist that of course she didn't believe a word of Daniela's bitter manipulation…but she can't. Because the truth is more complicated than that.

"I don't know," she whispers. "I don't know what to believe. Yesterday everything made sense, and now— " She gestures helplessly. "Now I can't stop thinking about whether any of this is real or if I'm just...convenient. A distraction. Something to occupy your time until you get bored."

Harry makes a sound low in his throat: frustration, anger, something wounded.

"Y/N— "

"She's accomplished," Y/N barrels on, unable to stop now that the floodgates have opened. "She's your peer. She's the kind of woman who belongs in your world, who can stand beside you as an equal. And I'm just…I'm a second-year resident who can barely keep it together in a supply closet because someone said mean things to me."

Her voice breaks on the last words, tears spilling over despite her desperate attempts to hold them back.

Harry moves.

In two strides he's in front of her, his hands cupping her face, thumbs brushing away the tears that streak down her cheeks.

"Listen to me," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "Are you listening?"

Y/N nods shakily, her vision blurred.

"Daniela is a brilliant surgeon and a deeply insecure person who has never forgiven herself for walking away from me five years ago." Harry's eyes bore into hers, intense and unwavering. "Whatever she said to you, whatever poison she poured in your ear, it wasn't about you. It was about her. About her regret, her jealousy, her inability to accept that I've moved on."

"Harry–"

"I'm not finished." His grip on her face tightens slightly, not painful but insistent. "You are not convenient. You are not a distraction. You are not rough around the edges–and even if you were, I wouldn't want to smooth them away. I like your edges, Y/N. I like that you challenge me, that you push back, that you don't let me get away with being an arrogant bastard."

A wet laugh escapes her. "You are an arrogant bastard."

"I know. And you're the only person in this hospital brave enough to tell me so." His thumbs continue their gentle sweep across her cheekbones. "Do you know why I noticed you in the first place? It wasn't because you were a project or a puzzle. It was because you walked into my OR on your first day and corrected my suture technique in front of the entire surgical team."

Y/N winces at the memory. "You yelled at me for twenty minutes."

"I was impressed," Harry corrects. "Furious, yes, but impressed. No one had challenged me like that in years. And then you kept doing it. Kept pushing, kept questioning, kept refusing to be intimidated by my reputation or my temper. You made me better, Y/N. You make me want to be better."

The sincerity in his voice is almost unbearable.

"Daniela never did that," he continues quietly. "She admired me, supported me, but she never challenged me. And when things got hard—when she had to choose between her ambition and our relationship—she didn't even hesitate. She just left."

His forehead drops to rest against hers, their breath mingling in the small space between them.

"You're not her," Harry murmurs. "And what I feel for you is nothing like what I felt for her. This is— " He breaks off, struggling for words. "This is terrifying and overwhelming and completely unprecedented. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't have a plan. All I know is that when I'm with you, everything makes sense. And when I'm not, I'm counting the minutes until I can see you again."

Y/N's tears have stopped, replaced by a warmth spreading through her chest.

"That's very romantic," she whispers. "For an arrogant bastard."

Harry huffs a laugh against her lips. "I'm trying. Give me some credit."

His hands slide from her face to her shoulders, then down her arms, finally settling at her waist.

"Don't let her win," he says softly. "Don't let her take this from us before it's even started. She doesn't get that power. Not over you, not over me, not over whatever this is between us."

Y/N takes a shaky breath, letting his words wash over her like a balm.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I should have come to you instead of spiraling. I just— "

"You're human," Harry interrupts gently. "You're allowed to have doubts. You're allowed to be hurt by cruel words from cruel people. Just...talk to me next time? Before you convince yourself that I'm going to abandon you?"

She nods, leaning into his touch. "I can do that."

"Good." He presses a kiss to her forehead, lingering there for a long moment. "Now. Are we still on for dinner tonight? Because I have reservations at a very expensive restaurant and I'd hate for them to go to waste."

Y/N laughs a real laugh this time, watery but genuine. "Trying to impress me with your money?"

"Is it working?"

