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flowerndpeaches-readingnook

ᵛᵉᵧₒᵤᶫᵒᵛᵉᵧₒᵤ ᶫᵒᵛᵉᵧₒᵤ ᶫᵒᵛᵉᵧₒᵤ ᶫ

𑣲𓂃 @gurugirl

𑣲𓂃 @watchmegetobsessed

𑣲𓂃 @zclhes

𑣲𓂃 @maudie-duan

𑣲𓂃 @fkingstyles

𑣲𓂃 @januaryembrs

𑣲𓂃 @tobesolonely

𑣲𓂃 @meetmymouth

𑣲𓂃 @mouthfulloftoothpasterry

𑣲𓂃 @harrywavycurly

𑣲𓂃 @harrysfolklore

𑣲𓂃 @haaarry

𑣲𓂃 @sunflowerstache

𑣲𓂃 @reiding-writing

𑣲𓂃 @reiderwriter

𑣲𓂃 @maladaptivescorpio

𑣲𓂃 @sunflowerry-vol6 / @sunflowerene-vol6

𑣲𓂃 @ohtobeleah

𑣲𓂃 @crowdedimagines

𑣲𓂃 @unabashegirl

𑣲𓂃 @jarofstyles

𑣲𓂃 @sushirrrry

𑣲𓂃 @esnyfreakrry

𑣲𓂃 @eileenrry

maudie-duan

YESSSSS!!! Such a good list!! Thanks for including me, I feel honored!!! Thanks for being so supportive!!!💖

harranarchy

MURPHY'S LAW MASTERLIST

In any field or endeavor, anything that can go wrong will—and the hospital staff agrees it always lands in Harry’s hands or on Esme’s desk.

NSFW | 18+ | MINORS DNI

cw: injury, hospital emergency, slow burn romance, angst, death/dying, workplace stress

watchmegetobsessed

FALSE START

A/N: a bit of enemies to lovers now that the ticketmaster wars are officially over!

WORD COUNT: 9.8k

SUMMARY: When an injury sidelines star football player Harry Styles, he’s forced into tutoring with the one girl he blames for ruining his season, until proximity, rivalry, and unresolved chemistry blur the line between hatred and desire.

MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!

“Congratulations, you’re benched for the semester.”

Coach Greene’s words blow up the tiny office like a bomb and Harry physically feels the burning on his face. Or maybe it’s just the anger that’s taking over him, his hands are curled into tight fists on his thighs and now even the aching in his left knee is forgotten.

“You can’t be serious,” he shakes his head, even though Coach Greene definitely doesn’t look like he is joking. He is staring back at Harry with an icy look and lips pressed together into a thin line. Harry knows him well enough to figure out that he meant every word, but he still can’t believe it.

escapismatbest

Almost, But Not Enough

A/N: Hi guys! So this is my submission to the @jarofstyles fic challenge. Also, pictures taken from Pinterest, credits to owners.

Hope y'all like it!

Pairing: Harry x Reader

Warnings: Angst, smut. 18+, Minors DNI

Word Count: 7.1k

Masterlist I Join my taglist!

⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐⋆⭒˚.⋆

This was it. Y/N stood in the corridor near the glass doors with her bag pressed against her side, a bit nervous. The lobby smelled like polished wood and expensive coffee. She was early. As there were no familiar faces, she pulled out her phone and pretended to do something before giving up and rereading the same welcome email for the fourth time, just to make sure that she was in the right place. The company logo glowed softly on the wall behind the reception desk. The branding screamed prestige. She took a slow breath. She had been given an internship opportunity at Atlas Strategy & Communications right after graduation – the prestigious internship everyone had fought for.

