Summary: Y/N lands her dream job and definitely does not plan on falling for Harry Styles — her charming, too-handsome coworker with rolled-up sleeves and a knack for ruining her concentration. What starts as harmless flirtation over office coffee runs, late-night texts, and passive-aggressive Google Docs turns into romance and a very unexpected ending. She was just trying to survive her probation period. Now she’s wearing his sweater.
Content Warning: Light smut scene.
If Y/N had a pound for every time someone told her how “lucky” she was to land a job at Maven & Moore, she could’ve retired before even walking through the front doors.
Instead, she stood in the middle of their marble-tiled lobby—portfolio tucked under one arm, nerves simmering beneath a very carefully chosen cream blazer—reminding herself she belonged here.
The agency was sleek and modern, buzzing with creative chaos: voices bouncing off glass walls, interns speed-walking with coffee trays, and the faint smell of eucalyptus diffuser oil that was trying (and failing) to mask the scent of collective burnout.
She was five minutes early, but she liked to be early. People noticed that kind of thing. Especially in a place like this.
A receptionist with blunt bangs and effortless cool smiled at her. “Y/N Y/L/N?”
“That’s me,” she replied, bright and breezy.
“HR will grab you in a sec. In the meantime, here’s your welcome kit—badge, laptop, schedule… and a company pen no one ever uses.”
Y/N laughed softly, slipping the folder under her arm. She didn’t care about the pen. She wanted her desk. Her first meeting. Her first opportunity to prove that she wasn’t just another hire—she was the hire.
And that’s when she noticed him.
She’d heard about him in whispers during her interview rounds—strategist turned creative lead, impossible to hate, stupidly charming. But no one had mentioned he was hot.
Of course, she’d never admit that aloud.
Short brown curls, neatly trimmed. White T-shirt under a dark overshirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms that looked too good for someone who probably spent most of his day typing. He was deep in conversation with someone, hands moving as he spoke, but he glanced over just long enough to meet her eyes—and smile.
“Hey,” said a soft voice behind her. HR had arrived. “Ready to see where the magic happens?”
Y/N gave one last glance at Harry and followed the woman toward the elevator.
The seventh floor was less sleek than the lobby and more chaotic—in a good way. Desks arranged in near-symmetrical clusters, walls pinned with half-finished campaigns and color palettes, the occasional potted plant trying to stay alive under industrial lighting.
They weaved past clusters of people already in meetings or arguing over font sizes.
“Your team lead is Harry,” HR said, motioning toward a desk near the windows. “You’ll be working closely with him. And—”
“I know who he is,” Y/N said, a little too quickly.
The woman smiled like she knew something Y/N didn’t. “He’s… sharp. But collaborative. And you’ve got quite the resume—everyone’s excited to see what you’ll do here.”
Y/N tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as the HR rep left her with a cheery “Good luck!” and disappeared into the chaos. For a moment, she just stood there, blinking at her new desk.
It was… perfect.
Sunlight pooled across the light wood surface, a sleek monitor already set up beside a few branded notebooks and—why not—a tiny succulent in a too-small pot. She sat down gingerly, unsure if she was allowed to, and traced the rim of her coffee cup just to keep her hands busy.
Her stomach did a dumb little flip. She looked up—and there he was.
“Hi,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t come out weirdly high. “I’m Y/N.”
“I know,” he smiled. “I read your portfolio last week. You’re good.”
Oh.
She tried not to beam. Tried even harder not to let that weird, fluttery warmth crawl up her neck.
“Thanks,” she replied. “I mean… thank you. I’m excited to be here.”
“You’ll fit in just fine.”
Then he nodded toward his desk—adjacent to hers, naturally. “We’re seatmates, by the way. If I’m typing too loud or swearing at my inbox, just throw something.”
“Got it. Stapler or pen?”
He grinned. “Surprise me.”
The first week passed in a blur of logins, introductions, and cautiously making sense of company Slack channels with names like #meme-dump and #fontfights. But through all the buzz and buzzwords, Harry was there. Not hovering—never that—but orbiting close enough to feel like a safety net. An annoyingly good-looking, absurdly competent safety net.
He helped her navigate the folder system during her second morning, leaning over her shoulder with a half-eaten banana in one hand and pointing at her screen. She was hyper-aware of his cologne—clean, sharp, and vaguely citrusy—and the way his laugh rumbled low when he said, “Okay, no, ignore everything that says ‘Final_v3_Revised_REAL_FINAL’—those are all lies.”
By the end of the first week, they had a rhythm.
Harry was focused and fast—too fast sometimes, tossing out ideas that made her brain spin just to keep up. But he never made her feel behind. If anything, he seemed to enjoy her questions, even when she doubted herself. He’d tilt his head, lips tugging at the corner in that half-smile she was starting to recognize as his version of you’ve got this, and say, “Okay, walk me through what you’re thinking.”
She learned his habits quickly. Mornings meant iced coffee—black, no sugar. He always stretched before meetings, standing up and doing a lazy twist at the waist that made his shirt ride up just enough to be distracting. His desk was somehow always clean, save for a few random objects that rotated weekly: a stress ball shaped like a brain, a tiny pink disco ball, once even a framed photo of a goose in sunglasses.
“Is that… your goose?” she asked.
“It’s aspirational,” he deadpanned. “His name’s Todd.”
The second week was when the teasing began.
Soft at first—little quips, exaggerated sighs when she disagreed with a design choice, mock horror when she said she’d never seen The Godfather. He’d roll his eyes dramatically and say, “You’re lucky you’re clever,” or “That’s borderline offensive, Y/N.”
One Thursday, she brought in homemade banana bread. He took a bite, closed his eyes, and moaned just loudly enough to make the nearby intern snort with laughter.
“Jesus,” she muttered, cheeks flaming.
“I’m expressing gratitude,” he said, mouth still full. “This is an emotional experience.”
The rest of the team adored him, of course. But there was something different about the way he was with her. It was subtle—no lines crossed—but it was there.
He saved her a seat during team huddles, even when others were scrambling. He remembered how she took her tea. He walked her out on late nights, hands in his pockets and easy smiles that lingered when they said goodbye at the corner.
Moments when their eyes held for just a second too long. When his fingers brushed hers while passing a printout. When she’d catch him watching her across the room with something unreadable in his gaze—like he was trying to solve her, piece by piece.
By the third week, her coworkers had started noticing.
“You and Harry,” Sarah from the art department said casually over lunch, stabbing a fork into her kale. “There’s a bit of a… vibe, huh?”
Y/N choked on her water. “What? No. No vibe. We just work well together.”
“Mmhmm.” Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Right. That’s what they always say.”
Y/N tried to brush it off, but her mind replayed the way Harry had leaned over her earlier that morning, hand braced on the back of her chair, murmuring about a slide change while her pulse decided to drum in her ears.
