𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈 — 𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐢 — the one where YN realises that her brother's wedding might not be as easy as she once thought...
𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 | 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 9k+
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: welcome to every summer since!! this one has been cooking for while, it's actually the idea that got me back into writing recently so I've loved getting them down onto a page. Please let me know what you think, and what you're excited for and what you think the plot twist might be (hint, I think it's a good one). enjoy!! mwah <3
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: explicit language, weddingrry, and two absolute idiots who cannot communicate to save their lives (this warning will come often)
A destination wedding in Positano would be an exciting event for anyone. To see two people endlessly in love with each other decide to spend the rest of their lives with each other in one of the most gorgeous places on earth — it was practically a dream.
For YN, her feelings towards the event were a little more complicated.
YN had known that Harvey was going to propose to Yasmin for a while, so she wasn’t too shocked when the announcement photo went up on Instagram, or when the wedding invite came through her door a couple of months later. She knew it was only going to be small, with only close friends and family in attendance. The one thing she just hadn’t quite anticipated that it would take place in Positano. Looking back though, she probably should have. Italy was one of YN’s favourite places, and one of Harvey’s and they’d had their fair share of holidays there with Yasmin too. It made sense that they wanted to celebrate their love there.
Yasmin was perfect for Harvey. Whilst Harvey could be a little over the top, always high-energy and bouncing between one thing and another, Yasmin calmed him. She was stiller, highly organised and kept him in line — exactly what he needed. They were in YN’s eyes a perfect match, and she couldn’t wait to watch them get married and start the rest of their lives together.
Now, that was one thing. Seeing the two of them get married at the end of the week was its own thing, in YN’s mind. The wedding itself, the week long event that they’d rented a villa for — that was the thing that YN was dreading.
The siblings were as close as they have ever been, especially after their mother died. Their father hadn’t been in the picture, so it had always just been the three of them, well now two. No matter what swirls in YN’s head about the event — she loves her brother and would always be there for him. They’ve only got each other now.
But, saying that, they were different.
YN was twenty-six, Harvey was thirty. There was a significant age gap between them that never mattered when they were younger, but grew more as they did. When YN started university at eighteen, Harvey had already graduated and was making a name for himself in the music industry.
Their lives were very different, and that meant their circles were very different.
Harvey had more friends that YN could probably name, making them throughout his long career as a music producer. It was actually how him and Yasmin met, when she was recording backing vocals on an album Harvey produced five years ago.
YN had studied English Literature at university, and worked as a junior editor for a publishing firm. She had one friend, Olive, who had been her rock throughout university and beyond, and that was pretty much it. She had acquaintances, and people she spent time with but not a lot of true friends.
Their lives were very different, and that wasn’t a bad thing but it did mean that YN often felt slightly out of place in Harvey’s circle. They were all in the music industry in some capacity, living a life completely different to what YN was. There was nothing wrong with that, it just made her slightly uncomfortable. And if she was honest, slightly insecure. She didn’t have the most money, or the biggest flat but she had worked hard for every penny, and every step she had taken in life.
There was another thing. Another thing that niggled in the back of YN’s brain, and had done since she met him eight years ago.
Harry Styles. Harvey’s best friend and partner in crime.
It was a storyline that YN had read a hundred times over, and no matter how many times she had told herself that she wasn’t going to allow herself to fall victim to something so common — she couldn’t help it.
YN had been eighteen when she first met Harry. It was actually her eighteenth birthday, and he had been twenty-four. YN was going out in London with Olive and some of her friends from college as a last hurrah before university. Harvey had asked if he could drop in with a friend or two. YN had said yes, obviously, having not seen her older brother in a while. What she hadn’t expected that night was Harry Styles to be the friend he was bringing.
YN had taken one look at him, standing next to her brother, head tipped back as he laughed at something stupid Harvey had said — and that was it. She was done for.
𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟖
YN has had too many shots. Categorically, too many shots.
It was her eighteenth birthday after all, obviously drinking had been on the cards but she just hadn’t expected to quite have so many in such close succession.