be-with-me-so-happily

SERIES MASTERLIST

Summary: Y/N (stylist!yn) applies to be a styling intern for the One Direction crew during the Where We Are tour. As she gets better at her job and closer to the band and crew (especially Harry Styles), some of her dreams seem to be coming true, but so are some of her fears.

~~~~~

A/N: Welcome to the 'Even When The Night Changes' series! It's my first fanfiction and I am really enjoying writing it. I hope you like it too! Thank you so much for being here!

It's all taking place from the middle of the Where We Are tour and all the way through the OTRA tour- the yummy Prince Harry and Long Hair Harry eras (however, there are more current updates)

bl00mingstyles

Becoming Home

Summary:She loved Harry Styles more than anything. But when a surprise pregnancy shattered his plans, he left - and she raised their daughter alone. Years later, Harry shows up again. Older. Softer. Regretful. And completely unprepared to meet the little girl who calls him "Daddy." As feelings resurface and their family grows, they must learn how to love each other again without breaking all over.

Since so many wanted the second part here you go!! Enjoy ☺️

(Chapter 2)

If you haven’t read chapter one you can find it here

The rest of the visit passed in a blur.

I laughed in the right places, nodded when I should, even helped Lou pick up some of Lux's toys from under the table. But inside, I felt heavy—like someone had quietly dropped stones into my chest one by one. Every time Lux crawled toward her mother, every time she babbled happily, every time Harry scooped her up for a cuddle, something inside me ached.

By the time we got into the car to go home, my smile had stretched so tight it hurt.

Harry was vibrating with excitement; he'd missed his family, and seeing them had clearly lit him up. He talked nonstop, recounting funny things his sister said, stories from his childhood they'd brought up, Lou's jokes, what Lux had learned to say since he last saw her.

I listened, nodding, but my mind kept looping back to his mother's words:

He might not ever want to commit.

You can love each other without marriage or kids.

I felt the sting each time they replayed.

At home, I forced myself through the evening routine. Dinner. Shower. Cleaning up a bit. Harry flopped onto the couch to watch something on TV, humming under his breath as he flipped through channels. I hovered in the doorway for a moment, just watching him — the soft curve of his smile, the familiar comfort of him.

And suddenly I wanted to be close to him.

Like if I just pressed myself against him, I might find grounding again.

So I walked over and gently curled myself against his side, resting my head on his shoulder. He paused, glancing down at me like I'd done something unusual.

"Hey," he murmured, brushing a thumb along my arm. "You okay? You're... cuddly tonight."

I swallowed. "I just want to be close to you."

He pulled me in a little tighter, puzzled but warm. "Well... I'm not complaining."

We stayed like that for a while, watching TV. I barely processed any of it. My mind was too loud—images of Lux, of tiny hands reaching up, of Harry's mother gently warning me that his life was too wild for settling down.

That I shouldn't expect too much.

That maybe I wasn't what he needed right now.

Harry laughed at something on the screen, his chest shaking under my cheek. I closed my eyes and let myself absorb the sound, memorizing it. I didn't want to admit it out loud, but I was scared.

Scared of wanting more than he did.

Scared of him eventually drifting away.

Scared of my dreams becoming something I had to hide.

And worst of all... scared of losing him entirely.

When we went to bed that night, I rolled onto my side and watched him from across the pillows. He reached out sleepily, brushing his fingertips over my hand.

"You've been quiet," he mumbled.

I forced a smile. "Just tired."

He hummed softly and closed his eyes, already drifting off.

I lay awake long after.

And the ache grew heavier, clearer, something I couldn't ignore anymore.

The Days After

It started small.

I would open Instagram or Pinterest to look at recipes or outfit ideas... and suddenly I'd find myself scrolling through baby names or nurseries. Sometimes it was accidental. Sometimes it wasn't.

I googled soft baby blankets at 2 AM.

I read an article about newborn sleep patterns while brushing my teeth.

I saved a picture of a crib I had no reason to buy.

Every time Harry walked into the room, I'd quickly lock my phone, pretending I was doing something else.

He didn't notice.

Not at first.

But the instinct... that strange pull toward the idea of a tiny, warm, fragile little life... grew stronger every day.

And with every baby photo I looked at, that conversation with his mum echoed louder:

He might not ever want that.

My chest tightened again.

What if I was falling in love with a future he never planned to give me?

escapismatbest

I'm loving this series! Add me to your taglist, please!

harrieatthemet

Chapter Five. The Reception.

She just needed air, but he followed the smoke. Over four years later the silence finally breaks.

Word Count: 10k

(Ch. 1, Ch. 2, Ch. 3, Ch. 4)

avenficrecs

ANGST

fiabesco by @sushirrrry

summary: “he yells at her for the first time and she starts crying and he feels really bad”

pairing: harry styles x reader

warnings: so much fluff

Nice to Each Other by @ijustmissyouraccenths

summary: based around the song Be Nice to Each Other by Olivia Dean.

pairing: harry styles x fem!reader

warnings: none. Just angst.

practistyles

sick (one shot)

in which Y/N thinks Harry is cheating on her...

In this part: lovesick harry, he's lowkey obsessed with her, he gets sick lol and y/n helps him through, classic ending miscommunication sorting out scene. fluff and angst.

note: this story is a kind of exploration of the cheating trope but specifically when one person in a relationship is suspicious of the other. It's not the typical fluffy/angsty fic and is mostly about Y/N working through her thoughts about Harry's supposed infidelity, and how when you doubt something you can sometimes craft narratives in your head that might not be true. It's a story about insecurity and loneliness, how your dynamics in a relationship can change, mixed in with bits of Harry and Y/N being in love.

Inspirations: the main character of Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, own experiences with being sus of people cheating lol

word count: 5.6k

makeyuomine

higher education au // h.s.

ORIENTATION DAY.

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

Word Count: ~3,000

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

Links below:

higher education master list

main master list

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

Panic. Just internal panic.

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

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

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

The last one.

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

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

My stomach dropped.

The only entrance was at the front.

I was going to be that person.

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

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

Then, relief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And promptly bumped into someone.

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

“Hey—I’ve got you,” he said softly.

I looked up.

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

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

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

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

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

His hands didn’t leave me all at once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The restraint almost felt deliberate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

♡ ♡

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

♡ ♡

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, I said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let me know what you thinkkkkkkk!

harryslittlefreakk

student

summary: an evening out with harry ends with you becoming the student OR heartthrob!harry teaching his girl how to feel good (inexperienced/virgin!reader)

part 2 of tutor / can be read on its own

cw: light angst, kissies, dry humping whatever it’s hot - i haven’t written smut for a year (!) so go easy please lmao

wordcount: 4k

MASTERLIST

fabstripped

The Space Between Takes | H.S (celebrity × journalist)

*the photo it's not mine* Summary: Fifteen minutes were supposed to be enough. They weren’t. One interview. Too much eye contact. And a connection that refuses to stay on camera.

Word Count: 6780 (got carried away) Warnings: Sexual tension, suggestive dialogue, power dynamics (celebrity × journalist) A/N 2: English isn’t my first language and I couldn’t catch every little mistake while editing. Please be gentle with me 🤍 Chapter One: The newsroom at CineScope Magazine, located in downtown Los Angeles, always sounded louder in the mornings than it had any right to. Coffee machines hissed steam into the air, keyboards clacked in uneven rhythms, and Luka, her colleague, murmured something unidentifiable while pretending to edit headlines. Something Y/N had grown used to it.

She’d arrived in this city four years ago for film school, pursuing the vague idea of working behind a camera but never imagining she’d actually end up here — at a real entertainment production company, covering film festivals and interviewing people she had written essays about in college. At twenty-seven, she was still adjusting to the title Junior Visual Correspondent, even if the badge on her desk attested it was real.

That morning, she remained at her small desk near the window — the one that had terrible stability but perfect natural light — scrolling through the updated press schedule for The Last Source. Five actors were highlighted under her name… and one she was pretending not to focus on too much.

“You’re chewing that pen again,” Luka remarked without lifting his eyes.

“I’m not.”

“You are.” He stretched, cast her a look. “Relax. You’ll be fine. You were born for this.”

“Born for it? I nearly called the publicist ‘mom’ yesterday.” She laughed into her hand.

“That’s still better than Noa DM’ing a director her sandwich order.”

Across the office, Noa raised a middle finger without turning away from her phone.

“Professional multitasking,” she asserted. “Also, stop looking like you’re going to faint.” She mocked her.

“I’m not,” Y/N countered, though she still felt the familiar knot of anxiety tightening.

“Right,” Luka added. “You’re not an intern anymore, so act like one”

Harry Styles, Lead Actor — 2:15 p.m.

Of course she knew him. Everyone did.

He wasn’t just another name on a call sheet — he was a constant presence in the industry, someone whose image had been everywhere for years. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been assigned to interview or photograph someone operating at that level. The nerves crept in quietly, settling deep.

And then there was the timing.

She had to leave now if she wanted to make it on time for the lead actor’s interview.

And suddenly, the margin for error felt terrifyingly thin. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

She was already at the studio where the interview would take place.

Every sound — the distant hum of the lights, the soft shuffle of crew shoes, the buzz of a hairdryer somewhere — became a drumbeat that amplified her pulse. Everyone around her was doing their job.

Lighting. Sound. Makeup. Publicists whispering into headsets.

And there she was, positioned in a chair that still held the warmth of the previous interviewer. It should have been comforting. Instead, she felt like a imposter

Then came the murmur — that small ripple at the door that always meant someone important had entered. The sudden shift in the room’s atmosphere alerted her before she even glanced up.

He was next.

The one she’d tried not to overthink

She’d already spoken to three of the five lead actors from The Last Source, and each interview had been perfectly rehearsed. Easy. Predictable.

But just hearing his voice somewhere behind the cameras turned all her practiced confidence to static.

Through the soft noise of the set, she caught glimpses of him — shaking hands with a producer, laughing at something a PA uttered. He took a small breath, someone adjusted the mic pack on his belt, and then he traversed the space with the ease of someone who had spent years being watched. He was careful not to step on the cables as he advanced to the chair across from her.

For a few seconds, she just observed. The calm precision of his movements. The way he rolled his sleeves slightly as someone clipped the mic to his shirt. The flash of a ring as he checked his phone one last time before slipping it into his pocket.

Everything about him appeared effortless

He settled down. The room adjusted itself around him.

“Rolling,” someone whispered.

He focused on her then — really focused — and it felt like the temperature changed.

“Hi,” he intoned. Just that. But somehow the word carried warmth, too much for a room that cold.

Her throat went dry. “Hi. I’m—”

He interrupted her — not rushed, not loud — just certain, saying her name like he already knew it.

The sound of her own name in his voice hit harder than she expected—low, certain, like he wasn’t just reading it off a sheet but recognizing it. The syllables slipped out of him too smoothly, as if he’d practiced them once in his head before saying them out loud.

Her pulse jumped. Stupidly. She forced a breath past the tightness in her throat, reminding herself not to stare, not to look as startled as she felt.

“Yes,” she managed, hoping he couldn’t hear the tiny tremor underneath. “I’m with CineScope, so it’s—really nice to meet you.”

He didn’t react much. Not exactly. Just a flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes, like he’d heard that line a hundred times before. Still, he didn’t avert his gaze. Instead, he offered a smile and stated gently, “Likewise.” — and that was enough to keep her anchored.

She cleared her throat, trying to sound composed.

“Thank you for giving me this little space to talk about your new movie.”

He just shook his head a little, accepting her thanks, waiting patiently.

“It’s been called one of the biggest premieres of the past year, and we’d love to know — what’s it like—”

He interrupted, tilting his head, curiosity cutting through his calm.

“What did you think of it?”

Her brain froze. “It was really good,” she blurted — too fast, too shallow.

A faint, knowing smirk played on his lips. “No, I wanna hear the real shit. Was it good?”

That single question knocked the air out of her.

She wanted to respond, but everything she could say felt too small or too careful. It was such a simple question, yet the way he held her gaze made it feel like a dare.

She didn’t want to seem like a fangirl — because she wasn’t one.

The silence between them felt louder than any sound in the room.

“I think it was great, like I said,” she finally managed. “The acting… that’s what really brought it to life.”

He glanced away for half a second — interest fading just slightly — and her stomach tightened.

Not enough.

Great. She’d just given the most forgettable answer of her life. She could practically see the headline: Rookie journalist bores Harry Styles to death.

She’d spent hours preparing — real questions, not PR fluff about co-stars and costumes. She searched her notes — pages she’d studied for hours — and located the question she’d written in the margin one sleepless night.

She raised her eyes again. Her voice emerged steadier, lower.

“Let’s talk a bit about your process. When you give so much of yourself to a character,” she began, “what’s left when the lights go off?”

That made him pause. His attention snapped back, sharp and focused.

He leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable at first — then slowly softening, thoughtful.

“You know,” he continued, voice low, “that’s the hardest part. People think acting’s about pretending, but it’s not. Most of it’s… borrowing. You take something real — something that already hurts — and you wear it until they say cut.”

He gazed momentarily past her shoulder, then returned his full attention to her.

“It’s addictive,” he added. “Letting people believe the version of you they like. Easier than reminding them you’re human.”

“That sounds… lonely,” she observed, and the softness of it surprised her. She was about to pull back when he tilted his head, half-smiling like he’d heard a truth he didn’t want to admit.