"Ask me after I see the menu."

Harry grins, and the sight of it, warm and genuine and just for her, chases away the last lingering shadows of Daniela's poison.

Before she can overthink it and before the doubt can creep back in, Y/N rises onto her toes and presses a quick kiss to the corner of Harry's mouth.

It's barely a kiss, really. More of a brush, a whisper of contact, her lips grazing the edge of his smile for a fraction of a second before she pulls back.

But the effect is immediate.

Heat floods her cheeks, rushing up from her neck to the tips of her ears. She turns her head away sharply, suddenly fascinated by the medical certificates on Harry's wall, her heart hammering against her ribs like it's trying to escape. Oh God. She just kissed him. In his office. During work hours. After spending twenty minutes crying over his ex-girlfriend's mind games.

"I shouldn't have—" she stammers. "That was unprofessional. We're at work and I just—"

Harry's laugh cuts her off.

It's not his usual sardonic chuckle or his professional courtesy laugh. This is warm and delighted, rich with genuine amusement. The sound rumbles through his chest where her hands still rest against him.

"Adorable," he murmurs, and before she can protest, he's pulling her into a tight hug, wrapping his arms around her and tucking her head beneath his chin. "You're absolutely adorable when you get flustered."

Y/N makes an indignant noise against his chest. "I'm not adorable. I'm a surgeon. Surgeons aren't adorable."

"You're both." She can hear the smile in his voice. "A brilliant, talented, occasionally terrifying surgeon who also happens to turn the color of a tomato when she kisses me."

"I do not turn the color of a—"

He pulls back just enough to look at her face, one eyebrow raised in challenge. Y/N catches a glimpse of herself in the reflection of his office window and winces. Her cheeks are definitely several shades darker than normal.

"Okay, fine," she concedes.

Harry's expression softens as he looks down at her, his green eyes crinkling at the corners. He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture impossibly tender.

"There she is," he murmurs. "There's my girl."

My girl. The words send a shiver down her spine.

"It’s only because you make me nervous." she continues, ignoring the swarm of butterflies in her stomach

"Good." Harry's arms tighten around her waist. "You make me nervous too. Have since day one."

That surprises her enough. "I make you nervous? You're Harry Styles. You don't get nervous."

"Shows what you know." His thumb traces idle patterns against her lower back through her scrubs.

The moment stretches between them, weighted with significance. Y/N's heart does that stuttering thing again, but this time it's not from anxiety or doubt. It's from the way Harry's looking at her, like she's something precious he's afraid to break.

"We should probably get back to work," she says reluctantly. "Before someone notices we're both missing."

"Probably." But Harry doesn't release her, his arms still locked around her waist. "Though I am the department head. I could argue we're having an important mentorship discussion."

"Is that what we're calling it?"

"Sounds better than 'the chief of surgery was caught cuddling his resident in his office.'"

Y/N laughs, the sound muffled against his chest. "Cuddling is definitely not in the hospital handbook."

"Then it's a good thing I helped edit the handbook." Harry finally, reluctantly, loosens his grip. "I know where all the loopholes are."

She steps back, immediately missing his warmth, and tries to smooth her hair into something resembling professional. "How do I look? Can anyone tell I was crying?"

Harry reaches out, gently brushing away a smudge of mascara from beneath her eye with his thumb. "Beautiful," he says simply. "But if anyone asks, you can blame it on the fluorescent lighting. Makes everyone look like they've been crying."

"That's a terrible excuse."

"Best I've got on short notice." He walks to his desk, scribbling something on a prescription pad, then hands it to her with a completely straight face.

Y/N looks down at the paper. In his distinctive scrawl, he's written:

Rx: One (1) fancy dinner with devastatingly handsome surgeon. Take at 7pm tonight. May cause excessive smiling, butterflies, and general swooning. Side effects include falling hopelessly in love. Refills available upon request.

She stares at it, torn between laughing and crying again.

Harry Styles, Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery, wrote her a fake prescription for a date. Like a lovesick teenager passing notes in class.