It didn’t help that they texted now. Mostly work stuff. Memes. Occasionally a “You see this shit?” followed by a screenshot of some client’s over-the-top email.
Okay, sometimes a good morning or don’t forget your umbrella—looks like rain.
She told herself it didn’t mean anything. That she was imagining things. That this wasn’t that kind of story.
A Friday afternoon. Almost five. The office thinning out. She was finishing up a brief when Harry appeared beside her, chewing on a pen cap like he didn’t know how distracting that was.
“Wanna help me choose a playlist for the client dinner next week?” he asked. “They’re young, rich, and impossible to please.”
“Dangerous combination,” she said, standing to stretch.
He tilted his head. “You’re not doing anything, are you?”
“You’re scrolling through fonts.”
“Which is pointless. Come on.”
So they spent the next twenty minutes arguing over songs—her trying to convince him Phoebe Bridgers was dinner-friendly, him making a case for Sade. He queued up a slow R&B track, and as the music filled their corner of the office, something thickened in the air.
It was quiet. Just the two of them, dusk falling outside the windows.
And then he looked at her. Really looked at her. Not with a smirk. Not in that teasing way.
Something softer. Warmer.
“I like working with you,” he said.
“You’re not so bad yourself.”
He smiled. That real one—the one that crinkled at the corners.
If she hadn’t said what she said the following week… maybe things would’ve gone differently.
But she did. And everything changed.
It happened on a Tuesday.
Tuesdays were typically uneventful—somewhere between “still recovering from Monday” and “not yet caffeinated enough to look forward to Friday.” The kind of day you just endured. But this one, unfortunately, stood out.
Y/N had arrived ten minutes late, thanks to a torrential downpour and a very dramatic umbrella collapse in the middle of Lexington Avenue. Her shoes were soaked. Her hair was in that annoying state between damp and frizzy. She trudged into the office with the grace of a drowned squirrel.
Harry, of course, was already there. Dry. Perfect. Typing away like a storm hadn’t just swallowed half the city.
She dropped her bag, muttering under her breath. “You’d think someone who’s always five minutes early would at least pretend to be human on rainy days.”
He glanced over, smiled, and said, “You made it. That’s all that matters.”
She groaned. “How do you always look this pulled together? It’s very ‘main character in a bookshop who also solves crimes on the side.’”
Harry tilted his head, the grin tugging at his lips. “You think I solve crimes?”
“You’d have a trench coat. And a mysterious past.”
He smirked. “Don’t forget a tragic ex.”
“Oh, definitely,” she replied, already laughing.
The morning carried on as usual—meetings, edits, half-eaten breakfast bars. Their team had a major pitch scheduled for the afternoon, so nerves were high, but so was the energy. Harry, as the lead, carried the meeting effortlessly. He always did. Smooth, confident, completely in control of the room without being arrogant about it. Even the clients seemed charmed—leaning in, laughing, nodding too enthusiastically.
Y/N watched from beside him, impressed, as always. Maybe even a little too impressed.
Later that afternoon, the creative team gathered in the lounge for a quick regroup. Someone had brought muffins, there were soft drinks sweating on the table, and Harry—fresh from a meeting—was leaned back in a chair, sleeves rolled, the top buttons of his shirt undone.
Everyone was a little punch-drunk from the long hours. Conversation bounced around, people cracking jokes, poking fun at themselves.
Someone said, “You two are basically the dream team now. Give it a few more weeks and we’ll all be obsolete.”
Harry smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure the robots treat you kindly.”
Y/N, flushed from the compliment and still riding a weird high from the day, laughed and said, a little too loudly, a little too easily:
“Please. People listen to you because you’ve got that voice that makes everything sound like it matters. I could say the same exact thing and no one would even blink—you say it and suddenly it’s strategy.”
But as soon as it was out there—hanging in the middle of the room—she felt it.
A few people laughed. A few looked down at their phones. But Harry’s face didn’t change right away. He smiled—sort of. But not the way he normally did.
There was something about the way he blinked once, slow and deliberate, before saying, “Wow. Thanks for that.”
He didn’t sound angry. But he didn’t sound amused, either.
She opened her mouth to respond, to explain, to soften it—but he was already standing, brushing muffin crumbs off his trousers.
“I’ve got a call,” he muttered, to no one in particular, and left the room.
Not immediate. Not dramatic.
But she felt it the next day.
He still greeted her. Still responded to questions. Still made notes in the shared doc they were editing. But it was all… different.
He didn’t nudge her coffee mug toward her like he used to. Didn’t ask what she was listening to when she wore headphones. Didn’t drop sarcastic commentary during team meetings just to make her laugh.
Everything was suddenly crisp. Clean. Professional.
It was like the light had dimmed between them.
She spent the rest of the week overanalyzing. Replaying the moment. Rewriting her words in her head until they no longer sounded like a jab.
It had been a compliment, in a way—she’d meant that he was compelling, that people gravitated toward him, that she noticed. But it had come out like an accusation. Like she was reducing his skill to tone and charisma instead of craft.
And Harry, for all his confidence, didn’t take kindly to being dismissed—even unintentionally.
By Friday, she’d all but given up on trying to fix it at work. Harry wasn’t cold, exactly—but the warmth was gone. The inside jokes, the easy rhythm, the small moments where he used to look at her like she was actually seen? Gone.
So naturally, she did what anyone does when they’re spiraling:
She called her two best friends and asked them to meet her at a bar.
They picked their usual place. Ava was already there when Y/N arrived, sipping something neon out of a glass shaped like a lightbulb.
“I got you the second-least sugary drink on the menu,” Ava said, holding up a glass. “The least sugary one looked like cough syrup.”
Y/N took the drink and slumped into the seat. “I said something stupid.”
“That’s kind of your thing, though,” Ava said brightly. “Be more specific.”
Before Y/N could respond, Clara slid into the booth like a woman on a mission. She was already peeling off her scarf and dumping her massive tote onto the floor.
“Sorry, sorry—I got cornered by that guy from my gym who thinks we have a connection because we both own water bottles. What’s happening? Who’s dumb? Is it you?”
“It’s me,” Y/N said, taking a long sip. “And it’s bad.”
“Ohhh, good,” Clara said, cracking her knuckles. “Tell me everything.”
Y/N hesitated, then groaned. “I kind of… made a joke about Harry. In front of the team. Like, during a casual moment after a meeting.”
Clara raised a brow. “Define joke.”
“I said people only listen to him because of his voice.”
Ava blinked. “Like… his actual voice?”
“Yeah. Like, his vocal cords. The way he talks.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Oh, babe,” Clara said gently. “That’s a tiny bit brutal.”
“I know! I meant it in a compliment-y way! Like, ‘your voice is compelling, you're charismatic’—but it came out like I was saying he doesn't have to actually know anything because he sounds hot while talking.”
Ava winced. “That’s rough. Accurate… but rough.”