“It is. But it’s the kind of lonely that starts to feel familiar. Like background noise you stop noticing.”

The tiny filter between her brain and her mouth slipped.

“Do you think that’s the price of it?”

“Of what?”

“Being seen by everyone but known by no one.”

He exhaled slowly — a sound almost like a laugh, except it wasn’t.

“That’s what happens when you make a living out of being a version of yourself people can love without asking too much.”

He leaned forward, studying her with a focus that made the room feel smaller. His voice dipped—smooth, unhurried.

“You ask like you’re trying to get under the role.”

A sudden, electric charge filled the air.

Then, softer:

“Under me.”

The two words dropped between them like a spark in dry grass—small, quiet, but catastrophically combustible.

For a moment, she couldn’t tell if the heat that flushed up her spine was adrenaline, or something far more dangerous. Her stomach hollowed out. Every instinct screamed don’t react, but her body betrayed her with a sharp inhale she hoped the mic didn’t catch.

And he just watched her—calm, composed, as if he’d measured that line before delivering it, testing the distance between them with impossible precision.

He monitored her reaction, just for a second, before leaning back again. The words hung suspended between them, heavier than they had any right to.

That’s when someone off-camera stated, “Ask a question related to the movie.”

She panicked, not realizing when they’d changed course.

“Sorry,” she muttered.

“Don’t apologize.”

He said, voice low and unguarded, lifting a hand as if to silence whoever interrupted.

“I didn’t mean it.”

“I like to go deep.” He grinned from the side of his mouth.

Oh.

She offered a faint smile. “Then I guess we can move forward to something lighter.”

He leaned to one side, resting his elbow on the chair’s arm. That smile again — slow, deliberate.

“Or,” he proposed, “you could keep going. I don’t mind listening.”

For the first time that day, she forgot the cameras were still there. Forgot the lines, the noise, the checklist of questions on her clipboard.

“We can do whatever you want,” she whispered quietly, more to herself than to him.

His gaze lingered a little longer than it should have. She saw something in his eyes, but didn’t have the time — or the nerve — to process it.

“You’ve been in this industry for quite some time,” she began carefully, keeping her voice level, “especially coming from music, where people… expect a certain version of you.”

His eyes stayed on her. Intent. Patient. Almost too present.

She continued, softer now, the question sliding out before she could second-guess it:

“How does it feel now—stepping into acting the way you are? Taking on roles that are heavier, more demanding… more defining? Does it ever feel like you’re learning to be seen all over again, but in a different way?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

He just looked at her—really looked—like he was deciding how honest he wanted to be. Or how honest he could be, with her.

Finally, he exhaled—slow, thoughtful

“You’re not afraid of going for the throat, are you?” he murmured.

She wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or a warning.

Then he said, voice dipping low enough that the mic barely caught it.

“It feels like being a beginner and a veteran at the same time,” he admitted. “Music taught me how to be looked at. Acting is teaching me what to do with the parts of myself that don’t fit on a stage.”

A pause. His gaze didn’t move from her.

“And I guess I’m still figuring out…” A faint smile, dangerous, deliberate. “…who gets to see those parts.”

Her throat tightened. She hoped the cameras weren’t picking up her heartbeat—because she could hear it everywhere.

Y/N swallowed, her fingers tightening imperceptibly around her pen. She didn’t dare drop her gaze to her notes. Not when he was watching her like that—attentive, unhurried, as if the whole room had narrowed down to the two of them.

“So,” she said softly, steadying her breath, “you’re rebuilding yourself in a different space.”

He leaned back, relaxed in posture but not in attention. His gaze held hers with an ease that felt far too intimate for what this was supposed to be. One hand rested on his thigh, fingers tapping once—subtle, rhythmic, like he was keeping time with a thought he wasn’t saying.

“Acting lets me disappear,” he said quietly. “Music never did.”

She wet her lips before she had time to stop herself. His eyes flicked down for the slightest fraction of a second. Heat curled low in her stomach.

“And do you like disappearing?” she asked. A whisper, almost. The moment demanded softness; anything louder would have felt out of place.

He studied her—really studied her.

There was no charm in his face now, no mask, no interview persona. Just something open enough that she felt almost intrusive for witnessing it.

“Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes disappearing is the only way to come back different.”

The lights hummed above them. Someone adjusted a reflector in the background. But the air around the two of them had a weight, a warmth, something unspoken threading tighter by the second.

She should cut to the next question. Break eye contact. Reset the professionalism.

But the pull between them was quiet and magnetic, and before she could think better of it, she heard her own voice slip out:

“And who are you when you come back?”

His eyes darkened.

Not dramatically. Not performatively. Just… deeper. Like someone had cracked open a door inside him.

“That depends,” he murmured, his tone low and deliberate. “On who’s waiting.”

Her pulse stuttered.

He saw it. She knew he did.

A slow, quiet smile curved across his mouth—like he’d caught the edge of something he wasn’t supposed to touch, and was deciding to touch it anyway.

Before she could recover, someone off-camera cleared their throat.

“We’re… still rolling.”

He didn’t look away.

Not at first.

His gaze dipped—unhurried—from her eyes to her mouth, then back up again. A single, deliberate path. Quietly devastating.

“I know,” he said, just loud enough for the mic.

Electricity rippled through her limbs.

“Two minutes left!”

She blinked, inhaling sharply as if surfacing from underwater.

He leaned back again, perfectly composed, as though he hadn’t just shifted the entire energy of the room.

“Now I want something from you” he murmured, softer now. “Ask me something you actually want to know.”

She steadied herself, choosing the only question that felt right.

“When all this ends—press, premieres, attention—what do you hope stays with you? What do you hope remains yours?”

For the first time since he entered the room, he looked unguarded. Bare.

“That I was honest,” he said quietly. “With myself. With the people who paid attention.” A tiny pause. “With the people who mattered.”

His voice lingered in the air like warmth.

“That’s a wrap!”

The spell broke. The room exhaled.

He stood—no adjustments, no fluster—just effortlessly composed. Makeup artists, sound crew, and a publicist moved toward him.

He ignored every single one of them.

Walked straight to her.

Close enough that she felt the heat radiating off him. Close enough that her breath caught without meaning to.

“You ask questions like you actually want the truth,” he murmured. “People don’t usually do that with me.”

Her voice didn’t trust itself. He didn’t seem bothered by her silence.

His gaze dropped—slow, deliberate—to her mouth, then lifted again with devastating precision.

“Next time,” he whispered, “don’t soften it. I can take all of you”

Her pulse gave a hard, erratic beat.

That smile again — the dangerous one.

“Thank you, love.”

Before departing, he let the word slip so casually it almost didn’t feel intentional — except it landed squarely in her chest, melting her into the chair.

Love.

And then he was gone. Out the door, coffee cup in hand.

Leaving her in the stillness he’d made.

She tarried a moment longer, notebook against her thighs, wondering what you’re supposed to do after that.

Only one guest left on her schedule and before anyone could usher the next person in, she ducked into the restroom to wash her hands — to erase the tremor from her skin and any trace of him from her face. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

By the time she returned to CineScope, her nerves had settled into something like disbelief.

Luka was waiting at her desk, two cups of tea in his hands.

“Well?” he asked.

She dropped her bag onto the chair. “He’s…breathtaking” She was being honest — during that interview, she’d seen a side of him that felt surprisingly human, and the way he’d called her love at the end made everything feel slightly unreal, like she’d stepped out of a dream.

Noa leaned over the cubicle wall, phone in hand. “You’re glowing, babe.”

Y/N didn’t even get to sit before Noa’s eyes widened.

“Oh, fuck me.” Noa squinted at her like she was inspecting evidence. “That is not ‘I had a productive workday’ glow. That is ‘I just saw the fucking sexiest men alive” glow.”

Y/N froze mid–chair drop “What? No. Absolutely not.”

Luka set one of the teas in front of her. “She’s not wrong, though.” Luka was glowing too, from gossiping. “Christ,” he muttered. “I’ve never seen someone look this… unraveled. Did he eat you alive on camera or what?”

“Can we not do this?” Y/N asked, half a plea, half a warning. “It was just an interview.”

“Sure,” Noa ignored her. “Did he flirt?”

“No.”

Luka snorted. “That was quick.”

“Because the answer is no,” Y/N insisted. “He was just… professional”

“That’s the worst lie I’ve ever heard,” Luka decided. “Your voice went up a whole octave. That’s the ‘I just got kissed behind the bleachers’ octave.”

Y/N groaned into her hands. “He did not kiss me.”

Noa leaned in, eyes sparkling. “Oh my God. But did you want him to?”

Y/N’s breath caught — the tiniest, traitorous hiccup.

Luka slapped the desk. “THAT IS A YES.”

“Oh sweetie.” Noa patted her shoulder. “You’re vibrating. Your legs are literally crossed like you’re trying not to combust.”

“I hate both of you,” Y/N muttered, tugging her sweater down.

Luka tilted his head. “Did he say your name, at least?”

Y/N blinked. And that was it — that half-second of hesitation was all they needed.

Noa gasped so violently she almost dropped her phone. “He did. Oh my god.”

“It’s printed on the sheet!” Y/N insisted. “He was being polite!”

“No,” Luka said firmly. “There is polite. And then there is… whatever the fuck he does when he looks at people like he’s unwrapping them with his eyes.”

Y/N’s pulse thrummed in her throat.

Noa whistled. “So that explains why you walked in here looking like you just left a hotel”

“NOA!”

“What?” she shrugged.

Luka took a sip of his tea, studying her. “You look fucked, and not in a good way”

“I am not”

Both of them stared at her.

She sighed. “Fine. Maybe a little. But it’s just adrenaline. It’ll wear off.”

“Uh-huh,” Noa said. “Sure. Meanwhile, I’ll wait for PR to sent the first cut of the video”

Luka chuckled. “Finish your notes before Sally hunts you down.” He lower his voice. “Babe, that interview? It’s going to open doors.”

She wanted to argue. Say he was exaggerating. That it was just fifteen minutes in a chair with a famous man who knew how to make eye contact and turn it into a weapon.

“or her legs” Noa said, laughing.

Luka tapped her desk lightly. “And for what it’s worth… whatever the fuck happened in that room?” He smirked. “It didn’t stay there.”

Y/N flipped them both off without lifting her head — and finally started to type.

She wanted to argue. Say he was exaggerating. That it was just fifteen minutes in a chair with a famous man who knew how to make eye contact and turn it into a weapon.

Y/N turned to her computer. The screen waited on a blank document where she needed to draft a short press note and send it to her boss, Sally. She didn’t know where to start, or if she should mention the love at the end. She decided to leave that part out — no need to appear unprofessional. Instead, she focused on the content: tone, answers, the unexpected depth, the way he talked about borrowing pain for a role.

By the time she hit send, her fingers still felt shaky. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

That night, her apartment smelled faintly of rain and instant noodles.

It wasn’t much — a rented two-bedroom with a worn couch, a low coffee table cluttered with magazines and camera batteries, and a secondhand TV she barely used. But the soft yellow light and mismatched blankets made it feel like hers.

Her roommate’s laughter drifted in from the kitchen, mixing with the clatter of dishes and the muted sound of a sitcom. Y/N didn’t join her. She curled into the couch, laptop balanced on her knees, lit mostly by the glow of the screen.

Earlier, her editor had sent her the raw footage — asked her to review it, make sure nothing important had been lost in the edit.

Interview footage — raw file.

Click. Play.

There he was again.

The same smile. The same voice.

Except now she wasn’t the woman in the chair trying not to trip over her questions. Now she was watching herself from the outside.

She noticed the way she fidgeted with her pen. The way he leaned in when she spoke. The way his eyes lingered — just a second too long.

“Oh, God,” she muttered, covering her face with one hand.

Pause.

The frame froze on him, eyes locked on hers.

Her phone buzzed.

Noa: I just saw the video. Niiiice. He looked so good. 👀 Luka: I’d say more like hot and desirable… love.

Her heart thudded painfully loud in her chest. She locked the screen and hit play again.

Her voice wavered — barely — right after he tilted his head and smiled.

So they’d left the love in.

Of course they had.

PR never missed a chance to amplify charm. Still, hearing it again — soft, offhand, directed at her — sent a quiet warmth curling beneath her ribs that she couldn’t quite shut down.

She pressed her palms to her face. “Get a grip.”

It was ridiculous. He made people feel seen — that was his thing. The warmth, the attention, the way he could make someone feel like the only person in the room. It wasn’t special.

She knew that.

Still, her fingers hovered over the spacebar a second longer than necessary before she finally closed the laptop.

The room fell dark.

Her chest didn’t.

She told herself it was just adrenaline. Just the echo of a good interview. That tomorrow she’d forget the way his voice had sounded when he said her name.

But for now—

she didn’t. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The next morning dawned too bright for the amount of sleep she’d gotten. Y/N left her apartment with her hair still damp, the faint citrus of her shampoo clinging to the fabric of her collar as she hurried down the street. Downtown Los Angeles was already awake—delivery trucks idling by the curb, sidewalks glimmering with a thin layer of early sun, joggers weaving between commuters as though they owned the city. The familiar chaos should have grounded her, should have settled her nerves, but the only thing she felt was a buzzing under her skin that hadn’t left since yesterday’s interview.

CineScope’s glass façade caught the light in a way that momentarily blinded her when she pushed through the heavy lobby doors. The building smelled like cold air-conditioning, citrus disinfectant, and the faint bitterness of burnt coffee—the strange mix that meant she was back on neutral ground. She scanned her badge at the rotating gate and took the elevator up, watching her own reflection on the chrome paneling: tired eyes, damp hair clinging to her cheek, and an expression like she had left something unfinished behind her.

When the doors opened, the newsroom was already in motion. Phones ringing. Reporters arguing. Someone cursing at a printer. Y/N felt her focus splinter the moment she stepped out. Her tote bag slid down her shoulder; her coffee was lukewarm at best; her chest held that same tight coil she’d carried to bed last night, the kind that refused to ease no matter how many deep breaths she took. She barely made it two steps before Luka spotted her.

“There you are,” he said, already half-strapped into his camera harness, hair sticking up in a way that suggested he’d jogged from the parking lot. “Grab your gear. Press conference in ten. The five leads. You’re on photos; I’m on socials.”

It took her a second to process the words—she’d forgotten. Completely. “Right. Sorry. I—yeah.”

Luka studied her with a squint that was far too perceptive for 9 a.m. “You okay?”

“Just tired,” she said, adjusting the strap on her bag. “Long night.”

“Well, well, if it isn’t Ms. Styles herself.” Noa let out a laugh

“Don’t. Seriously, where you get that?” she laughed.