That was why when Olive had pulled her over to the bar, arguing that they needed to have more shots, YN had backed out.
They had rented out the top floor of one of their favourite bars for the event, or Harvey had. When he heard that his little sister wanted to celebrate her birthday with her friends in London, he had insisted he helped. YN wasn’t going to say no, especially when she knew her and her friends would all be safe if he did that.
“Water, please,” YN had all but gasped to the bartender.
“Boo!” Olive had drunkenly slurred from the side of her, “C’mon it’s your eighteenth, YN!”
“Yeah and I would like to live to see nineteen!” YN retorts, face lifting in joy when the bartender placed a pint of ice cold water in front of her.
YN watched as Olive picked up another shot of what YN was guessing was tequila and threw it back, taking a bite of lime afterwards.
Olive and YN were platonic soulmates. Both girls knew it and weren’t going to let anything come between them. They were slightly different though, with Olive a lot more outgoing than YN was but they balanced each other well. Despite their differences, they hardly ever argued or got annoyed with each other and if they did it was always small and easily fixed.
YN pretty much drank the entire pint of water in one gulp, feeling slightly refreshed afterwards and ready to get back to it.
“Come on!” Olive grabbed her hand and started to pull her towards the dance floor, “I wanna dance.”
YN allowed herself to pulled a step or two and then her phone vibrated in her pocket. YN pulled her arm out of Olive’s hold and held up a finger.
“One sec!”
YN stopped, watching as Olive found a group of people to dance with in the middle of the floor. Pulling her phone out, she saw a very unflattering photo of her brother (one she had chosen especially for his contact photo) and swiped to answer.
“Harvey?” YN practically shouted down the phone, trying to be heard over the background noise around her.
“YN?” He shouted just as loudly back, “We’ve just got here! Where are you?”
“Upstairs!” She called back, “Harv, I really can’t hear you.”
“Harry!” She heard Harvey call, quieter than before, “Upstairs mate!”
“Where are you?” YN asked, trying to push past the bodies towards the entrance. Just as she got there, she spotted her brother walking towards her, “Oh, I see you!”
“Jesus, YN, how many friends do you have?” She watched as Harvey, phone to his ear still scanned the crowd for her. It was only when she started to wave her arm around like a mad woman that he finally spotted her, “There you are.”
YN closed her phone and placed it back in her pocket, smiling as she bounced over to her brother. Just as she started to move, she spotted that he wasn’t alone. Well, YN knew he wasn’t alone from the conversation they had earlier, but she hadn’t quite expected that this ‘friend’ of his to be none other than Harry Styles.
YN froze.
She watched as Harvey said something to Harry. Surprisingly, it must have been funny because Harry tipped his head back in laughter, his eyes closing as it shook through his body.
“You gonna say hi or what?” YN was in that much shock that she hadn’t even noticed that the duo was now standing directly in front of her, staring at her expectantly.
“Oh,” she plastered a smile on her face, “Hi.”
“Happy birthday, squirt,” Harvey extended his arms out, and engulfed YN in what could only be described as a bear hug.
“Thank you,” she mumbled into his shoulder, “Thanks for…” she motioned to the party around them, “This.”
“Don’t mention it,” Harvey shrugged, dropping his hands into his pockets, “This is Harry… Harry this is my little sister, YN.”
YN never thought that she would have a book moment in real life. She had read so many books, so many romance books at that and she never thought she would ever experience anything like book characters do on a page. But, as she stood there in the middle of her eighteenth birthday party, and Harry Styles’ eyes settled on her, the world stilled around her. The music quietened, the people seemed to disappear and all she could focus on was the green of his eyes. Eyes that were staring directly at her.
“Happy birthday,” He gave her a smile, “It’s nice to meet you, Harv’s always talking about you.”
YN froze all over again, “Thank you… It’s… uh nice to meet you too.”
The problem was, YN hadn’t even been that big of a fan of one direction. She’d enjoyed Harry’s first album, but Harvey had helped produce that one so she felt like she had to. But, even minus her brother’s involvement it was a damn good album, and Sign of the Times was a fantastic song to sing in the shower.