“It was a joke!” Y/N protested. “You know the kind of joke you make when you're tired and riding an adrenaline crash and your mouth decides to go rogue before your brain catches up?”
“Oh, like the time Clara told her cousin she had a ‘very confident nose’ at her wedding?” Ava offered.
Clara lifted her glass. “It was objectively bold.”
Y/N let her head fall onto the sticky table. “He looked at me like I kicked his childhood dog. And now he’s just… normal. Like painfully polite. It’s like I got demoted to coworker.”
“Well, you are coworkers,” Ava pointed out.
“Yeah, but I was, like, coworker-plus,” she mumbled into the wood. “There was banter. There was eye contact. He brought me coffee once and remembered I don’t like the syrupy stuff.”
“Damn,” Clara said, biting a fry. “That’s practically intimacy.”
“So now what?” Ava asked. “Are you gonna apologize or just emotionally decompose in front of him until retirement?”
Y/N groaned. “I don’t know. I keep thinking about how close we were to something. I could feel it. And now it’s like I slammed a door I didn’t mean to.”
Clara studied her for a moment. “Do you like him?”
Y/N paused. “I like working with him.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She sighed. “I don’t not like him.”
Ava leaned forward, eyes lighting up. “Okay, so here’s what you do: you ask him out.”
“Why not?” Clara demanded.
“Because we work together! And I’ve already embarrassed myself!”
“Perfect,” Clara said. “Start from the bottom. Nowhere to go but up.”
“So am I,” she said, dipping a fry in ketchup.
Y/N stared at them both. “And if he says no?”
Ava shrugged. “Then he says no. It’s not a Greek tragedy. It’s just a guy.”
Clara leaned back in the booth and looked at her like she was tired of being gentle. “Y/N, come on. You’ve been tap-dancing around your feelings for a month. You clearly like him. And he liked you too—until you made him feel like he was some shiny toy with a good voice and nothing else.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Y/N muttered.
“No one ever does,” Clara said. “That’s why it sucks.”
They were quiet for a second, the music from the bar pulsing low around them. Someone at the next table was aggressively describing a break-up in full detail.
Then Ava leaned in, her tone softer this time. “Okay, listen. You made a dumb comment. It happens. You’re not a monster. You’re not doomed. But if you keep sitting in this guilt spiral like it’s a beanbag chair you refuse to get out of, you’re gonna waste something that could’ve actually been good.”
“I don’t even know what it was,” Y/N whispered. “I just knew it felt… different.”
“Then tell him that,” Clara said, matter-of-fact. “Tell him you said something dumb. Tell him it came out wrong. Tell him he matters to you—even if it’s just as a friend, or whatever the hell this is. But don’t just let it fade away because you’re scared of looking messy.”
“I hate looking messy,” Y/N said, frowning.
“I know,” Ava said. “You love the illusion of control. It’s very chic.”
“Y/N,” Clara cut in. “No more ‘but.’ Just text him. Don’t plan a speech. Don’t write a script in your Notes app. Just be a human woman who said something weird and wants to make it right.”
Y/N slumped deeper into the booth and sighed dramatically. “God, I hate when you’re both right.”
“Drink up” Ava said, pushing the glass toward her. “And text him before you overthink it so hard your thumbs fall off.”
Back in her apartment, the night felt too quiet in that way city nights sometimes do — muffled cars passing outside, the low hum of a neighbor’s TV bleeding through the wall. Y/N stood in the doorway for a second, coat half on, bag sliding off her shoulder, feeling like her body had arrived home before her mind did.
She dropped everything on the floor. Didn’t bother turning on more than one lamp.
Her makeup was smudged, but she didn’t check. Her hair smelled like fried food from the bar, and her socks were damp at the heel. It had started to drizzle halfway through her walk home — of course it had.
She changed into her oldest sweatshirt — the oversized gray one that said “Property of No One” across the front — and sank onto the couch like her bones weighed more than usual.
Her phone was already in her hand. She didn’t remember picking it up.
She stared at Harry’s name.
For a while, she didn’t type anything. She just let the screen glow against her face while her thumb hovered, frozen, like maybe he’d magically know she was thinking about him. Or regretting every sentence she’d said to him all week.
Then, finally, she typed:
hey. i think i owe you a proper apology.
She paused. Watched the cursor blink. That didn’t feel like enough.
i didn’t mean what i said the other day to come out like that.it sounded flippant but it wasn’t. you’re actually…
hey. i’ve been thinking about what i said the other day. and i hate that it might’ve come off the wrong way. i know i made it sound like you get by on charm, but i hope you know i’ve never thought that.
Then she deleted half of it again. Too long. Too heavy. Too much.
She let her phone fall to her chest and stared at the ceiling. There was a crack up there she kept meaning to patch. Or maybe it was just a shadow. Either way, she didn’t move.
Eventually, she sat back up and typed:
hey. i feel like i owe you a drink or an actual apology that isn’t in front of ten coworkers. if you’re around next week… maybe we could fix that.
She read it over three times.
There was no dramatic sigh. No tossing the phone like it burned her. Just a long, slow exhale as she set it down on the coffee table and pulled her knees up to her chest..
She just sat there, heart heavy and fingers twitching, hoping he still saw her the way he used to.
Hoping it wasn’t too late.
Y/N woke up before her alarm.
She blinked at the ceiling for a few seconds, not quite ready to face the day but too alert to keep pretending to be asleep. Her mouth tasted like the drink from the night before and her back ached slightly from falling asleep on the couch again, curled into the same throw blanket she always used.
She reached for her phone out of habit, thumbing through the usual—news notifications, a calendar reminder she’d ignore, an unread email from a store she didn’t remember subscribing to.
And then, at the top of her messages:
Her thumb paused.
She tapped it.
you don’t owe me anything but yeah I’d like that
A second message followed:
next week’s wide open. name a day.
She read it twice. Then again.
No dramatics. No “let’s talk” or “what you said hurt.” Just… neutral. Still, it didn’t feel cold. It felt like he was giving her the option to move things forward without making it a thing.
It was more than she expected.
It was… actually kind of perfect.
She sat up, rubbing her eye with the heel of her palm, and muttered, “Okay.”
The apartment was too quiet, so she turned on the kettle and stood barefoot on the cold kitchen tiles, scrolling through potential bars nearby. Not anywhere too fancy—that would look like she was trying too hard. Not the dive near work either. She’d run into someone from the office, and the whole point was not to make this a watercooler topic.
She made toast, added too much butter, and leaned her hip against the counter while typing her reply.
how do you feel about tuesday? somewhere low-key. i promise to behave this time.
She stared at the last line for a second.
It felt light enough. Honest, but not clingy.
Then she took a bite of her toast, still slightly warm, and set her phone down on the counter without waiting for the little “read” checkmark.
She’d figure out the details later.
But Tuesday?
That was something.
The weekend came and went, but Harry never really left her mind.