“Oh, I’m absolutely doing it,” Noa replied, scooping up a spoonful of cereal. “I watched the clip three times. He looked at you like—”

“You’re exaggerating,” Y/N cut in, cheeks burning. She reached for her SD cards and dropped one, then another, before finally getting them into the holder. Her fingers were not cooperating.

“Sweetheart, please,” Noa went on. “Not even your ex looked at you like that.”

Y/N exhaled sharply and turned to gather spare batteries. Her hands shook only slightly as she zipped the backpack closed.

“I am not doing this right now, okay?” she said, looking at Noa, who lifted both hands in a small gesture of surrender.

“Let’s go,” she told Luka — even though her pulse strongly disagreed.

They walked out together. The sun sat higher now, casting bright stripes across the sidewalk. Luka ordered the rideshare, and when the car pulled up, they slid into the backseat.

Y/N leaned her head lightly against the window, pretending to watch street signs blur past while she focused on steadying her breathing.

“You’ll be fine,” Luka said suddenly, softer than before. “And if PR tries to stick you near him again, I’ll pretend the camera died or something. I’ll save you.”

She shot him a weak glare. “You think I need saving?”

“The way he looked at you?” he said. “Yeah. Absolutely.”

Heat crept up her neck. She turned her face back toward the window, letting the glass cool her skin.

When the car slowed near the convention center, she felt the tension crawl back under her skin. Banners stretched across the entrance with dramatic shots from The Last Source. Journalists clustered near the barricades. Fans pressed against metal rails, signs waving, voices blending into a single rising hum.

Inside, the building felt like a living mechanism—lights buzzing overhead, screens flickering awake, microphones testing through bursts of static. The air smelled of cables warmed by electricity, too-sweet perfume from three different publicists, and the unmistakable tang of pre-event nerves. Luka navigated the room with the ease of someone who had memorized chaos; she followed two steps behind, gripping her backpack straps, wishing her heart would quit its frantic rhythm.

A PR woman in a severe black blazer approached the photographers’ row, her presence sharp enough to silence an entire lane of journalists instantly. “Reminder,” she called. “All photos need to be uploaded within the hour. Prioritize clean candids and group shots. Don’t fall behind.”

As she moved on, she let out a slow exhale—then froze. Movement at the far end of the room.

Six silhouettes.

The sound wave hit before the bodies appeared—fans screaming from outside, the rumble traveling through the floor tiles, lights shifting as hundreds of cameras lifted at once. She felt the air pressure change, like the room inhaled.

Then the cast entered.

Hale first, all bright charm and effortless charisma. The supporting actors followed, joking with each other, feeding the crowd’s excitement. The director waved awkwardly, barely keeping up with the pace of attention.

And then—

there he was.

Last to step out, but impossible not to see first.

Harry crossed into the spotlight with a presence that didn’t ask for attention so much as gather it naturally, like gravity itself bent subtly around him. White long-sleeve shirt, soft fabric molding to his shoulders; black pants loose enough to move freely; a chain resting against his collarbone with a quiet gleam. His hair looked like the wind had styled it out of spite—but in the exact way that made everyone else look messy and him look intentional.

He didn’t smile immediately. Just took in the room—measured, observant, aware of every stare and yet unaffected by all of them.

“Okay, that’s actually rude,” Luka muttered under his breath. “How is he allowed to look like that before noon?”

She didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

The cast climbed onto the stage, settled into their seats, and the panel began. She positioned herself where she was supposed to—stage left, low angle spot. Through her camera, she captured everything she needed: the safe shots, the predictable ones, the ones she could take in her sleep.

But as the minutes passed, something began tugging at the corner of her awareness. A subtle weight, almost like the sense of someone standing behind you even when no one is.

She ignored it.

Tried to. Until she accidentally looked past her lens.

And saw him watching her.

Not for long. Not in a dramatic, slow-motion way.

Just a small, precise moment of recognition—like his gaze had landed exactly where he meant it to, not where the crowd pushed it.

Her pulse stuttered.

She jerked her camera back up, focusing hard on her viewfinder as if the act alone could erase the moment.

It didn’t.

Because a few minutes later, it happened again.

He wasn’t watching the fan section. He wasn’t following the host’s gestures. He wasn’t scanning the room randomly.

He kept glancing toward her side.

Quick. Subtle. Controlled.

Like he was checking if she was still there.

Her fingers tightened around the grip. Her skin felt too warm, her body too aware of itself. She tried to ground herself. Listen to the questions. Let the noise drown out whatever was humming under her ribs.

She started uploading the photos she’d taken — partly to stay on schedule, partly to distract herself — while the next round of questions began.

Her fingers moved automatically: select, drag, label, export. Routine. Mechanical. Safe.

The kind of work that usually grounded her.

But today, every click felt too loud. Every progress bar too slow.

Voices floated from the press room speakers down the hall — the cast answering questions with polished charm, the audience laughing at all the right moments. It should’ve blended into white noise.

It didn’t.

Because between one upload and the next, she caught herself scanning the audio feed for his voice. Not intentionally. Not consciously.

It just happened.

A bad habit she hadn’t meant to form.

She paused mid-keystroke, annoyed with herself. This was exactly why she needed to focus. Exactly why she needed the distance the camera gave her.

She clicked the next batch of photos, forcing her attention into the work. The file bar inched forward.

Outside, someone cheered at a joke from the panel. She didn’t hear the words — only the familiar tone of Harry’s laughter threading through the speakers, warm and careless and entirely unaware of the way it tugged at something under her ribs.

She pressed her lips together and kept uploading.

Then a journalist from Variety asked, “Harry, what’s something you learned about yourself while filming this?” she made the mistake of looking directly at him without the safety of her camera.

And he was already looking back.

She didn’t blink at first.

He didn’t either.

He shifted slightly in his chair, posture loose, one hand sliding to his thigh, rings catching the light. When he answered, there was a curve to his mouth that felt… familiar, somehow. Private.

“That I’m terrible at hiding when someone asks a good question,” he said.

The crowd laughed when Hale elbowed him. He barely reacted—still watching her, just for a heartbeat longer—until the wave of noise forced him to turn back to the room.

By the time he did, it felt like something in her chest had lodged in the wrong place.

Applause rolled through the room, snapping everything back into motion. Harry finally broke the line of sight, leaning toward Hale as she whispered something in his ear. He laughed, shoulders loosening, sliding seamlessly back into the easy cast chemistry, like he hadn’t just tightened the air between them a few seconds before.

Y/N flexed her hand against her thigh, feeling the texture of her jeans under her palm—something concrete, real, not made of lights and noise and whatever the hell that had just been.

“You good, superstar?” Luka’s voice came from just behind her, threaded with amusement but edged in something like concern.

She kept her eyes on the stage. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are,” he murmured, obviously not buying it, but he let it drop.

Up front, the PR coordinator signaled the final question. Chairs scraped. Makeup artists swooped in. Wardrobe assistants brushed imaginary lint from jackets. Harry stood with an easy grace, adjusting the hem of his shirt, thumb brushing along his jaw like he was smoothing out a thought before it could surface.

Y/N kept telling herself to focus on the room, on the process, on anything that wasn’t him. But she couldn’t help noticing the way the cast flowed around him—Hale tugging playfully at his sleeve, the director gesturing wildly, Harry nodding politely yet with a faint distance she doubted most people could read. He combed a hand through his hair, gaze skimming the room, scanning—

Handlers began to move the cast toward the press wall. Luka nudged her elbow, and they joined the slow migration to their assigned section.

And then—

as the cast aligned for the group photos—

Harry shifted, standing center, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly as he listened to PR cues.

The first few shots were automatic—lenses clicking, flashes popping, the usual orchestration of “a little to the left” and “one more, guys.” she did what she always did: found her angle, locked it in, worked quickly.

The crowd surged with noise again—applause rolling through the room, PR shouting instructions over it, handlers ushering cast members in different directions. The panel broke apart in chaotic ripples, the kind that made everyone move at once.

In seconds, the cast was swallowed by the corridor—handlers, assistants, security, lenses, hands, clipped voices, flashing light. The machinery of fame devoured them whole.

Luka slung his bag over his shoulder with a groan. “Come on. You need to sit down”

She let out a weak exhale that almost passed as a laugh. Together, they wove through the thinning crowd back to their assigned table. Chairs scraped. Laptops clicked open. The post-event frenzy had its own particular soundtrack—muted, frantic, familiar.

Y/N connected her camera, the cable slotting in with a soft click. Her body knew the rhythm even while her brain replayed things she didn’t want replaying.

Luka leaned over her shoulder, chewing gum like he’d been born doing it. “Sent?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Just now.”

“Good. PR will love that. You’re saving our asses today.”

She wasn’t sure she was saving anything. Her pulse was still unsettled, her breath uneven in ways she pretended not to notice.

“You need a break,” he said.

“I need… something cold,” she muttered. “And something with caffeine. Preferably both.”

“Energy drink?”

She huffed out a laugh—small, tired, completely real. “Or three.”

He gave her a look. Not teasing, not smug. Just… concerned. “You’re shaking.”

She stared down at her hands. “I know. Its fine tho”

“Let’s go get it while we wait for new instructions.” They were tidying up their area, trying to make the space look less chaotic. Luka pulled out his lighter and a cigarette, the small ritual he used to shake off the tension. Meanwhile, she reached for her card holder, slipping it into her back pocket.

As they packed their things, preparing to head out to the hall—

A woman approached—her badge reading “Harper,” PR for the film. Impeccable hair, black blazer, clipboard tucked under her arm. Always moving. Always composed.

Her expression calm, professional… and looking directly at her, out of nowhere, saying her name.

“Oh” she straightened, pulse tightening again. “Yes, this is she.”

Harper nodded. “Perfect. I need a minute of your time.”

Harper didn’t give her a chance to be nervous before continuing.

“We’re tracking assets from all outlets. I just reviewed CineScope’s uploads.” She lifted her tablet slightly. “They are good”

“Thank you”

“We are setting up a controlled session backstage. Smaller team, minimal chaos. Just the director, the actors, and one photographer.”

She swallowed. “Okay…”

“I need to discuss tomorrow’s schedule with you.”

She blinked. “Tomorrow? I don’t understand”

“Yes.” Harper’s tone softened—just a fraction, but enough to feel intentional. “He asked for you.”

The words didn’t hit so much as slice—clean, precise, straight through whatever breath she’d been holding. For half a second, she was convinced she’d misheard. That Harper meant the director, or the cinematographer, or literally anyone else on the production schedule.

But Harper’s expression didn’t waver.

And something inside Y/N sank and rose at the same time—an impossible mix of dread and heat blooming under her ribs.

Why?

Her mind scrambled for a rational explanation, but all she could hear, looping with terrible clarity, was the way he’d said Thank you, love the day before.

She swallowed hard, pulse kicking up in her throat.

“Come with me,” Harper added, stepping aside so Y/N could follow. “I’ll brief you quickly.”

Luka made a strangled noise behind her.

Y/N swallowed hard, grounding herself with one steady breath…

And followed.

Harper continued, businesslike but impersonal:

“You’ll get the call sheet soon. It’s an early call—location is about forty minutes from here. If you confirm availability—”

“I—yeah,” Y/N managed. “Yes. I’m available.”

“Perfect, i’ll send the NDA and access badge.” Harper gave her a small, approving smile. “Have a nice day.”

Then she walked off to wrangle another journalist.

Y/N sat stunned for a beat.

Luka leaned in, eyes huge. “Did she… did she just say what I think she said?”

Y/N tried to contain her expression. She failed.

The crowd kept flowing around her—camera bags thudding, lanyards clinking, publicists speed-walking like their shoes were on fire—but none of it reached her. Harper’s words still hung in the air, clean and surgical.

He asked for you.

They shouldn’t mean anything. They shouldn’t feel like anything. But they did. A quiet shock, sharp and bright, like someone had struck a match against her ribs.

She shot him a look, but couldn’t hold it. Her eyes drifted back to where Harper had disappeared—as if following her might somehow rewind the moment and make it make sense.

None of this made sense.

Not yesterday. Not today. Not the way he had looked at her like she was the only still thing in a room spinning with attention.

She pressed a hand to her sternum, subtle, grounding.

Luka studied her for a beat. Then, in a rare moment of sincerity:

“Look… it doesn’t matter why he asked. What matters is you’re good at your job. Really good. That’s the only reason anyone requests someone by name.”

She nodded automatically, even though she didn’t believe a word of it.

Because deep down, under the rational surface, under the “we’re professionals, this is normal” script—

there was something else.

“Okay,” Luka said, clapping her shoulder gently. “We need fresh air before you melt into the floor. C’mon.”

They stepped out into the hallway—cooler, dimmer, quieter. The chaos of the conference became a muffled hum behind the closed doors. But as they walked down the hallway, weaving between interns and publicists and equipment carts, Y/N couldn’t stop replaying it—the warmth in Harper’s tone, the way she’d said he asked for you like it meant something more than logistics.

She didn’t want it to mean anything. But God, it felt like it did.

And that feeling followed her—down the hall, out the doors, into the sun-washed chaos of the street.

maudie-duan

Summary: "God, why was it always so easy in the moonlight? When darkness could mask the truths we so desperately want to hide, spinning webs we don’t even realize we’re weaving—all these tiny threads that tangle and intertwine, and now you had lost the thread somewhere between his hands on your body and the words the two of you may never speak."

A/N: Sorry for the delay, guys!!😅 I had the worst Migraines last week and could barely get any writing done. Hope you enjoy this part!

Word Count: 11.3k

Warning: Hard Angst/Soothing Fluff, Mention of Cheating, Mention of Sex.

The dooming ring of your alarm tore through your resting mind with a jolt of crashing anxiety, making your heart pound as the familiar tone echoed through your skull, ripping you from wherever realm you had been floating between, where dreams and reality didn’t exist, just the peace you had found right before you closed your eyes.

ghstyles

[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?

harryshouseenthusiast

Blind Date part 2

I hope you all like it!

I wanted to try a different POV for this chapter!

btw, I actually work with kids, so anytime I describe how kids act, it's based on real experiences lmao

Sorry for any grammar mistakes, I hope my writing is improving each time!.

Part 1

WC:3.5K