“There’s a lot of people here, squirt, I didn’t think you had that many friends,” Harvey commented, looking around the room once more.
“I don’t think I know who half these people are,” YN admitted, brushing a piece of her hair away from her face, “I think they’re treating it more as a final college bash than a birthday.”
“You’re having fun though, yeah?” It was Harry that asked. It was at that point that she also realised he hadn’t stopped looking at her, “You only turn eighteen once.”
“Yeah… yes I am,” YN nodded.
“Great,” Harvey tapped her on the shoulder, “Well… we’re going to get a drink, do you want anything?”
“No thank you,” she managed to squeak out before they walked away from her and towards the bar.
It was almost as though her feet were cemented into the ground. She couldn’t move. Of course she knew that Harvey and Harry Styles were friends, but she hadn’t the slightest clue that they were close enough for Harry to tag along with him to his little sisters birthday party.
“YN,” Olive appeared directly in front of her, the girl’s hands resting on her arms and giving her a shake, “You still with me?”
“I… I think so,” YN muttered, looking at her friend with the same shocked expression.
“Is that fucking Harry Styles with Harvey?” she asked, shock evident in her own voice.
“Yes?” YN’s response sounded more like a question than anything else.
“Harry Styles is at your birthday party?”
“Yes?”
“Why is Harry Styles at your birthday party?”
YN just shrugged, “I don’t know… Harvey said he’d be bringing a friend but I didn’t know that it was going to be… him.”
“Jesus.”
“I know.”
“He’s even prettier in real life, if that’s even possible.”
“I know.”
That was the first of three things YN learnt on her eighteenth birthday. The second being that tequila is not her friend and never will be.
The third was that meeting Harry Styles on that day was one of the best and worst things to ever happen to her.
𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔
A crush had blossomed somewhere in her chest, and she hadn’t ever been able to get rid of it. That was the tale, the one as old as time — the younger sister falling for her older brother’s friend.
That eighteenth birthday party had just been the start of something that grew. All of a sudden, Harry was everywhere. Every time she saw her brother, he was there too. They became inseparable.
That’s why when she had heard the news that Harry was going to be Harvey’s best man, she hadn’t been the slightest bit shocked. But, it did cause an anxiety to blossom within her chest.
When she had arrived late last night, she had bypassed the rest of the wedding party that was already here and gone straight up to her room. She had sent Harvey and Yasmin an apologetic message, saying that she was too tired and yucky from the flight and just wanted a shower and to go to bed.
That wasn’t the truth though. What had really happened was as she arrived at the villa, she was as the message said exhausted from the flight but she just couldn’t face it. She had been directed towards the patio, and the first thing she saw was Harry Styles, in a pair of shorts and a linen shirt dancing with one of Yasmin’s bridesmaids.
She was beautiful, far too beautiful and they both had big grins on their faces and that was enough for YN to decide that she needed another night, just one to be able to face him.
YN had that one night and yet she felt no better.
Instead of showering and relaxing, she showered and then clad in the villa-issued dressing gown, towel wrapped around her hair - YN laid on the plush bed in her room and stared at the ceiling. Telling herself over and over again that she was being silly and she needed to get over it, then she would remember something, a small snippet of Harry that would cause those feelings to just come rushing back.
Sleep hadn’t come easy, and she somehow felt worse this morning than after her flight. She had dragged herself up and out of bed, showered again because she thought it would help wake her up (it hadn’t) and got dressed for the day. She’d settled on a pair of linen shorts that stopped just above her knee and a flowy white top with small flowers on it, and short straps.
Thanks to Yasmin’s very detailed itinerary, YN knew that they would be meeting for breakfast imminently and yet she just couldn’t move. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, messing with a loose thread on the edge of her shirt.
She was being silly now, and it was frustrating her. Yet every time she tried to shake her nerves, it just didn’t work. She didn’t want to see him, to have to be with him and pretend that his eyes weren’t the ones that plagued her dreams. It was so silly, and yet to YN it felt like the end of the world.