She kept it together. Ran errands. Cleaned her apartment like she was trying to wipe her brain clean, too. Pretended to be annoyed when Clara asked for updates every six hours, and avoided Ava’s “so have you planned your outfit yet” texts entirely.
She didn’t spiral.
But she did think about him.
Often. And especially when she didn’t want to.
By Monday morning, she’d half convinced herself it was fine. Normal. Just drinks. Just Harry. Nothing to freak out about.
She was walking toward the kitchen with her mug in hand—already mentally preparing herself for the weak office coffee—when she saw him rounding the corner.
He was wearing one of those outfits that somehow looked unintentional and perfect at the same time: navy trousers, a white t-shirt under a dark cardigan, and a lanyard he never actually needed but wore anyway. Hair slightly messier than usual, eyes sharp but calm.
They locked eyes for a second.
And then he smiled. A real one. Not the tight, clipped one from last week. Not forced, not tense.
“Morning,” he said, stepping aside so she could pass.
“Morning,” she replied, matching his tone—cool, casual. No big deal.
He held the kitchen door open for her and followed her in. She was painfully aware of the two feet of space between them. Of how normal this was. And how not-normal it felt, knowing tomorrow night they’d be sitting in a bar alone and trying to be honest again.
“How was your weekend?” he asked, pouring himself a coffee.
She shrugged lightly. “Quiet. Tried to do laundry. Failed.”
Harry chuckled. “Strong effort, though.”
“Visited my mum,” he said, stirring his coffee. “She made me take home leftovers like I hadn’t eaten in three weeks.”
Y/N smiled, distracted for a second by the image of him sitting in a kitchen somewhere warm, fending off Tupperware with a half-hearted protest.
He looked at her then—really looked—and said, “Not until tomorrow.”
Her breath caught for just a split second. But she held steady.
“Right,” she said, soft. “Tomorrow.”
He didn’t say anything else. Just gave her the smallest nod, like he was confirming they were still good. Still on the same page.
And then he left the room. It made her stomach flip a little. Not in a bad way. Just in the okay-so-this-is-really-happening kind of way.
The next day, she found herself in front of her closet at 5:40 p.m., half-dressed and whispering curses under her breath. Nothing looked right. Everything felt too try-hard or not enough. She wasn’t trying to impress him, but she didn’t want to look like she’d come straight from work either.
Eventually, she landed on a black knit top, a leather jacket, and the jeans that actually fit her the way she liked. Comfortable. Sharp enough to feel put together, soft enough to feel like herself.
Well—she did. But she still left the apartment on time.
She always did, mostly because it gave her control. Over the setting, the nerves, the awkward hello. She chose a small table in the back near the window—far enough from the bar to hear each other, close enough to the door that she didn’t have to pretend she was doing something else while she waited.
Her phone stayed face-down on the table. Her drink—gin and tonic, no frills—sat half-finished when he walked in.
She looked up and felt that little jolt. The one that had started happening more often lately.
Harry had on a dark sweater, black coat draped over one arm, and that same kind of quiet confidence he wore so naturally, like he wasn’t trying at all. His hair looked freshly pushed back, a little messy at the ends, and the gold chain at his neck caught the warm bar lighting just enough to be annoying.
He spotted her immediately.
“Hey,” he said, smiling as he slid into the seat across from her.
“Hey.” She mirrored the smile, unsure what to do with her hands, so she adjusted her sleeves unnecessarily. “You found it okay?”
“Did a loop around the block like an idiot first, but yeah.”
There was a beat of quiet while he looked over the menu. She studied his face briefly while he wasn’t looking—he looked a little tired, but relaxed. Comfortable.
A server came by and he ordered a whisky neat. Simple.
“So,” he said once they were alone again, resting his forearms on the table. “No work talk, right?”
“Can I at least ask how your day was?”
She grinned. “Only if you want a very detailed play-by-play about me arguing with a printer.”
Conversation started slow—small things. What she was reading lately. A movie he watched twice in one weekend out of boredom. It wasn’t tense, but there was still a strange politeness between them. Like neither of them knew how far they could lean in just yet.
Eventually, she took a sip of her drink and leaned back, tucking her hair behind her ear.
“Okay,” she said. “Let me just get this part out of the way.”
Harry tilted his head. “The part where you apologize?”
He nodded slowly. “Go on then.”
She smiled despite herself. “I really am sorry for what I said last week. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean it the way it came out.”
“I know you didn’t,” he said, not looking away.
“It was a dumb thing to say.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Have I?”
He shrugged, his mouth twitching. “You once called me ‘a walking Pinterest board for rich introverts.’”
She burst out laughing. “That was objectively accurate.”
“Still hurtful,” he said, mock serious.
“I thought you liked being called mysterious.”
“I like being called brilliant,” he replied, grinning now. “Or at the very least, devastatingly handsome.”
“Oh my god,” she laughed, shaking her head. “There it is.”
“That thing you do. Where you say something cocky but somehow get away with it because your delivery is so smooth.”
She tried not to smile. Failed. “A little.”
Harry leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand. “That’s good. Because I was actually kind of nervous about tonight.”
“You were?” she asked, surprised.
“Yeah,” he said simply. “Didn’t know if this would be weird. Or if you’d show up just to cross it off your list of regrets.”
She paused. “I thought you might not show.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“I don’t know. You were… different last week.”
“You made a weird comment. I sulked about it. Then you texted me, and I realized I’d rather have one awkward drink with you than spend another week pretending like I don’t miss our conversations.”
Her heart skipped. Just once, but enough to notice.
“Oh,” she said softly. “Well. I missed them too.”
He smiled again—softer this time. “Good. Let’s not mess it up again.”
He lifted his glass. “To a fresh start?”
She clinked hers against his. “To pretending we’re not both weird about feelings.”
He laughed into his drink.
And just like that, the tension finally cracked—melted under the ease they used to have, the banter slipping back into place like it had just been waiting for one of them to say the right thing.
The change didn’t happen all at once.
There was no grand declaration, no dramatic pause in the hallway while someone said I think I like you. It was slower than that—quieter. But it was real. And Y/N felt it.
The morning after their not-date date, Harry walked into the office with two coffees in hand—hers already made exactly how she liked it—and dropped it on her desk without a word. Just a smirk. She looked up at him, slightly suspicious.
“Is this a peace offering or a bribe?”
He leaned against her desk, took a sip of his own coffee. “Neither. Just wanted to give you something that wouldn’t get me in trouble with HR.”
She laughed, cheeks warming. “Well. Thank you. I’ll only report you if it’s decaf.”
Little things.
A muffin on her chair. A sticky note doodle left on his monitor.
Her pulling his headphones off without warning, only to find him already smiling like he knew she was going to.
At meetings, he sat next to her every time. Sometimes too close. Once, she caught his foot nudging hers under the conference table. She glared at him. He winked.
They weren’t trying to hide it exactly. But they weren’t announcing anything either. Mostly because they didn’t know what this was. Not yet. But it felt like something.