~~~

Hey Y/N, how is your day going?

The texts come through Y/N’s phone around noon. Ever since their date, they have been texting every day, granted it was only two days ago. Harry would send Y/N a good morning text around 6:00 AM, they text throughout the day and end with a goodnight text. This already feels different from past relationships, if they can even call it that, considering it's only been one date. Nonetheless, Y/Ns happiness is palpable at the sight of Harry's text.

My day is going okay, the kids are being little hellions 😭but it's almost their lunch time, so I get a break!!

How is your day going??

Something Y/N has learned about Harry is that he texts very properly, no emojis, hardly any exclamation points. Sometimes it can feel like he's a little dry, but she has to remember he's a CEO, he’s in business mode a lot, so that might reflect on how he texts.

Sorry to hear your kids are being little demons. Hopefully, they'll be calmer after lunch and recess.

My day is going well, but I have a question to ask you.

Sure, what's up :)!

I was wondering if you wanted a little change of plans tomorrow.

Okay, sure, like what??

I was thinking maybe we could go bowling at 5:30, so you can still get a nap in, then we can go to the restaurant I told you about.

Thanks, lol, glad you took the nap thing seriously, but yeah, that sounds good. And bowling will be really fun!!

Great, I’m excited. But I have to go to a meeting now. I will talk to you soon. Bye Y/N.

Okay, talk to you later, Harry <3.

If Y/N was excited because it's doubled. She is getting to see Harry even longer now! Plus, she hasn't been bowling in a while, so it’ll be fun.

Throughout the rest of the day, Harry texts Y/N occasionally just to see how she’s doing. Eventually, her workday ends, so she packs up her stuff and heads home. And, Harry, knowing what time she gets off, texts her.

Have a good nap, Love.

Heat rushed to her face. He's never called her love, and yes, it's only been a few days, but still. Harry is such a charming man, and his calling her love makes her swoon. She types back her response, her toes dancing in excitement.

Thank you, I definitely will lol.🩷

Harry loved “Thank you, I definitely will lol🩷.”

At this time, Y/N changed out of her work outfit and into sleep clothes. (One good part about her job is that she doesn't have a uniform, as long as she follows the dress code, she can wear anything. She typically goes for stuff with the kids' favorite shows, mix-matched or color-blocked clothing, cute dresses, and fun, very colorful outfits. She wants to wear things that the kids will like but that she'll like as well.) She lets the TV play in the back as she lies down and falls asleep.

She woke back up around 5, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes and scrolling through her phone a bit before getting something to eat. There isn't much going on on social media currently, so she stretches out of bed, uses the bathroom, and heads to the kitchen. She decides on a frozen pizza she's had in her freezer for a while and starts grading some work as it's cooking.

It's not like the work is hard to grade or anything, she teaches 4–6 year olds. If anything, the hardest part is understanding what they wrote. But that's pretty much the rest of her night, munching on pizza and looking over worksheets.

As she's about to lie down to sleep, she gets a text.

Goodnight, Y/N. I'm very excited about tomorrow.

I'm excited too!! Goodnight, Harry :)

Both Y/N and Harry go to bed impatiently waiting for their date the next day.

The day goes by agonizingly slowly for the pair. The time seemed like it slowed down. On top of that, their days were both pretty average, so nothing exciting to get them through the day. Eventually, Y/Ns day comes to an end, she gets home as fast as she can without breaking any laws, and texts Harry.

Did you want to meet at the bowling alley? If so, which one were you thinking about!?

He doesn't answer right away, but his message comes through around 20 minutes later.

If you're comfortable with it, I was going to pick you up. Is that okay?

Yeah, that sounds good! My address is *****.

Perfect. I look forward to seeing you at 5:30.

Me too!!!

She was going to take a tap, but she couldn't. Her anticipation and excitement make her restless. She decides to clean up around her house a bit to pass the time.

Once it hits 4:15, she hops in the shower. Once she's all washed up, she does her hair and makeup, nothing too crazy, something cute, but casual. She decides to wear pastel color-blocked overalls and a light grey sweater underneath.

She remembers from previous texts that he's dressing casually as well, the restaurant they're going to is family-owned, and Harry knows the family well, and to not stress about dressing fancy or overthinking anything.