It's stupid. It's cheesy. It's utterly beneath his dignity.

She loves it.

"You're ridiculous," she manages.

"And yet you kissed me anyway." Harry's smirk is insufferable. "So what does that say about your judgment?"

Y/N carefully folds the prescription and tucks it into her pocket, something to keep, to look at later when she needs reminding that this is real. "That it's clearly compromised."

"I'll see you at seven," she says, carefully folding the prescription and tucking it into her pocket. "Don't be late."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Harry pushes off from the desk, closing the distance between them one more time. "And Y/N?"

"Hmm?"

He leans down, his lips brushing against her ear. "Next time you want to kiss me? Don't aim for the corner."

Before she can respond, before she can do anything but stand there with her heart in her throat, he pulls back, winks, and opens the office door for her.

"After you, Dr. Y/L/N. Those rounds won't complete themselves."

Y/N walks out on unsteady legs, hyperaware of his gaze on her back as she heads down the corridor. Her pocket feels warm where the prescription rests against her hip, a tangible reminder that this is real, that they are real, that whatever games Daniela wants to play, she's already lost.

Seven o'clock can't come fast enough.

Harry stands in front of the bathroom mirror, fussing with his hair for the third time in as many minutes.

It's ridiculous. He's thirty-three years old, a department head, one of the most respected cardiothoracic surgeons on the East Coast. He's performed surgeries that would make lesser physicians weep. He's stared down death and won more times than he can count.

And yet here he is, nervous about a dinner date like he's seventeen and taking a girl to prom.

He runs his fingers through his curls one more time, letting them fall in that artfully disheveled way that took him twenty minutes to achieve. His shirt is a deep burgundy silk. Definitely expensive, tailored, and chosen specifically because Niall mentioned once that Y/N liked rich colors. The top two buttons are undone, revealing just a hint of the tattoos scattered across his chest.

He looks good. He knows he looks good.

So why does he feel like he's about to vibrate out of his skin?

His phone sits on the bathroom counter, and he picks it up, pulling up his message thread with Y/N. The last text is from an hour ago:

Y/N: Be honest. Is this place actually as good as you said, or are you just trying to impress me?

Harry: Statistically speaking, the odds of a bad meal are extremely low. The odds of me being distracted because you’re sitting across from me are…significantly higher

Now, with fifteen minutes until he needs to leave, he types out one last message.

`Fun fact: surgeons have steady hands because we train ourselves to stay calm under pressure. And yet somehow the thought of seeing you tonight has my hands shaking like a first-year med student. What have you done to me, Dr. Y/L/N?`

He hits send before he can second-guess himself, then pockets the phone with a smile.

The knock at his door comes just as he's reaching for his jacket.

Harry frowns, glancing at the time. He's not expecting anyone. The reservation is in forty minutes, and he still needs to pick up Y/N—

Another knock, more insistent this time.

He crosses to the door and pulls it open, already preparing an excuse to send away whoever's interrupting his evening.

The words die in his throat.

Daniela stands in his doorway.

She's dressed to kill in a crimson dress that hugs every curve, plunging neckline, heels that put her nearly at eye level with him. Her hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders, her makeup immaculate, her perfume hitting him like a wave of memory.

Five years ago, this sight would have brought him to his knees.

Now, all he feels is a creeping sense of dread.

"Daniela." His voice comes out flat. "What are you doing here?"

"Can't an old friend stop by?" She smiles, but there's something brittle beneath the warmth. "I was in the neighborhood. Thought we could catch up."

"I'm on my way out."

"This won't take long." She steps forward, and Harry finds himself moving back automatically, allowing her into his apartment before his brain catches up to his body. "I've been thinking about you, Harry. About us. About everything we had."

She moves through his space like she still belongs there, trailing her fingers along the back of his couch, taking in the details of his living room with a proprietary air that sets his teeth on edge.

"There is no 'us,'" Harry says carefully. "There hasn't been for five years."

"And whose fault is that?" Daniela turns to face him, her expression shifting into something softer, more vulnerable. "I made a mistake, Harry. I know that now. Leaving you—leaving this—it was the biggest regret of my life."