YN groaned and dropped back on her bed, arms spread at her side. She stayed for a second before she heard the sound of her phone vibrate on the bedside table.
Sitting up, she reached over to grab it. Groaning once more when she saw the notifications pop through one after another.
Harvey: Oi
Harvey: Yas’ going to be sending search and rescue in a minute
Harvey: Get your arse down here
With a sigh, YN sent a very passive aggressive thumbs up in response and pushed herself up from the bed.
Somehow, miraculously, she put one foot in front of the other and made it downstairs.
“God,” Harvey dropped down at the table across from Harry with a thud, an espresso on each hand, “I’m exhausted and it’s only day one.”
“Oh, thanks mate,” Harry went to reach for one of the cups but Harvey pulled it closer to him.
“These are both mine,” He explained with a furrowed brow, “Get your own.”
Harry was gobsmacked. He didn’t even know what to say, he just laughed and shook his head.
“I didn’t even think you were that bad yesterday,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair.
“I wasn’t,” Harvey sighs, running a hand through his hair and taking a sip of espresso, “But between Yas and my sister I’m going to go into an early grave.”
Harry tried to ignore the way his heart lurched when Harvey mentioned YN. Instead, he tapped his thigh with his finger and tried to keep his face as still as possible.
“YN’s here?” He asked, praying that Harvey didn’t notice the way her name got caught in his throat.
“Yeah she arrived late last night,” Harvey explains, running a hand over his face.
“I didn’t know,” Harry shrugs, “I haven’t seen her.”
“Nobody has,” He shakes his head, “She got here, messaged me she was tired and was going to bed and nobody has heard a peep since. Yas is freaking out because she needs to know if her dress needs steaming and if it does it needs to go today and… argh.”
Harry watches as Harvey drops his head back in his chair, both hands coming to rest over his eyes. Harry tries really hard not to laugh, but it’s impossible not to and a small chuckle escapes his lips.
“Mate, it’ll be fine,” Harry offers in support.
“I know,” Harvey sighs again, “It’s just… I sent her message five minutes ago and she replied with a thumbs up but I’ve not heard anything else.”
“See,” Harry points at Harvey’s phone, “You’ve had a sign of life, she’ll be here. It’s YN, she’ll have spotted a bookcase and become so distracted that nothing else in the world will matter.”
“It’s just…” Harvey looks as though he was contemplating sharing his next remark, but he does anyway, “I’m just worried about her… she’s been really anxious about coming here and I don’t want it to have stressed her out.”
That immediately perks Harry’s interest, “Anxious? Why?”
“She, uh, struggles with,” Harvey waves his around at the people milling around them, “This… she thinks that because she’s not in the industry or something she doesn’t fit in.”
“That’s bullshit,” Harry frowns, “Of course she fits in.”
“I know that and you know that,” Harvey recites and then shrugs, “It’s a bit harder trying to get her to realise that.”
Harry lets that settle with him. As much as he agreed that there was a part of YN that felt like she maybe didn’t fit in — he can’t help but think that there was maybe something else in it. Harry found himself looking away from Harvey, hoping that overnight his friend hadn’t turned into some kind of mind reader and could read into all his thoughts.
Then he heard it.
The sound came from just behind Harvey, at the double doors at the back of the villa that lead to the patio that they were sitting on. An unmistakable sound, a laugh that could make a smile grow on even the grumpiest of faces.
It was YN, walking down the steps. She was chatting and laughing with Yasmin, the two of them with the biggest smiles of their faces. It made Harry’s heart skip a beat. She wasn’t wearing or doing anything special, just a pair of shorts and a flowy shirt, her hair down but pinned back from her face. She looked slightly tired but he presumed that most of the wedding party were after the travel.
He looked away, especially when he realised there was no air in his lungs and Harvey had realised that he was staring intently at something.
Harvey turned, saw the two women walking down the steps and raised his arm to call them over.
“Well, well,” Harvey joked as YN slipped into the seat next to him, “Look what the cat dragged in.”
“Hello to you too, Harvey,” YN just beamed.
“You’d get a nice hello if you hadn’t caused me to sprout grey hairs a few days before my wedding,” he retorts.