And outside the office? That was changing too.
They texted now. All the time.
It started with casual stuff—TikToks, screenshots of unhinged client emails, memes with captions like you this morning in the kitchen. But then it shifted.
Late night:
HARRY: still awake?
Y/N: debating if eating cereal at 1am makes me a genius or a gremlin
HARRY: i vote genius
Y/N: you would. you love chaos disguised as charm.
HARRY: that feels like a compliment
Y/N: ...it wasn’t
HARRY: still taking it
And then there were the lunches.
The first one was spontaneous—she’d had a horrible morning, and Harry had caught her glaring at her screen like it had personally betrayed her. Without a word, he grabbed her coat and said, “Come on. We’re getting real food.”
Sometimes they went to the café two blocks down where the barista knew their names. Other days, they grabbed takeout and ate it on a bench outside, their knees bumping lightly as they unwrapped sandwiches and talked about everything except work.
He asked questions—real ones. Not just polite filler. Stuff like what kind of kid were you?, what scares you the most but also secretly thrills you?, have you ever been in love?She dodged that last one.
But she asked things back. She wanted to know the small stuff. What his sister was like. Why he always smelled like cedar and oranges. How he got into this industry at all.
And now, they had another date planned.
Not just drinks. Dinner this time. Somewhere cozy, tucked away in the West Village, with low lights and too many candles.
He’d picked it. Told her it was “low-pressure.”
Then followed it up with: but i might wear a proper shirt, just in case you bring up my tragic introvert wardrobe again.
She was nervous. But not in a bad way. In a something’s unfolding and I don’t want to mess it up kind of way.
At the office on Thursday afternoon, she caught him looking at her from across the room during a meeting. Not intense. Not dramatic. Just... there. Quietly steady.
And when the meeting ended and people began to file out, he stayed behind.
Walked up to her. Close enough to make her heart tick a little faster.
“Tomorrow,” he said, low and easy.
She raised a brow. “Still on?”
He tilted his head, smiling. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
The place he picked was small, tucked into a quiet West Village block, glowing with warm light through the windows and smelling faintly of rosemary and wine. It felt relaxed, cozy. The kind of restaurant that didn’t need to be loud to be cool.
Y/N spotted him at a corner table near the back, nursing a drink and scrolling his phone. He looked comfortable there, legs stretched a little too far under the table, one hand resting on the rim of his glass.
He looked up before she could say anything. His smile appeared instantly—soft, a little crooked, and warm enough to make her stomach flip.
“Hey,” he said, standing as she reached the table. “You made it.”
He shrugged. “I was half-convinced you’d flake just to maintain the mystery.”
“I’m not that unpredictable,” she said, sliding into the seat across from him.
There was a moment where his eyes lingered—not in a heavy way, but in a way that made it very obvious he noticed what she was wearing. The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t say anything.
The waiter came and went. He let her choose the wine, teasing her about pretending to read the menu like she wasn’t going to pick based on the vibe of the label.
Conversation flowed easily—Harry had a way of keeping things light without letting them turn shallow. He asked about her week. She asked if he’d ever gotten around to fixing the broken drawer in his kitchen he’d been complaining about. He hadn’t.
But somewhere between the second glass of wine and the plate of shared pasta, something shifted.
He leaned in a little closer when she spoke. Not dramatically—just enough to make it feel like her words were meant only for him. When she reached across the table to grab the salt, he didn’t pull his hand away right away when their fingers brushed.
And once—just once—he let his hand rest on the side of the table, close enough that her knee grazed it.
If he noticed, he didn’t say anything.
If she moved her leg slightly closer… well, he didn’t move his hand either.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he said after a beat.
She looked up at him, surprised. “Am I?”
“A little. Thought maybe you were nervous.”
She smiled into her glass. “Why would I be nervous?”
He shrugged, mouth curving. “Because I’m very charming and slightly annoying. That combination tends to throw people off.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re more subtle than that.”
“I can be,” he said, tone a little lower now. “Sometimes.”
The air went still for a second, like the moment hovered somewhere between teasing and something else. But then the waiter returned with the check, and Harry leaned back again, letting the tension settle without pushing it.
When they left the restaurant, it was still early enough that the city wasn’t completely quiet. The streets were lit up, but calm. She walked beside him, hands in her pockets.
He didn’t grab her hand. He didn’t pull her close.
But his shoulder bumped hers once, gently. Then again, intentionally.
“Thanks for coming tonight,” he said after a while, voice quiet now.
They stopped at the corner, waiting for the light to change. He turned slightly toward her, looking at her fully now. His eyes were soft, but direct.
“I like this,” he said. “You and me, like this.”
Y/N felt something warm creep up her neck, but she didn’t look away. “I like it too.”
They stood there for a second too long.
Then he smiled again—smaller this time—and nodded toward the direction of the subway. “Can I walk you to the station?”
“You’re not trying to get me to come home with you?”
He raised an eyebrow. “What kind of man do you take me for?”
“The kind who flirts with his coworker for a month and finally asks her out?”
“I’ll have you know,” he said, gently bumping her arm with his, “I was professionally respectful for a solid three weeks.”
“Impressive,” she teased.
And as they kept walking, their arms brushed again. Neither of them moved.
Group Chat: “Chaos Committee 💅🔥🍷”
Clara: Sooo
How’d it go last night?
Ava: Yeah don’t make us guess
We were very respectfully trying not to text you during the entire dinner window 🙃
Y/N: Appreciate the restraint
Also: it was nice
Really nice, actually
Clara: Ugh
You’re being vague
You like him
Y/N: I do.
I’m trying not to be annoying about it
But yeah
Ava: Okay but give us something
What was the vibe?
Better than the first one?
Y/N: Yeah
Way less awkward
He was calm, funny, kind of... quiet but not in a bad way
And he looked really good
Wore that green shirt again
Clara: Oh. The shirt.
The rolled sleeves shirt
Y/N: Yup
Forearms out
Rings on
And the waiter definitely thought we were already together
Y/N: He was kind of extra warm last night
Little touches here and there
Like when I reached for my glass and his hand brushed mine
Or how our knees kept bumping under the table and he didn’t move
Clara: So the tension was doing push-ups under the table
Got it
Y/N: Basically
He said “I like this. You and me, like this”
Then immediately acted like he hadn’t just said something that made my brain stop functioning
Ava: That man is running a very calculated long game
Respect
Clara: So… what happened after dinner?
Y/N: He walked me to the train
Talked the whole way
Lightly roasted my Spotify taste
Then gave me this soft smile and told me to text when I got home
Y/N: Yup
No kiss
No lingering hand on the small of my back
Just a really warm goodbye and the sense that he’s waiting for something
Ava: Waiting for you to make the next move maybe?