She moves closer, her hand coming up to rest on his chest. He can feel the warmth of her palm through the silk of his shirt, and he steps back, putting distance between them.

"Daniela— "

"Do you remember that weekend in the Hamptons?" Her voice drops, husky with manufactured nostalgia. "That little bed and breakfast by the water? You said you'd never been happier. You said you wanted to spend the rest of your life making me feel the way I made you feel."

Harry's jaw tightens. "I said a lot of things back then. I was young and stupid."

"You were in love." She steps closer again, closing the gap he'd created. "We both were. And I think, I know, that kind of love doesn't just disappear. It's still there, Harry. I can feel it."

Her hand reaches for his face, and he catches her wrist before she can make contact.

"Stop."

"Harry— "

"I said stop." His voice is harder now, the professional mask slipping. "Whatever you're trying to do here, it's not going to work. I'm not the same person I was five years ago, and I'm not interested in revisiting the past."

. A flicker of wounded pride, or simple frustration, crosses Daniela's eyes."Is this about her? Your little resident?"

Harry's grip on her wrist tightens involuntarily. "Her name is Y/N."

"I know her name." Daniela's voice takes on a bitter edge. "I also know that she's barely out of medical school, that she has no idea what she's doing, and that she's completely wrong for you."

"You don't know anything about her."

"I know she's not me." Daniela pulls her wrist free, her composure cracking. "I know that whatever you think you feel for her, it's not real. It's infatuation. It's the thrill of something new and forbidden. But it won't last, Harry. It never does."

Harry takes a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm. "I have a date tonight. With Y/N. So whatever you came here to accomplish, I need you to leave."

The words land like a slap.

Daniela's expression transforms. The soft vulnerability vanished, replaced by something ugly and raw. Her lips curl into a sneer, her eyes hardening with barely contained fury.

"A date," she repeats, her voice dripping with contempt. "With that bitch."

"Watch your mouth."

"Oh, please." Daniela laughs, the sound harsh and mirthless. "You're defending her? Harry, open your eyes. She doesn't care about you. She's a nobody. A first-year resident with mediocre skills and an overinflated ego. The only reason she's interested in you is because of what you can do for her career."

Harry feels anger rising in his chest, hot and dangerous. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" Daniela's voice rises, her composure shattering completely. "I've seen the way she looks at you. The way she positions herself to get your attention. She's calculating, Harry. Everything she does is designed to make you notice her, to make you invest in her, to make you think she's something special."

She steps closer, jabbing a finger at his chest.

"She's using you. For your reputation, your connections, your status. The second she gets what she wants, the second someone better comes along, she'll drop you without a backward glance. Just like— "

"Just like you did?"

The words cut through Daniela's tirade like a scalpel. She freezes, her mouth still open, her finger still pointed at his chest.

Harry's voice is quiet now, controlled, but there's steel beneath the calm.

"You left me, Daniela. You took a job across the country without even discussing it with me. You threw away three years of our lives because Johns Hopkins made you a better offer." He steps forward, and for the first time, she steps back. "And now you have the audacity to stand in my apartment and call Y/N a gold digger? To accuse her of using me for status?"

"That's different— "

"How?" Harry demands. "How is it different? You made a choice. You chose your career over our relationship. And that's fine—I've made my peace with it. But you don't get to come back now, five years later, and poison what I have with someone else because you've decided you made a mistake."

Daniela's face has gone pale, her bravado crumbling. "Harry, I— "

"I want you to leave." His voice is final. "I want you to stay away from Y/N. And when your research collaboration is finished, I want you to go back to Baltimore and forget this conversation ever happened."

"You can't just— "

"I can." Harry moves to the door, pulling it open. "I'm the Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery, and you're a guest in my department. If you can't maintain professional boundaries, I'll have no choice but to end the collaboration early."

Daniela stares at him, her chest heaving with barely suppressed emotion. For a moment, he thinks she might argue or scream, might cry, might do something dramatic and destructive.

But then the fight drains out of her.