Once she's ready, it's 5:20, and Harry has already claimed to be on his way. She just plays on her phone until she gets a knock on her door. She opens it to find Harry in dark brown pants and a pastel blue sweater with a pastel yellow collar. They have accidentally matched both wearing pastel colors. In his hand is a bouquet of flowers ranging in color. He hands them to her, saying, "You look very pretty, Y/N. That outfit is very you in the best way."

"I'm glad you like it, thank you, and we're kind of matching," she says, taking the flowers, looking at our outfits. He smiles in acknowledgement, mumbling out a ‘yeah, we are’ and smiling.

“These are beautiful, Harry, let me get them in a vase, you can just sit on the couch", she adds with a smile.

Harry comfortably sits on Y/Ns couch as she fetches a vase from her kitchen, cuts the stems, and places the flowers in the vase on her counter.

Once she returns to the living room, she and Harry go to his car. He, of course, opens the door for her, gets in his seat, and pulls out of the parking lot.

“So how was your day, pretty girl?” Harry asked casually. "My day was extremely boring," he added with a huff.

"Mine was as well. The kids were pretty typical, which is normally a good thing, but I'm very impatient, and the day went by slowly without any excitement," she tells him, causing him to laugh.

"I'm glad you were looking forward to this. I was, too. "Harry tells her, softer this time.

Throughout the drive, they make small talk about their week. But, Y/N has trouble focusing on what he's saying because of how good he looks driving. She doesn't even know how to explain it, just he looks really good when he drives. And the way his jaw clenches when someone cuts him off is hot. Maybe she shouldn't find him frustrated or mad hot, but she does. However, her thoughts are paused as she sees his hand slowly inching next to her on the middle console. Once his hand is directly next to hers, she takes a leap and places hers on top of his, hoping she read his vibe correctly. He adjusts so their fingers are laced together, she sees him smile faintly, but neither of them comments on it.

Once they pull into the parking lot, Harry turns to her.

“I’m gonna kick your ass, just so you know,” he tells her, his dimple popping out as he smirks.

“I highly doubt that, but I’m glad you have confidence,” She teases him back.

He scoffs, muttering a ‘yeah right’ as he opens the door for her again and leads her to the entrance of the bowling alley, and then opens the door for her again. While this is something very basic, only 2 of the men she’s been with have opened the door for her. It just goes to show how much of a gentleman he is.

They go to the desk, and Harry buys a lane for 2 hours, and they tell the lady at the desk their shoe sizes. Once all that is settled, they go to their lane, put their shoes on, and pick out their balls.

“When was the last time you went bowling?” Y/N questions

“It’s been years, but that doesn’t mean the skills went away,” he jokes.

“I went a couple of months ago with my coworkers, “she tells him as she puts in her name on the little screen. ‘You named yourself ‘H money’ really?

“Gotta have a good name for when I win.”

She rolls her eyes as she grabs her ball to take her turn. As her ball rolls down the aisle, she feels Harry's presence behind her watching. The ball hits right in the middle, all the pins fall, and the TV above them flashes the words’ strike.

“Don’t you start, that was just luck, it’s the first round.’

“Okay, your turn, see how lucky I am after this.”

Harry only knocks down 5 pins at first.

“Not a word.”

Y/N burst out in laughter, “Not starting off very well, are we?”

Through the game, they make a lot of teasing comments and jokes to each other, but it never feels mean-spirited, just fun. To be able to be a little childish with someone and poke fun at them without any offence makes both feel at ease in a way because it shows they’re on the same page, and they’re forming a genuine bond.

“That was straight-up rigged,” Harry whines as he puts back on his regular shoes.

“Just because you sucked doesn’t mean it was rigged.”

“Excuse me, I do not suck.”

“Harry, you lost both games by 50 points. What happened to kicking my ass?”

“Yeah, whatever,” he says as he puts our shoes on the counter and wishes the desk lady a nice evening.

He helps her in the car, then they start the drive to the Italian restaurant.

“Are you hungry?” Harry asks as he grabs her hand outright this time. That makes butterflies fill her. Regardless of how childish that sounds, Y/N truly feels like a stupid teen with her crush.

“Yeah, You?”

He nods eagerly. The restaurant wasn’t far from the bowling alley, so they got there in about 8 minutes. They pull into the restaurant and enter the building. An older lady wraps Harry in a big hug. Y/N remembers Harry saying he knew the family, so it makes sense his presence warranted this reaction.

“Harry, my boy, how are you?” the lady asks with a warm smile.

“I’m good, Nonna. How are you doing?”

“I’m fantastic, and who is this beautiful girl?”

The woman, Nonna, as Harry calls her, seems like the ‘I’m everyone’s grandma’ kind of person, and that’s nice, to walk into a place and feel welcomed as a stranger.

“This is my date, Y/N,” Harry tells her, rubbing my shoulder.

She gives Harry a knowing look but leads them to a nice table near the back.

“Here you are, the best seat in the house,” Nonna says proudly. It’s obvious she is proud of her restaurant with not only in how she talks to the customer, but also in how the restaurant looks. Everything is nice and organized; it’s clear she puts a lot of work into it.

She leaves them to order and to “let the couple have some privacy.”

“Nonna can be a lot at times, but she truly means well’ Harry says softly.

“Oh, she’s very sweet, H, and she loves you,” Y/N says, looking through the menu. She’s never been to an authentic Italian restaurant, but she knows she likes spaghetti, so she goes for that. Harry opts for the same thing, talking about how it’s his favorite here and is always craving it.

The waiter, who also seemed to know Harry, gave them a basket of breadsticks and two glasses of water before taking their orders. Harry orders for both of them. Then they wait for their meals.

“I didn’t ask before, but I’m assuming no wine?” Harry asked, remembering she told him she didn’t really drink. While that is true, it doesn’t hurt to have a glass or two occasionally. Y/N mainly doesn’t like the taste, but it looks like they have fancy ones here.

“Actually, we can get a bottle,” She says, surprising Harry, “But maybe something sweet, I’m not a fan of bitter stuff.”

“Do you like caramelly, nutty flavors more or fruity flavors more?” Harry questions. He sounds like an expert on wine tastes. Y/N was just going to say something sweet and leave it at that.

“I’m not sure, I don’t know anything about wine, but the caramel sounds nice.”

He nods and politely calls over the waiter, asking him for a “vin santo.” She looks over the wine options, just to see more about what Harry got, and her eyes widen.

“Harry, that wine cost $500.”

“S’not a problem, I wanted to buy it, please don’t worry about it,” he says sweetly. Y/N remembers Sarah saying he had money, but to casually just spend $500 on top of the money from bowling is crazy, because bowling is expensive as fuck.

She decides to drop it.

“What made you want wine. If you don’t mind me asking. You know you don’t have to drink because I’m here, I don’t care either way, I just want you to be comfortable.” She smiles at his words. He is always very respectful and caring. If he wasn’t, she wouldn’t even be out with him.

“You’re very sweet, H,” she calls him that for the first time. In one of her conversations with Sarah, she had called Harry that, and Y/N liked it, so she did too. She just hopes it doesn’t make him uncomfortable or anything.