Y/N: I don’t know
He’s so good at walking right up to the line and stopping
Like he wants me to notice it but doesn’t want to cross it without me saying yes
Clara: Honestly
I hate how respectful that is
Y/N: I know
It’s actually making me lose my mind
Ava: Okay but you’re into it
Y/N: I see him Monday
And I’m pretending like it’s just another normal day
And not like I’ve been thinking about his hand brushing my knee for 12 straight hours
Ava: Good plan
That always works out great for people
Monday – Office, 10:42 a.m.
Emails. Edits. Slack notifications that piled up faster than she could read them. But Y/N couldn’t focus for more than fifteen minutes at a time without remembering the way Harry had looked at her Friday night. Or how he hadn’t kissed her. Or how she kind of loved that he hadn’t.
She was scrolling through a doc when she sensed him before she saw him—there was always something in the air when he walked by her desk, like her body clock recalibrated itself.
“Morning,” he said casually, appearing next to her chair with a cup of coffee and that effortlessly smug smile.
“Is this for me?” she asked, accepting it anyway.
“I figured you needed it,” he said, then leaned down slightly to whisper, “You were frowning at your screen like it owed you money.”
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling already. “Thanks.”
He didn’t leave right away. Just hovered at the edge of her desk for a few seconds, eyes scanning her face like he was trying to read something there.
“You want to eat together later?” he asked.
“Sure” she said “Meet you at the elevator later?”
“Are you gonna judge me if I order two things off the specials menu?” Y/N asked, squinting at the little chalkboard propped up at the edge of their table.
Harry leaned back in his chair, half-smiling. “I’d only judge if you didn’t. What kind of monster comes to a place that smells like heaven and doesn’t over-order?”
She grinned, setting the menu down. “Alright, good. Just wanted to make sure we’re both mentally prepared for me to have a post-lunch food coma at my desk.”
“Can’t wait to watch you pretend to be productive while slowly falling asleep mid-email,” he said, stretching his legs out under the table until they accidentally brushed hers.
They were tucked into a small two-person table by the window of the Italian place Harry had suggested—a quiet spot with sun spilling through the glass and just enough hum from other tables to feel private. The food smelled ridiculous. Garlic, butter, rosemary…
When the waiter left with their orders, Harry glanced at her across the table. “You always get that serious when you read menus?”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s a high-stakes decision. This is lunch. I have to live with it for the rest of the afternoon.”
“That’s true. It does define your mood for at least three hours.”
She sipped her water and watched him tilt his head slightly, like he was studying her. “What?” she asked.
He smiled. “Nothing. I just like seeing you outside the office.”
She blinked. “We text constantly.”
“Yeah, but that’s different. In person you make these little faces when you’re thinking—like right now, you’re trying not to smile.”
She covered her mouth with her hand, failing miserably to hide it. “I hate that you notice stuff like that.”
He raised his glass to her. “Also true.”
The food arrived a few minutes later—her pasta, his risotto—and they both took their first bites at the same time. Harry made a soft sound, not dramatic, just satisfied.
“Okay, that’s a throwback,” he said, sitting back a little.
He gestured toward his plate. “Risotto. My mum used to make it almost exactly like this. Creamy, garlicky, winey. I haven’t had it like this in years.”
Y/N raised her brows. “What happened, did she stop loving you?”
Harry smiled. “No. I just haven’t had anyone make it since I moved out. It's not exactly the kind of dish people whip up on a whim.”
“Mushroom risotto. With wine. Sometimes thyme, if I’m feeling fancy.”
He stared at her, amused. “That’s dangerously specific.”
She shrugged. “It’s one of my go-to ‘I swear I’m a real adult’ meals. Feels impressive but it’s mostly just stirring and committing to the bit.”
Harry looked at her, eyes narrowed slightly like he was considering something. Then he said, slowly, “So when are you making it for me?”
Y/N blinked once. Twice. Then gave a small smirk. “Wow. Not even a subtle lead-in. You just jumped right to the invite.”
“Gotta keep up with you somehow,” he said, smiling easily now. “I’m not above being fed.”
She paused, then: “Friday?”
His expression softened, surprised but not caught off guard. “Yeah. I’d really like that.”
Y/N raised her brows as she twirled a bite of pasta. “No allergies? No weird food trauma I should know about before I commit to this dinner plan?”
Harry laughed, sitting back in his chair. “None. I eat everything. Except olives.”
She gasped. “What? Olives are elite.”
“They taste like brine and betrayal.”
“I’m still putting them in the salad,” she said. “You’ll deal.”
He pointed his fork at her. “You say that now, but you’re gonna be weirdly invested in whether I like it or not. I can already tell.”
She rolled her eyes, smiling. “I just don’t want to waste my good cooking on someone with broken taste buds.”
“Then you’ll have to find out if it’s worth the risk,” he said, voice low but playful, like there was a dare tucked into the words.
Her eyes held his for a beat too long. She looked away first—barely.
They both went back to eating, but the quiet between them wasn’t awkward. It was charged in that new way. Comfortable, but close to something else. Their legs brushed again under the table. Neither of them moved.
He went quiet for a beat, watching her as she gathered the last of her pasta onto her fork.
“I’m excited for Friday,” he said, almost offhand, but his eyes were too steady for it to be casual.
She looked up. “Who said it was a date?”
Harry smirked, didn’t miss a beat. “Me. I did. Mentally. While you were talking about thyme like it’s a love language.”
Y/N blinked, caught off guard—and laughed. “Wow.”
“I stand by it,” he added, casually wiping his hand on a napkin. “You invite me over, cook for me, maybe pour me a glass of wine… that’s textbook date behavior. Page one.”
She tried to keep a straight face but failed miserably. “What if I burn it?”
“Then we order takeout,” he said, standing, grabbing both their receipts. “And it’s still a date. Just one with a fun plot twist.”
Y/N rolled her eyes as she followed him toward the door. “You’re annoyingly sure of yourself.”
Harry glanced back at her, holding the door open. “No,” he said, voice low but smiling. “I’m just sure about you.”
She froze for half a second. Then stepped past him, heat blooming in her chest and creeping up her neck.
He walked beside her all the way back to the office, hands in his pockets, like he hadn’t just said something that would replay in her head for the next four days straight.
They stepped into the elevator together. Just the two of them.
It was quiet inside—soft hum of motion, the faintest trace of cologne in the air. Y/N stood beside him, arms folded, eyes on the glowing numbers overhead like she hadn’t just invited him over for a dinner she now absolutely could not mess up.
Harry, on the other hand, was perfectly relaxed. Leaned casually against the wall, side-glancing at her with a look she pretended not to notice.
“Friday,” he said softly, not looking away.
“Good,” she said. “That’s your only job.”
He tilted his head. “And yours?”
She raised a brow. “Cooking. Obviously.”
He smirked, slow. “No. I mean your real job.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes slightly. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s my ‘real’ job?”
Harry let the pause stretch just enough to feel it. Then said, low and playful, “Try not to make me fall for you over risotto.”