She straightens her spine, smooths her dress, and walks toward the door with as much dignity as she can muster. As she passes him, she pauses, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper.

"You'll regret this. When she breaks your heart, and she will, you'll remember that I tried to warn you."

"Goodbye, Daniela."

He closes the door behind her, the click of the latch echoing in the sudden silence of his apartment.

Harry stands there for a long moment, his hand still on the doorknob, his heart racing with residual adrenaline. The encounter has left him shaken in ways he doesn't want to examine too closely. OOld wounds reopened and old fears stirred up.

But beneath the turmoil, there's something else. Something solid and certain.

Y/N.

He pulls out his phone, checking the time. He's going to be late if he doesn't leave now.

He locks the door behind him and heads for his car, leaving the ghost of Daniela's accusations behind.

Tonight is about the future. About possibility. About a woman who challenges him and infuriates him and makes him feel more alive than he has in years.

Everything else can wait.

Harry parks his car outside Y/N's building and sits for a moment, hands still gripped around the steering wheel.

He should be nervous. By all rights, his stomach should be in knots, his palms sweating, his mind racing through worst-case scenarios the way it always does before important moments.

But as he steps out of the car and walks toward her building, something unexpected happens.

The anxiety doesn't intensify. It doesn't build with each step, doesn't crescendo as he enters the lobby and presses the elevator button.

Instead, it dissolves.

With every floor the elevator climbs, Harry feels something else settling into his bones. Something warm and steady and utterly foreign. It's not excitement, though that's there too. It's not anticipation, though he's practically vibrating with the need to see her.

It's peace.

The realization is so startling that he actually stops in the hallway outside her apartment, one hand raised to knock, just...processing.

Y/N makes him peaceful.

Not calm in the way surgery makes him calm. That focused, controlled state where everything else falls away and only the work remains. This is different. Softer. It's the feeling of coming home after a brutal shift, of sinking into a hot bath after a marathon surgery, of finally taking a full breath after holding it for too long.

She's chaos and challenge and constant provocation. She argues with him, pushes back, refuses to make anything easy.

And somehow, inexplicably, being near her is the most settled he's felt in years.

Harry knocks before he can spiral further into that particular revelation.

Footsteps approach from inside—quick, light, accompanied by what sounds like a muffled curse and something clattering to the floor. Despite everything, he smiles.

The door swings open.

And Harry's entire world tilts on its axis.

Christ, she looks—

His brain, usually so reliable with its vocabulary and quick wit, completely short-circuits.

The dress is simple, elegant. A sleeveless sheath that skims her curves without clinging, falling just above her knees. Nothing overtly provocative about it. Nothing that should make his mouth go dry and his heart forget how to function properly.

But it's her.

Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, catching the light from her apartment. She's wearing makeup—not much, just enough to emphasize her eyes and the curve of her lips. There's a slight flush to her cheeks, nervous energy radiating from her in waves.

She's breathtaking.

And Harry realizes, with the kind of clarity that comes once in a lifetime, that he's completely and utterly fucked.

Because he's in love with her.

Not falling. Not heading in that direction. Already there. Completely, irrevocably, terrifyingly in love.

When did this happen?

Was it San Francisco, when she fell asleep on his shoulder and he spent the entire flight memorizing the rhythm of her breathing? Was it the conference, watching her command a room full of surgeons twice her age with nothing but confidence and brilliance? Was it the hotel room, her lips against his, the taste of her burning itself into his memory?

Or was it earlier than that? The first time she challenged him in the OR, fire in her eyes and steel in her spine? The first time she made him laugh, actually laugh, not the polite chuckle he offers to colleagues, but a real, surprised burst of joy? The first time he caught himself looking for her in the halls, his day feeling incomplete until he'd seen her face?

It doesn't matter. The when is irrelevant. The point is that it's happened, and there's no going back.

Harry Styles, who swore he'd never let anyone close enough to hurt him again, who built his reputation on control and precision and emotional distance, has fallen completely and utterly in love with his resident.

And the strangest part?

He's okay with it.