YN just rolled her eyes, a smile still on her face.
It was then she turned to look at Harry, and he watched as her smile dropped just the slightest. It wouldn’t have been noticeable to anyone else, but he saw it and he tried to ignore the way it made his heart plummet.
“Hi, Harry.”
“Hi.”
A silence grew around them, thick and all encompassing. It happened again. Just like the first moment they met, at YN’s eighteenth birthday. His mouth became insanely dry, and his heart started to beat ten times faster in his chest. All he could hear was static, and all he could see was her. YN. Smile faltering just because he was there.
“YN?” It was Yasmin’s voice that interrupted them, causing the girl to flinch and look away from him, “After breakfast will you come and find me with your dress? They need to leave by this afternoon to be steamed in town before Friday.”
“Of course.”
Harry watched as Harvey leaned over, placing his hand on his bride’s thigh, “I thought we said no getting stressed about wedding stuff today.”
“I never said I wasn’t going to get stressed,” Yasmin responded, “You did.”
Harvey rolls his eyes, “We penciled out fun for today. The pool; maybe a walk. A couples of days to relax before the rest of the guests arrive tomorrow and we’re on high alert.”
“And we’ll get to that,” Yasmin nods, “But that doesn’t mean that everything can’t be perfect in the meantime.”
As the couple bickered back and forth, Harry watched YN. She was watching her brother and Yasmin with a smile on her face, yet there was something vacant about her eyes — almost as though watching them was hard for her somehow.
“I’m gonna..” YN pushed up from the table, “Go and get some breakfast.”
Without a second thought, Harry pushed up from the table too, “I’ll come with.”
YN didn’t say anything, and instead just gave him a small nod. They walked together back up the stairs of the villa and towards the kitchen. Harry kept a safe distance away, but all he wanted to do was reach out and touch the slip of her hip that was showing between her shorts and the way her shirt was sitting.
Harry noticed the espresso machine at the entrance to the kitchen and slowed, “Coffee?”
YN looked positively relieved at its mention, “Yes please.”
She lingered to the side, eyes seemingly trying to focus on anything and everything that wasn’t him making her a coffee.
“So,” Harry started, clearing his voice from the lump that had formed there, “How have you been?”
“Good,” It’s a short response, and Harry doesn’t like it, “You?”
“Busy… but good,” he nods, trying to focus on the coffee, “How’s Olive?”
“She’s good,” YN nods, “Wish that she could be here but kids don’t leave school for another week.”
Harry hums, “I forgot that she was a teacher… I bet she’s good at it.”
“She is,” he doesn’t miss the smile that crosses YN’s lips, “She’s insane and the kids love her… it’s the perfect mix.”
Once Harry had finished the coffees, he passed YN hers and she thanked him. They then made their way further into the kitchen, where a magical display was in front of them.
Maria, the villa’s caterer, had put on what Harry could only describe as a fantastic spread. Bread, cheese, meats, fruits, pastries. The whole spread was enticing, and Harry’s hunger grew tenfold.
“Oh god I want it all,” It seemed as though that was the same for YN.
Harry laughed, picked up two plates and passed her one. She placed her coffee to the side and looked like a woman on a mission.
He followed her around, watching as she put a blend of everything on offer on her plate, piling it up until he couldn’t see her plate anymore. He just laughed and followed suit.
“Keep going!” It was Maria that called out to them, “I like big appetites here.”
YN just giggled, continuing to place a medley of fruit on her plate. She went to pick up her plate but Harry shook his head.
“Grab the coffees,” he nodded to them, “I’ve got them.”
“Oh!” Maria gasped, “Such a gentleman… you’ve got yourself a good one there.”
“I…” Harry watches as YN hesitates, a myriad of emotions crossing her features before she finds the right words, “He’s just showing off. It’s all a front, Maria.”
Harry’s lips parted in shock, and then he couldn’t help the barking laugh that escaped them.
“I don’t believe that for one second!”
Harry followed YN out of the kitchen and towards the table where Yasmin and Harvey were still sat. Yasmin had moved so she was closer to her husband to be, his arm around her and her head on his shoulder.