Her stomach dipped. Hard.
She opened her mouth—maybe to reply, maybe to deflect—but the elevator dinged before she could say a word.
He stepped out first, like he hadn’t just dropped that and walked away.
And she followed, entirely aware she was already failing at that job.
That’s what she told herself as she adjusted the straps of her top for the third time, checked the risotto on the stove for the fifth, and glanced at her phone for no real reason at all.
She wasn’t nervous.
She was… anticipatory. Which was worse.
The apartment smelled like sautéed garlic, wine, and rosemary. Her playlist was low, something warm and rhythmic playing in the background. She’d cleaned. Lit two candles—not too many. She was wearing jeans and a simple black tank top that looked casual from far away but a little dangerous up close.
At exactly 7:06, there was a knock.
She wiped her palms on her thighs, walked to the door, and opened it—
—and forgot how to speak for a second.
Harry stood in the hallway, wine bottle in hand, coat open over a navy button-down that was just fitted enough to hint at the lines underneath. Sleeves rolled once, casually. Hair pushed back. Rings on. Slight scruff on his jaw like he hadn’t bothered shaving for the occasion, and it somehow made him look better.
“Hey,” he said, smile already tugging at his mouth. His voice low and smooth and a little too warm.
Y/N opened the door wider, trying to look unaffected. “You’re late.”
“By three minutes,” he said, stepping in. “You gonna punish me for it?”
She turned to walk back to the kitchen before he could see her smile. “Don’t tempt me.”
Harry’s eyes followed her. “Already am.”
She ignored that. Barely. “Wine goes on the counter. Glasses are in the cabinet to your left.”
He slipped off his coat and hung it on the back of a chair, the motion unhurried. His sleeves shifted higher, showing the veins along his forearms, and it was ridiculous how aware she was of every single movement he made. Like her whole body had decided to tune into just him.
He found the glasses without asking, poured two, and brought hers over like he’d done it a hundred times.
“Smells incredible,” he said, glancing at the pot on the stove. “Didn’t realize this would be a full sensory experience.”
She took the glass from him, their fingers brushing. “Didn’t realize you’d show up looking like you belong in a perfume ad.”
He tilted his head. “Is that a compliment or a threat?”
He leaned against the counter, swirling his wine lazily. “You’re already nervous.”
She sipped her wine. “You’re very confident for someone about to eat food I made unsupervised.”
“Oh, I’m terrified,” he said, smile curling slowly. “But I’m also a risk-taker.”
“Really?” she asked, stepping just a little closer. “What kind of risks are we talking?”
Harry’s gaze dropped, briefly, to her mouth. “Ones that involve very pretty women in tank tops inviting me over and pretending it’s all casual.”
But she covered it with a dry, “You’re awfully chatty for someone who’s supposed to be quietly impressed.”
“I haven’t even tasted it yet,” he murmured, leaning in like he might say something else.
But he didn’t. He just reached around her—close enough to brush his chest against her shoulder—and stirred the risotto with one of the wooden spoons she’d left on the counter.
“You’re doing it right,” he said, still low, still close. “Good technique.”
There was a pause. Just long enough to feel the space between them shrink.
Then he looked at her, and his voice dipped just slightly, deliberate now:
“You know this is a date, right?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Is it?”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. It is. And you’re doing dangerously well.”
The spoon was still in his hand. The risotto still simmering. But everything between them had gone still—warm, weighted, suspended between polite flirtation and whatever the hell this was becoming.
“I haven’t even served it yet,” she said quietly.
Harry’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “Doesn’t matter. You’ve already got me.”
Y/N held his gaze for a second too long, heat blooming low in her stomach. But she didn’t let it tip yet. She reached out and gently took the spoon from his hand, turning her focus back to the risotto.
“You’re lucky I like feeding people,” she said, stirring.
“Lucky’s one word for it.”
“You’re also distracting.”
He sat at the kitchen table while she plated the food, watching her with that unshakable calm, fingers tapping against the stem of his wine glass. When she finally set a bowl in front of him, he looked up and said, very simply:
“Don’t thank me until you’ve tried it.”
He took one bite, then another—no dramatic noises this time, just that slow nod of approval, the kind that made her chest tighten.
“I hate how good this is,” he said through a smile. “Now I can’t even fake critique you.”
“You weren’t going to anyway.”
“I was, just to keep you humble.”
She grinned, settling across from him, and they ate in a rhythm that felt natural. Familiar. They didn’t fill every silence. They didn’t rush the conversation. He asked how she got into cooking. She asked what kind of kid he was at school. He told her he was quiet. Kind of nerdy. Read more than he talked.
“But you’re so…” she paused, waving her fork at him, “you now.”
Harry smiled. “Still kind of nerdy. Just taller.”
They finished eating slowly, in no real rush. Conversation drifted, low and lazy. Harry told a story about getting lost on the Tube as a teenager and ending up an hour outside of London. She admitted she once cried in a grocery store because she couldn't find the right brand of olive oil.
When the food was gone and only half the wine left, Y/N stood with a stretch and started clearing plates.
“You cooked,” Harry said, getting up beside her. “Let me clean.”
“You can help,” she said, stacking dishes. “But don’t think you’re getting full dish duty just because I made risotto.”
“Worth a try,” he murmured, brushing against her as he took the plates to the sink.
The touch lingered—his hand grazing her hip on the way past. Not overt. Not rushed. But purposeful.
She handed him a glass, and their fingers met again. This time neither of them looked away.
“You’re quiet,” she said, filling the silence with something safe.
Harry tilted his head slightly. “I’m trying not to say something reckless.”
Her heart fluttered. “Like what?”
“Like how long I’ve been thinking about this. About you.” He turned slightly, drying a plate without breaking eye contact. “Since the first time I saw you that day in the office. You walked in like you belonged there. That little nervous smile. I was done for.”
She didn’t move, just held his gaze. “That’s not reckless.”
“It is if I tell you I wanted to kiss you before I knew your last name.”
Then she set the towel down, stepped closer, and looked up at him.
“You’re really going for it tonight.”
Harry’s smile was slow and sure. “Trying to make up for lost time.”
Soft at first, but immediate. Like they’d both been holding it back all night and finally decided to stop pretending. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek, while his other arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her flush against him.
She sighed against his mouth as his tongue brushed hers—slow and unhurried but thorough, like he meant every second of it. Her hands slid up his chest, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt.
When they finally pulled apart, just slightly, she caught her breath and whispered, “We should take this to the bedroom.”
He blinked, lips parted, eyes dark.
“Yeah?” he said, low and rough now.
He didn’t ask twice. He just followed.
And the second they stepped into her room, everything changed.
The door clicked shut behind him, and the quiet deepened. The only light came from the hallway and the faint glow of the city through her windows. Harry stood there for a second, eyes on her like she’d just undone something in him.
Then he crossed the room and kissed her again—deeper now, slower, like they finally had permission to feel everything.