The knowledge hits him like a defibrillator to the chest. Sudden, violent, and impossible to ignore.

He's a cardiologist. He's spent his entire adult life studying the human heart, learning its rhythms, understanding its mechanics. He knows every chamber, every valve, every electrical pathway. He can diagnose arrhythmias from an EKG at fifty paces. He's performed hundreds of surgeries, held the organ in his hands, felt it beat against his palms.

But gun to his head, he couldn't tell you what the bastard is doing right now.

It's not racing...not exactly. It's not skipping beats or fluttering or doing any of the things that would indicate a medical emergency.

It's just...full.

Impossibly, overwhelmingly full, like someone's pumped it full of something warm and golden and completely foreign to his usual emotional landscape.

Y/N is looking at him, her expression shifting from nervous to concerned.

"Harry? Are you okay? You're just...standing there. Is it the dress? I knew I should have gone with the blue one—"

"No." The word comes out rougher than he intended, scraped raw by the emotions threatening to overwhelm him. "No, the dress is...you're..."

He trails off, shaking his head, a disbelieving laugh escaping his lips.

"I'm a surgeon," he says slowly. "I'm supposed to be articulate. I give presentations to rooms full of people. I explain complex procedures to patients and their families every day. And right now, looking at you, I can't form a complete sentence."

Y/N's blush deepens, but she's smiling now, that shy, pleased smile that makes his chest ache. "That's either very flattering or very concerning."

"Flattering," Harry assures her. "Definitely flattering."

He reaches out, his hand finding hers like it's the most natural thing in the world. Her fingers are cool against his palm, and he brings them to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs against her skin. "You're so beautiful it's actually making me stupid."

Y/N laughs that bright, unguarded sound that he's become addicted to."Stupid looks good on you."

"Everything looks good on me."

"And there's the arrogance. I was worried you'd been replaced by a pod person."

Harry grins "Never. You're stuck with the real me, I'm afraid. Ego and all."

Harry steps forward, close enough that he can smell her perfume, something light and citrusy that he knows he'll associate with this moment for the rest of his life. "You could be wearing scrubs and you'd still be the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

Y/N's eyes widen slightly. "That's...very smooth, Dr. Styles."

"I'm not trying to be smooth." He reaches out, his other hand finding hers, their fingers threading together with an ease that feels like muscle memory. "I'm just telling you the truth."

She looks down at their joined hands, then back up at him, and he sees his own feelings reflected in her expression

"We should probably go," she says softly. "Before we're late to our reservation."

"Probably."

Neither of them moves.

Harry's thumb traces circles on the back of her hand, and he marvels at how something so simple can feel so monumental. This quiet moment in her doorway, her hand in his, the city humming with life beyond her windows, this is what contentment feels like.

Not the rush of a successful surgery. Not the satisfaction of a difficult diagnosis. Not the thrill of professional recognition or academic achievement.

Just...her.

He's spent years building walls, maintaining distance, keeping people at arm's length because it was safer that way. Easier. Less complicated.

He should be terrified. This feeling, this bone-deep certainty that she's changed everything should send him running in the opposite direction.

But standing here, watching the way the light catches in her hair, feeling the warmth of her hand in his, Harry realizes something else.

He's okay with it.

More than okay. For the first time in five years, maybe longer, he's exactly where he's supposed to be.

Harry smiles, bringing their joined hands up to press a kiss to her knuckles.

"Come on, Dr. Y/L/N. We have a very expensive dinner reservation and a prescription to fill."

She grabs her purse and locks the door, falling into step beside him as they walk down the hallway.

And if Harry keeps hold of her hand the entire way and in the elevator, through the lobby, all the way to his car, well…

He's a cardiothoracic surgeon. He knows better than anyone how important it is to protect the heart.

Even when it's already been given away.

What do we think of this part? :) Thank you all for reading and for your support! I read every comment, ask, and reblog. It means the world to me 🫶🏻

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harrylover47

Literally squealing, kicking my feet, and laughing into my pillow.

ghstyles

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narrycherriesreblogs

I need to catch up!!!!