Harry placed YN’s plate down, and then his. YN hesitated slightly when she realised he’d placed hers down right next to where he was sitting. But, it was only for a fraction of second and then she dropped down in the seat.
Harvey, seeing the mountain of food on her plate reached forward and grabbed a grape. YN immediately smacked his hand away, but it was too late and he popped the grape in his mouth.
“Mine,” She pointed at herself, sending her older brother a glare.
“C’mon, you’ve got enough food for a small army there,” He reached over again but she was too quick for him this time, and smacked his hand away with more force.
“Yes and Maria said a healthy appetite is good — this is all mine,” she motioned to her plate, “If I don’t finish it all, you may have some.”
“Honestly, Harvey,” Yasmin shook her head, “You’re like a child… Maria’s put on a full spread in there go get your own.”
“Thank you Yasmin,” YN nodded, continuing to butter some of the bread she had picked up, “You may take what you want from my plate… just not the grapes because they’re my favourite.”
Yasmin reached over and grabbed a piece of melon, humming when the sweetness hit her tongue.
Harvey, on the other hand looked gobsmacked. He turned to Harry with his eyes wide and lips parted.
“Did you see that?”
“See what, mate?” Harry laughed, munching on one of the pastries he’d grabbed, “What your life is going to look like in the future?”
“Exactly that,” Harvey shook his head, “I’m going to be outnumbered.”
“You already are,” Harry laughed.
Harry swore he saw the corners of YN’s lips lift up at that.
Harvey and Yasmin went to get their own plates shortly after, leaving YN and Harry sitting there in silence whilst they munched on their breakfast.
It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence at all. It was just two people sharing space with each other in the Italian morning sunlight, with the sea breeze dancing through their hair.
Harry just let it settle between them, not forcing anything. Even though there were a thousand things he could’ve said, he just didn’t.
He just wished he didn’t regret it as much as he did.
“Black and white polka dots or navy and white stripes?” YN asked, holding two bikinis up at Yasmin who was lounged across her bed, already sporting a figuring hugging yellow swimsuit and matching cover up.
“Jesus, YN,” Yasmin’s eyes widened when she saw them, “Who are you trying to impress?”
“No one,” YN answered a little too quickly to be convincing.
Yasmin just raised an eyebrow at YN, but she didn’t push.
“The polka dots,” She responded, “The stripes will be better for the boat trip tomorrow.”
“You’re so right.”
After breakfast, everyone had split up to do their own things. YN had returned to her room to have a nap, which she was more than thankful for. After seeing Harry her nerves had dissipated slightly, and an overwhelming exhaustion at the whole situation had washed over her.
She had managed a good two and half hours before Yasmin all but bashed the door to her room down, ordering that she get her swimsuit on because they were going to the pool. Scared of creating a bridezilla, YN had just said yes.
Normally YN wouldn’t wear something so revealing, but she had to get something out of this trip for herself and if topping up her tan-lines was the only thing, she’d be dammed if she didn’t get them.
The bikini tied around her neck and back, the cups flushing perfectly to her boobs. The bottoms were high waisted, and hugged her curves perfectly. Just as Maria had said earlier, YN had an appetite and it meant that she wasn’t the slimmest in the world, but she had come to embrace her curves the older she’d gotten. They were a part of her, and she wouldn’t change them.
The cover up was a thin, black lace tie-up that sat around her hips. She tied her hair up in a mess on her head, just so it didn’t get drenched and placed her sunglasses on her nose. She then stood with her hands on her hips in front of Yasmin.
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
The pool itself matched the grandeur of the villa. It sat just beyond the patio, overlooking the cliff and the sea that stretched to the horizon. Some of the groomsmen and bridesmaids were already on loungers when they got there, but Yasmin and YN secured a spot underneath one of the umbrellas, shielding them from the early afternoon sun that was fierce and mighty.
Yasmin slipped into the pool first, whilst YN sat on her lounger applying a heathy sealing of suncream to her skin.