A blush filters on his cheeks in reaction, and Y/N can’t help but think about how cute he is. She doesn’t want to seem crazy or anything, but she really likes Harry. Deep down, she has always been a hopeless romantic, wanting to be loved and to love someone else. And, no, she’s not there yet with him, but she just feels so giddy when she thinks about him, and it’s been less than a week. But no one can create a timeline for feelings, there’s no rule saying she can’t feel this much for him until a certain day. And when she looks at him, she sees his sparkling green eyes, that boyish grin, and his fluffy curls. Well? How is she supposed to feel?

~~~

Harry likes Y/N a lot. She is just so sweet and smells like what someone would think a rainbow smells like. It's very obvious Harry has money, he’s a CEO, for Christ’s sake, but she doesn’t bring it up. Sure, she'll ask how his day is, but she never asks for hits at wanting anything from him, and that is refreshing. Past flings or relationships he had would always ask him for stuff or dry beg, and of course, if they genuinely needed help, he would help them. But they only cared about his money and not him, and that made him feel like shit.

But, Y/N? Well, it’s only been 3 days, and he doesn’t feel like she would do that to him. Maybe he’s crazy for thinking that so soon, but it just doesn’t feel like she would do that to him. Plus, Sarah introduced them, and he trusts Sarah, she wouldn’t hurt him like that.

He watches her reaction as the food and wine arrives. He took the courtesy of opening the bottle and pouring them both a glass. She mutters out a ‘thank you’, and that's another thing. Her voice is so sweet like honey, he could listen to her talk all day.

He watches her take a sip, and her face scrunches up in disgust. (which Harry happened to think was very cute)

“You don’t have to drink it, love,” he tells her through a small chuckle.

“Sorry, I thought my taste buds had matured, but they haven’t. I didn’t want to waste your money.”

“No worries, I can bring it home or to the office,” he says to ease her.

Throughout the dinner, they both go in more depth about what they do for work. Harry learns that as a kindergarten teacher, Y/N spends most of her day trying to get the full attention of 25 five-year-olds, then the other half dealing with kid drama. It's ‘he took my toy’ or ‘she said she didn’t like my drawing’, with the occasional uninterrupted lesson. But he also learns she loves her students more than anything, and this is truly something she is passionate about.

Harry tells her what it is like to own a beauty brand. He is normally the first to evaluate new products. Typically, he and his team will draft a product, and a very small batch will be made, aka the prototypes, and if he and his team like it, a bigger batch will be made and sent to a group a testers, and if THAT is received well, it will launch to of full product online and in stores. However, there are a lot of late nights, creative blockage, sometimes he does collabs, and the other company isn’t the best, so the product is lower quality than wanted. Then there are the endless meetings and having to oversee 200 employees. But at the end of the day, he loves his job and the products he puts out. He would never release a product he didn’t personally like because that isn’t authentic to him.

The two continue chatting and eating, and before they know it, they’re both full with plenty of leftovers, thanks to Nonna. Harry pays the tab, says his rounds of goodbye, and Nonna gives Y/N a hug as well, claiming if Harry likes her, so does she.

The pair makes their way to the car, and Harry starts the drive to her apartment. The ride is filled with comfortable silence. The two just quietly existing together, well, minus the radio playing in the back.

Harry pulls into the parking lot of her building and looks at her.

“I had an amazing time tonight, Y/N. I honestly haven’t had this much fun in a while,” he said with such a genuine look in his eyes, like he means every word.

“I did to Harry, and I think it's clear, but I like you a lot.”

“Hmm, is that so? Well, great news, I happen to like you a lot, too. Can I walk you up?” he asks softly.

She nods, so he gets out then opens her door. She leads him to her apartment as he treks behind her. Once she reached her door, she unlocked it before turning to Harry.

“Is it too soon to kiss you?” she asks, eyelashes fluttering under the hallway lights.

“It most definitely isn’t,” he says as he leans in with her, following in suit.

She takes charge as she closes the space between them, her lips meeting his in a soft kiss. Nothing is expected of this, so it doesn’t go too far, but she lightly sucks his lip into her mouth, sighing against him. Her lips are soft against his, the plushness like a pillow cushioning him. They spark, and a rush of feelings is undeniable. A tingly feeling spreading all over as they pull apart, now looking at each other with no comments needed.

“Goodnight, Harry, text me when you get home, okay?”

“Yeah, I will, goodnight, Y/N.

At that, she goes inside and closes the door. He waits to hear her lock it, then he goes back to his car and drives to his house. As promised, he texts her once he arrives home, then gets ready for bed since he has an early morning. His thoughts are filled with an array of feelings, anxiety, hope, and excitement. He truly feels this will go somewhere. Despite it only being the beginning, he feels a strong bond forming with her, and he doesn’t want to let it go. He won’t be able to see her until next week; he has meetings all weekend. Typically, he gives himself the weekends off, but he had to reschedule two for his dates with Y/N, so he needs to work. But he doesn’t mind it; it was well worth it. He decides that he’ll ask her to be his girlfriend at the end of their next date. He hopes she'll say yes despite not knowing him for long, but the heart knows what it wants, and right now, his heart wants Y/N.

Tag List:

@gem1712

unabashegirl

hold on tight - one shot

posted on patreon on May 26,2025

Author's note: I hope you enjoy it!

📌 Please consider joining my Patreon -> Patreon

📌 masterlist -> all of my works :)

word count -> 3.5K

They met at a charity event.

It wasn’t glamorous—no red carpet, no velvet ropes. Just a low-key fundraiser at a local London primary school to help renovate the library and replace aging supplies. Harry had quietly agreed to attend through a mutual friend, drawn by the cause, not the cameras.

Y/N had been helping coordinate the event, wearing a paint-splattered dress and a badge that read Miss L/N. She wasn’t even supposed to be there on a Saturday, but she’d stayed behind to clean up after the face-painting booth exploded into glittery chaos.

She didn’t recognize him at first.

He was tucked into a corner, crouched beside a few Year 2 kids, letting one of them smear a questionable-looking rainbow across his cheek.

She’d only walked over because they were running out of baby wipes.

“You’re braver than me,” she joked, holding out the pack. “Most of them go straight for the forehead.”

He looked up at her then, and she blinked.

There was a soft moment of oh recognition—but not the kind that turned awkward or starstruck. Just a mutual pause. A little electricity in the air.

He grinned. “Did I earn a gold star?”

“You let Millie get that close to your face with a sponge,” she said, nodding. “You’ve earned three.”

Their connection was easy from the start.

He liked that she didn’t treat him like something fragile or famous. She liked that he listened, really listened, even when she rambled about lesson plans and book corners and how proud she was that one of her kids finally nailed their times tables after weeks of trying.

They talked more at the staff tea table later—about childhood books and crumpets and why the milk in the staffroom fridge was always suspiciously out of date.

She didn’t give him her number. He had to ask.

And when he did, she laughed, cheeks pink, like she couldn’t quite believe he actually wanted it.

That was how it started.

A few texts. Then coffee. Then long walks in hidden parks with baseball caps and quiet giggles. He met her friends one at a time. She met his therapist before she met his sister.

It was secret, but not in a way that made her feel hidden.

It was sacred.

Harry was the one who suggested they keep it private, not because he was ashamed, but because he saw how much she had to lose. She loved her job. Loved her students. She’d worked for years to build a reputation as a kind, capable, steady presence. If the tabloids got hold of her name, they’d tear through her life without a second thought.

So they lived in between stolen weekends and whispered I love yous under the covers.

And when he went on tour, it nearly broke him.

Tour started in May.

She drove him to the airport.

She wore one of his hoodies, still damp from the washing machine, and tried not to cry when she handed over the little travel pack she’d made for him: vitamins, tea bags, handwritten notes tucked into random places.

“I put one in your sock bag,” she whispered against his chest. “So you’ll have to actually unpack.”

He smiled, kissed her forehead, and tried not to show how tightly he was holding on.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promised.

They both knew soon was a lie.

The first few weeks were manageable.

Time zones were a puzzle they worked around. She’d wake up to grainy selfies from airports, blurry stage shots, the occasional late-night “wish you were here” when he couldn’t sleep. He called between rehearsals. She answered from her classroom cupboard during break, whispering sweet nothings while her kids screamed outside at recess.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was something.

And for a while, that was enough.

But by the third month, the weight of the distance started to wear on him.

The dressing rooms were too quiet after the high of performing. His hotel beds felt hollow. His team was always around, always buzzing with numbers and plans, but none of it touched the part of him that ached the most.

He missed her.

Not just her voice or her face, but her—the way she made tea without asking, the way she tucked her feet under his thigh when they watched movies, the way her hand always found his under the table when no one was looking.

And FaceTime… God. It stopped being enough.

Because sometimes she’d be exhausted, bare-faced in her dressing gown, talking to him with her cheek squished against a pillow. And he’d just sit there, watching her through the screen, desperate to crawl through it.

“I wish I could hold you,” he’d whisper.

“I know,” she’d say softly, her voice already thick with sleep. “I wish you could, too.”

There were nights when he nearly booked a flight.

Nights where he stared at her contact photo and hovered over the tour schedule, thinking maybe if I leave after the Dublin show, I can make it back before Manchester.

But he didn’t.

Because she’d told him what it meant to her—to be a good teacher, to be present for her students, to not give anyone a reason to question her dedication. The press sniffed out stories like bloodhounds. One blurry airport photo and she could lose everything.

So he held back.

He swallowed the urge. Bit down on the ache.

And told himself this was love, too.

Keeping her safe. Even when it meant missing her so much it physically hurt.

Today. they’d only gone out for milk.

And oatcakes, because he always forgot how much he loved oatcakes until she brought them home. He tugged a beanie low over his curls, she threw on a hoodie that had faded too many times in the wash, and they strolled down to the little corner shop two streets over like any other couple in town.

Harry didn’t need security here. Not in her sleepy little village where the postman still waved at everyone and the cashier at the shop called him “love” without blinking. People respected space. Or at least they used to.

He didn’t think twice about reaching for her hand.

They were halfway down the biscuits aisle. Her thumb brushed the inside of his wrist. He looked at her like he always did—soft eyes, slow smile—and let his fingers lace with hers.

Just for a second.

Just because he could.

They ended up staying out longer than planned.

It was sunny—rare for spring—and she wanted to stop by the butcher for fresh chicken. He talked her into a quick walk by the canal, where he told her about the unreleased songs he was still trying to shape, and she ranted about how one of her Year 4s had glued their spelling test to the desk and claimed it was “performance art.”

“You laugh,” she said, tugging at his sleeve, “but I swear I’m going to be the reason Pritt Stick gets banned from schools.”

Harry grinned. “I think you’re brilliant.”

She rolled her eyes. “You think that only because I’m yours.”

“Same thing.”

He kissed her cheek while an elderly couple walked past with their dog, and for a fleeting, dangerous moment, he didn’t care who might’ve seen.

By the time they got home, the sun had slipped behind the clouds. She dropped the groceries on the kitchen counter, barefoot, humming under her breath as she pulled ingredients from the fridge. He lit a candle on the table. She marinated the chicken. They moved around each other like they’d done it a thousand times—comfortable, quiet, wrapped in a world that felt entirely their own.