She let her hands roam, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, fingertips skimming over warm skin and firm muscle. He hissed softly through his teeth when she tugged the shirt over his head, dropping it somewhere behind them.
“God, you’re…” she breathed, letting her gaze fall over him, eyes hungry and soft all at once.
“Say it,” he murmured, thumb brushing her lower lip.
“You know exactly what I was going to say.”
He smirked. “I like hearing it anyway.”
She kissed down his neck, tongue brushing the curve where his shoulder met his collarbone, and smiled when she felt him shiver under her mouth.
He didn’t just touch her—he held her, his hands sliding over her back, her sides, her hips, like he couldn’t decide where he wanted her most. His fingers dipped under her waistband, pausing, waiting for her nod before easing her jeans down slowly.
Once she stepped out of them, she stood there in nothing but her tank top and underwear, heart pounding.
Harry looked at her like she was already undoing him.
“You’re dangerous,” he said.
She tilted her head. “Why?”
“Because I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, stepping closer, brushing his mouth over her jaw, “and now that I have it, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”
“Then don’t,” she whispered.
He lifted her gently—just enough to lay her back on the bed—and followed, crawling over her with slow purpose. Her tank top came off next, tossed somewhere beside them, and when he looked down at her, he stilled.
His hands traced her bare skin like it was something delicate. Not hesitating—just taking his time.
“Still with me?” he asked, voice rough and low.
She nodded, eyes locked on his. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He kissed her again, mouth moving over hers with quiet intensity, hips pressing against hers as his hand slid between her thighs, not rushed, just there, warm and solid and deliberate.
Every touch was a question, and every breath she gave him was an answer.
By the time he eased her back into the pillows, lips brushing her throat, her shoulder, her chest, she wasn’t sure where she ended and he began. His name slipped out of her in a whisper, soft and urgent, as his mouth trailed lower—lips against her skin, tongue slow and teasing, every movement sending sparks through her like aftershocks.
He moved with patience. With purpose. With a kind of reverence she hadn’t expected, but felt all the way down to her ribs.
And when he finally pulled her into his arms afterward—bodies warm, tangled, skin still humming—he didn’t say anything right away.
Just ran his fingers up and down her spine, slow and steady, anchoring them both in the quiet.
Then, almost too softly to hear:
“I’m really not going to be able to stop thinking about you now.”
Y/N smiled into his chest.
“Good,” she whispered. “That makes two of us.”
The first thing Y/N noticed was warmth.
Not sunlight, not sound—just heat, steady and solid behind her, an arm draped heavy across her waist and breath moving slowly against the back of her neck.
She blinked her eyes open. Her bedroom was quiet, soft light filtering through the curtains. Everything smelled like skin and her lavender laundry soap and something distinctly him.
She shifted slightly and felt him move behind her—just the barest reaction, like his body didn’t want to lose the contact.
Then came the voice, low and sleep-rough.
She smiled before turning. “Morning.”
Harry was already watching her, eyes soft, hair a total mess, the faintest smirk on his lips like he couldn’t believe this was real. He brushed a hand over her shoulder gently, fingers trailing up to her jaw like he needed to confirm she was still there.
“Didn’t dream that, did I?” he asked, voice still scratchy.
She shook her head. “You were definitely here. There was risotto. There was wine. There was…”
“A lot of things,” he offered, still grinning.
Her cheeks warmed, but she didn’t look away. “You stayed.”
“Yeah,” he said simply. “Wasn’t planning on leaving.”
They lay there for a moment, quiet again. His thumb moved lazily over her hip under the covers. She could feel the way his legs tangled with hers, warm skin brushing everywhere.
She wanted to ask what this meant. If they were different now. If they were going to try to pretend it hadn’t happened at work on Monday morning—but then he leaned in and kissed her forehead, soft and slow, and said:
“You know I’m not going to pretend this didn’t happen, right?”
“I don’t want to pretend either,” she said.
Not a relationship talk. Not labels. Just honesty.
“Good,” he whispered, voice still sleep-warm. “Because I was already planning breakfast.”
She laughed. “You’re confident.”
He rolled onto his back dramatically. “I just gave the performance of my life and made sure you didn’t burn the risotto. Let me have my moment.”
She leaned over him and kissed him again. It was slow, languid. The kind of kiss that didn’t go anywhere, but still promised everything.
Her hand slipped into his hair, and his arm curled back around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest again.
They stayed in bed longer than planned.
The risotto dishes were still in the sink. Her hair was a mess. His shirt was missing. They didn’t care.
Harry made coffee while Y/N stood barefoot in the kitchen, wearing one of his sweaters—something he must’ve tossed into his overnight bag, though she couldn’t remember when. It hung loose on her frame, sleeves too long, fabric soft from wear.
“You can’t just look like that and expect me to focus on pouring,” he muttered as he handed her a mug.
She took it without breaking eye contact. “I like how quickly you folded.”
He sipped his coffee with a lazy smirk. “Folded the moment I walked in your door last night.”
They ate toast over the sink. Talked about absolutely nothing. She told him her neighbor leaves passive-aggressive sticky notes in the laundry room. He told her he once accidentally wore mismatched shoes to a client meeting and no one noticed—still one of his proudest office wins.
And then, too soon, it was time for him to go.
He stood by the door, keys in one hand, the other still lingering at her hip like he hadn’t decided whether to pull her back in or let her breathe.
“I’ll see you Monday,” he said, voice low, unreadable.
She nodded. “We’ll pretend to be normal.”
He leaned down and kissed her once—soft, careful, like he didn’t want to wake whatever spell they’d slipped into.
But before he pulled away, he whispered, “Just so you know, I’m already thinking about the next time.”
Y/N smiled, her chest tight in that restless, breathless way that meant she already was too.
The apartment was quieter now. Still warm, still full of him, but quieter.
After he left, the apartment was quiet.
Y/N wandered back to the kitchen, barefoot, still wearing his sweater. She poured herself a second cup of coffee even though it had already gone cold. Leaned against the counter, staring at nothing in particular.
There was a dish towel still hanging crooked off the oven handle. A candle burned too low on the windowsill. A wine glass tipped slightly in the sink.
All signs that last night had really happened.
Her neck was still warm where he’d kissed it. Her body ached in that good, quiet way. And every now and then, her mind would flash to the way he’d looked at her—right before, during, after. Like he knew something she didn’t.
She took a sip of coffee and smiled to herself.
She didn’t think this was how it would go. When she started the job, when she’d met him this wasn’t in the plan.
She didn’t think it would turn into late-night texts. Or pasta. Or him, standing barefoot in her kitchen like he belonged there.
She especially didn’t think it would turn into this quiet kind of happiness. This soft, steady warmth that hadn’t faded even after the door clicked shut behind him.
She shook her head to herself, grinning.
“I really didn’t see that coming,” she murmured into her mug.
But somehow, that made it better.