“Oi!” It was Harvey, popping his head up from where he’d been laid on the grass just to the side of the pool, “Suncream.”
“I’m fine.”
“Yas.” It was more of a warning than anything.
“Have you got ours?”
“Harry’s got it.”
It was then that YN saw Harry, sitting on a lounger a few away from them. Yasmin climbed out of the pool and made her way towards the lounger where she’d deposited her towel. Harry held out the suncream for her, and she accepted it with only a slight glare.
“Gimme a sec,” She turned to YN, “Just going to get Harv to do my back.”
YN just hummed, trying not to grow embarrassed at the fact that she was unsuccessfully trying to get her own back and was about to ask Yasmin to help her.
YN could feel Harry lingering at her side, and she tried and tried so hard not to look. He was wearing green swim shorts, low on his hips. He knew exactly what he was doing, the band of the shorts exposing the ferns resting on his toned stomach, highlighting the deep V that dipped in between his legs.
“Do you…” she hears him start before he clears his throat, “Do you need any help?”
“I’m alright thank you,” YN responds, her pitch increasing at the end.
She was struggling, but she didn’t want to admit that. She could only reach the top of her shoulders and the bottom of her back, the middle section was just completely unreachable. But, she didn’t want to say that to Harry.
“C’mon,” Harry tried again, “You’re missing your entire back, pretty much.”
Sighing, YN dropped her arms and held out her suncream to him. Harry looked at her, waiting for her to nod before taking the suncream off her. He dropped down on the sun lounger next to her. YN heard the cap go, before the sound of him squeezing the bottle. He rubbed his hands together before he placed them on her shoulders.
“Sorry if it’s cold.”
YN bit her bottom lip, “It’s fine.”
YN tried to stay focused on literally anything in front of her but she couldn’t do it. Her eyes fluttered shut as his hands started to work across her shoulders. His thumbs every now and then pressed into her muscles, and she almost whimpered. His hands worked across her shoulders, all the way down her back. They slipped under the tie of her bikini, his fingers almost brushing the cups of her bikini. Then his hands slipped lower, getting the bottom of her back.
YN gasped when his fingers brushed the plushy flesh of her hips, dangerously close to the tie in her bikini bottoms. She was frozen, completely. All of her senses had been taken over by the feeling of Harry’s hands on her, and then all of a sudden they weren’t.
Harry pulled away, jumping up from the sun lounger and passing her the suncream back.
“Uh…” he scratched the back of his neck, “Done.”
“Thanks,” before the word was even fully out of her lips, Harry was stalking off and making his way towards the villa, his steps quick and his head down. YN was slightly taken aback with how quick it had all happened.
Yasmin dropped down on the lounger next to her a second later, skin shiny with her own suncream. Her eyes were watching Harry, just like YN’s were.
“What got up his arse?”
YN shrugged, “I don’t know.”
The problem was, YN did know what was wrong with Harry, because it was the exact same thing that was wrong with her. It was the exact same reason that she pushed herself off the lounger and made her way towards the pool.
At first, she dropped herself down to the poolside and slipped her feet under the water. With it being an outdoor pool, the water wasn’t warm but thanks to the blaring Italian sun it wasn’t freezing either. After her feet became acclimatised to the water, YN slipped her whole body into the water, allowing herself to float.
Looking back, she should have said no.
She should have said no to Harry and waited for Yasmin to come back. She shouldn’t now know what it feels like to have Harry’s hands brushing across her body like that. She shouldn’t be able to wish that they were still there. It hadn’t even been a full twenty-four hour period yet in Positano, and YN’s chest felt even tighter than it was when she arrived.
YN hadn’t the slightest clue how was she was supposed to survive this week.
This crush was fine when they were miles away, when he was on an international stage and she was at her desk in her small office in central London. All YN worried about then was seeing his face whilst she scrolled through her phone.
But here, where she could walk around any corner and there he was going to be, standing in front of her — it was stressing her out more than words could explain.
“YN?” Yasmin called from where she had just slipped in the other side of the pool, “You alright?”
“Good,” YN nodded.