He scrolled through his phone lazily while she stirred sauce on the stove.

Until he stopped.

Until the blood drained from his face.

Until the noise around him—her humming, the sizzle of garlic, the occasional clink of a spoon—faded to nothing but the deafening pulse in his ears.

PAP PHOTO: HARRY STYLES SPOTTED HOLDING HANDS WITH MYSTERY WOMAN IN QUIET ENGLISH TOWN

His thumb trembled as he tapped the article.

There they were.

Grainy, yes. Slightly out of focus. But unmistakably them. Her side profile, her hair tucked behind her ear, his fingers curled around hers like they belonged there.

It had been seconds. Not even long enough to think. But the photo had been snapped, uploaded, and now it was everywhere.

Headlines were multiplying like weeds.

“Harry Styles’ New Romance—Who is She?” “Is This the Woman Who Stole His Heart?” “Teacher by Day, Popstar’s Girlfriend by Night?”

Harry felt sick.

Not because of the photo—but because he knew what was coming next.

Her job. Her privacy. Her life—the one he’d promised to protect—was now dangling in the hands of strangers with too much time and too little mercy.

“Babe?” her voice floated over, light and unsuspecting. “Taste this for me?”

He didn’t answer right away.

He just looked up, eyes wide, heart already breaking.

Because she was standing there in one of his t-shirts, smiling, stirring dinner like the ground hadn’t just been ripped out from under them.

And she hadn’t seen it yet.

She was watching him now.

Wooden spoon in one hand, the other resting on her hip, brows furrowed in gentle concern.

“Harry?”

He blinked up at her. Swallowed hard.

“Yeah?”

“You alright?” she asked, voice soft. “You’ve gone quiet.”

His fingers tightened around his phone. Notifications were pouring in like floodwater—calls from Jeff, texts from his publicist, voice notes from people he hadn’t heard from in weeks suddenly pretending to care.

Jeff: We have a problem.

Amelia (PR): Call me. Urgent.

Grace (manager): You need to say something. Today.

He clicked the screen off before she could catch a glimpse.

“They’re just calling me from work,” he said, forcing a small, tired smile. “Some tour stuff.”

She eyed him for a second longer, clearly unconvinced.

“You don’t have to pretend for me, you know,” she said gently. “If something’s stressing you out, I’d rather you tell me.”

And oh, he wanted to.

He wanted to tell her everything. That the photo was already everywhere. That her name would be next, dragged across timelines and search bars. That the press wouldn’t care she was a teacher, that she loved children, that she was good—they’d just want to know what she wore, how she got him, why she deserved someone like Harry Styles.

But instead, he stood, walked over, and kissed the top of her head.

“Just work,” he said again, quieter this time.

She smiled and turned back to the stove, and he stepped away with a knot tightening in his chest.

He needed to fix this.

Before it touched her. Before it hit her phone, or her inbox, or—God forbid—her school. Maybe he could talk to Jeff, call in a favour, convince someone to bury it. Just buy them a few more days. A few more moments before it all came crashing down.

Because for now, she was still cooking them dinner in their kitchen.

Still safe.

Still his.

And he would do anything to keep it that way.

He stepped outside to take the call.

Dinner still simmered on the stove. She hadn’t noticed the way his jaw clenched, or how his hands were shaking just slightly as he opened the back door and stepped into the cool evening air.

The second the door clicked shut behind him, he hit call.

Jeff answered on the first ring.

“Are you serious right now?” Jeff’s voice came sharp, already laced with exasperation. “You’re holding hands with someone in broad daylight and you don’t think that’s gonna blow up?”

Harry ran a hand through his curls, pacing the patio. “You say that like I planned a f–ing press release.”

“Well, maybe you should’ve, mate! Maybe if you’d told us—”

“Told you what, exactly?” Harry snapped. “That I’m seeing someone? That I’m happy for once? That there’s a girl who actually loves me for me and not the bloody circus that comes with it?”

Jeff went quiet on the other end.

Harry exhaled slowly, lowering his voice. “When was I supposed to tell you, Jeff? When was I going to squeeze that in between rehearsals and red carpets and twenty-hour flights?”

“I’m not saying you owe us your heart, H,” Jeff said carefully. “But you owe us your honesty. Your publicist is scrambling. Grace is getting calls. This isn’t just about you anymore.”

“I know that,” Harry bit out, turning toward the fence, gripping the edge of it. “You think I don’t know that? That’s why I kept it quiet. That’s why I didn’t want to tell anyone.”

“You don’t trust us.”

“No,” Harry said flatly. “I don’t trust the system.”

There was a pause.

“Every time I let you all in,” he continued, “every time I share something that matters—really matters—it gets out. It leaks. Or it’s used in a story, or sold, or twisted. And she doesn’t deserve that. She’s not built for it, Jeff. She’s a f–ing teacher. She likes early mornings and laminated worksheets and watching Bake Off. She’s not trying to be famous.”

Jeff sighed, his voice dropping a little. “Look. I get it. I do. But damage control only works when you loop us in. Right now, the press has control of the narrative, and—”

“I don’t care about the narrative,” Harry snapped. “I care about her.”

Another pause.

Harry pressed a hand over his face. The candle inside the kitchen flickered in the window behind him. He could hear her humming again, just faintly.

“I just wanted a normal life,” he said more quietly. “A little pocket of peace, something that felt like mine. Is that so wrong?”

Jeff was silent for a moment longer. Then, finally:

“No. It’s not wrong. It’s just… it’s not the life you chose, Harry. You know that.”

And Harry hated that he was right.

The line clicked, and suddenly another voice broke in.

“Harry.”

Grace.

Of course.

He didn’t say anything.

“I’ve been looped in,” she continued briskly. “First off, we’re handling it. It’s a small photo, it’ll circulate, then disappear. But we need to get ahead of it. So here’s my recommendation—issue a soft denial. Something vague. Maybe say you were out with a friend.”

Harry stared out at the trees behind the fence, heart thudding.

Jeff was quiet.

“Grace,” he said slowly, dangerously, “she’s not a friend.”

There was a pause.

“Well,” she replied, “then maybe it’s time to consider what’s best for everyone involved. If she’s not built for this, if she’s not comfortable being seen with you in public—if this kind of exposure puts her job or mental health at risk—then maybe…”

Her voice softened, but not with kindness.

“Maybe she’s not the right fit for your world, Harry.”

Jeff immediately tried to cut in. “Alright, Grace—”

But it was too late.

Harry’s voice cracked like thunder.

“Are you hearing yourself right now?”

A beat of silence.

“I didn’t fall in love with someone to run her through your PR checklist,” Harry snapped. “She’s not a f–ing risk assessment. She’s not a narrative to clean up.”

“Harry—”

“No,” he snapped. “You don’t get to decide who fits into my life like it’s a damn audition. She is the right woman. Just because she doesn’t play your game doesn’t mean she doesn’t belong.”

“You’re emotional,” Grace said calmly.

“You’re damn right I’m emotional!” he barked. “I’ve spent the last year building something real with her. Something good. I protected it. I protected her. And now you want me to throw her to the wolves just because someone took a photo of us holding bloody hands in a corner shop?”

Jeff sighed. “No one’s saying that, H—”

“She is,” Harry growled. “And if anyone thinks I’d lie about her, pretend she doesn’t matter, or let her be bullied into disappearing—then maybe you’re not the right fit for my world.”

The line went still.

A long pause.

Then Grace’s voice, cooler now. “I’ll defer to you.”

“Damn right you will.”

Another click—Grace had left the call.

Jeff exhaled. “Mate…”

“I’m hanging up,” Harry said. “We’ll talk later.”

“H, just—don’t go nuclear. Alright? Let’s figure this out.”

Harry didn’t respond.

He ended the call.

Then stood there, in the quiet dark, fingers trembling at his sides.

He had no plan. No PR statement. No media strategy.

But he had her.

And he wasn’t letting her go.

He waited outside longer than he meant to.

The sky was fading to slate, clouds hanging heavy, but he barely noticed. He was too busy spiraling—judging himself, dissecting every choice, every step that had led to this moment.

Should’ve worn gloves. Should’ve let go of her hand. Should’ve stayed inside.

But he hadn’t. Because he wanted it. That stupid, soft second of freedom. Of being in love in the open. Of being a normal man with his girl.

And now she was going to pay the price.

He exhaled hard. Pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

Get it together.

He stepped back inside quietly.

The warmth of the house hit him like a wave—garlic and thyme hanging in the air, the candle still flickering. The soft hum of a playlist she always put on during dinner, something low and jazzy.

She was already seated on the couch.

Two plates of food on the coffee table. Napkins folded. Glasses poured.

But she wasn’t eating.

She was just sitting there, hands folded in her lap, eyes pinned on him with a stillness that made his stomach drop.

He knew that look.

Too calm. Too quiet.

And then, with no drama. No tremble in her voice. Just honesty—

“It’s out, isn’t it?”

He froze.

His mouth opened, then closed again. He walked toward her slowly.

She raised a brow. “Harry.”

He sat down beside her, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

“How bad is it?”

He hesitated.

“Pretty bad,” he admitted. “They got a photo of us holding hands. It’s everywhere. And the headlines are… brutal.”

She let that sink in.

He glanced over at her, expecting panic. Tears. Anger. Something.

But she just nodded, steady. “I saw it about ten minutes ago.”

Harry swallowed. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I wanted to see what you’d do first.”

That hurt more than he expected.

“Right,” he said quietly, eyes downcast.

She watched him. “Did you mean to hide it from me?”

“No.” He looked up immediately, voice raw. “God, no. I just—I didn’t want to ruin dinner. I didn’t want this to take away a normal night. I thought maybe… I could fix it before you saw. Buy us a little more time.”

Her face softened, just barely. “And?”

“I couldn’t,” he admitted. “They’re calling. The team, the label, the press. Everyone has an opinion. Grace said maybe we should deny it.”

Her jaw clenched. “Of course she did.”

“I told her to piss off.”

That earned a short laugh—dry and tired—but real.

He turned fully toward her now, one hand reaching gently for her knee. “I didn’t want it to happen like this. You don’t deserve this chaos. You didn’t ask for it.”

“I asked for you,” she said simply.

He blinked.

“And I knew what that came with. Maybe not all of it—not this specific moment—but I’m not stupid, H. I knew what loving you meant.”

She looked down at her lap, voice lower. “I just hoped we’d have more time before the rest of the world did.”

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently to hers. “Me too.”

They sat like that for a long, quiet second—two people holding still while the outside world spun far too fast.

Then her hand came up to his cheek. “What now?”

He looked at her, steady. “Now we face it. Together.”

“Even if it gets worse?”

“It probably will.”

She sighed. “They’re going to say horrible things about me.”

“Then I’ll say better ones louder.”

She smiled at that. Small. Real. “You’re not letting me go, are you?”

He kissed her knuckles, slow and reverent.

“Never.”

stylesflowerfeast

Pressure Points

A/N: Got an anon request for a political discussion that causes conflict, but I changed it up a bit to keep things neutral. I hope you like it!

WC: 6.9K words

CW: Light angst, fluff at the end.

Summary: Jeff feels your career as an investigative journalist may not be the safest for Harry.

Harry squeezes your hand as the two of you walk up Jeff and Glenne's driveway. His tattooed thumb traces soothing circles over your skin, trying to calm you down. He knows you're nervous, even though you're trying to hide it.

“You’ll be fine,” he whispers reassuringly.

You smile - nervously - and let out a breath. “I’m not nervous.”

Harry gives you a knowing look, one eyebrow raised.

Okay. Maybe you were a little nervous... But only because this dinner is so important to the man holding your hand.

You've been enough situations that should have rattled you and had you running for the hills; sitting across from unsavoury, corrupt executives who smiled like they owned the world, whistleblowers who flinched at nearly every shadow and trafficking survivors whose harrowing stories had carved themselves into your bones. Those moments had been marked by your steady voice, your self-assured posture and an even heartbeat. You were a well-respected investigative journalist known for her nerves of steel.

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