“You look like you’re going to throw up… please don’t throw up in the pool.”
YN shook her head lightly, “I’m not going to throw up.”
Just as YN said that, her eyes focused on a table on the patio. Sitting at the table where they had been a few hours earlier, sharing breakfast in each other’s company was Harry, laughing away to something one of the bridesmaids said. It was the same bridesmaid that YN had seen him dancing with the night prior. YN’s stomach turned. It twisted painfully when she saw her drop her hands to his shoulder, and then run it down his arm. He didn’t flinch, or push it off — he just let it happen.
She was pretty, insanely so. It was one of Yasmin’s friends from the industry, Evelyn. She was exactly the type of girl that YN imagined Harry would be with.
YN may not have felt sick before, but she definitely did now.
“Are you having the time of your life without me?”
YN was sitting at the small dressing table in her room, phone propped up against the mirror with a fierce concentration on her face as she attempted to pin her hair up. Olive, in a very similar position except for the fact she was cooking her dinner, was on facetime, wanting to know anything and everything about the trip so far.
“Its…” YN struggled to find the right word, “…nice.”
“Nice?” Olive deadpanned, her nose curling up slightly, “That’s all I get? Nice?”
“I don’t know what you want, Olive?” YN asked, slightly frustrated with her friend in a way that she definitely didn’t mean, “Sorry.”
“No it’s okay,” Olive responded, but YN could tell by her tone that she wasn’t fully convinced, “Something’s obviously happening.”
“It’s not… I’m…” YN shook her head, flinging one of the grips she had in her hand down to the desk, “I’m just… in my head.”
Olive hummed, “What’s he done?”
YN furrowed her eyebrows, “What’s who done?”
“Harry.”
YN froze in the middle of applying her lip gloss, her eyes settling on Olive who was staring at her with an expression that let her know she wasn’t going to get away with not saying anything this time.
“Nothing,” YN shook her head.
“Liar,” Olive retorted immediately, “Tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Olive groaned, “Right. I don’t get to be there and see the two of you pining after each other in person so please, I’m begging you to give me a verbal recount of the events that transpired today.”
YN fell silent, “… we do not pine after each other.”
“Yes you do! And I know you’ve been hiding something from me for a while, and I’ve given you the space but this is literally the perfect opportunity for you to make you move.”
“Make my move?” YN furrowed her eyebrows.
“Yes!” Olive exclaimed, “You’re in Italy, at a wedding — romance is literally in the air YN. You need to finally grab life by the balls and do something for yourself… or grab Harry by the balls, maybe he’d enjoy it.”
“Olive!” YN all-but screeched down the phone, “Please stop talking about balls.”
“Look… I don’t know what’s happened, or what’s going on right now with the two of you but he used to make you happy,” Olive sighs, “You’d come back from seeing him and Harvey so happy, YN, and now… you just get so sad whenever anybody mentions him.”
“I don’t,” YN shakes her head, “And nothing’s happened… I’m just… I think I’m just tired.”
Olive just hums, not convinced at all, “Well… I’m here if you need me. Now get your sexy bum down there and enjoy your nibbles and drinks.”
“Thanks, Ol.”
“Anytime, babes.”
YN watched her phone go black, and she sighed. She dropped back in the chair she was sitting in and ran her hands down her thighs, her palms having clammed up under Olive’s questioning.
YN knew that it was coming from a place of love, but it pained YN to not tell Olive the whole truth. She wanted to more than anything to tell Olive everything but how could she explain something that she hadn’t even full come to terms with and understand herself? It was completely impossible, and it stressed YN out more than she could admit.
All she wanted to do was curl up in her bed and go to sleep, but there was a cocktail and nibbles party going on downstairs that she had to go to. Maybe she would go, show her face, enjoy one to many cocktails and divulge in some nibbles — and then she would go and curl up in her bed.
The dress she had chosen was a deep maroon colour. It plunged at her neckline, and had short sleeves that landed in the middle of her upper arm. It cinched at her waist and flowed out down to her ankle. She had paired it with a plain pair of sandals, not wanting to kill her feet too soon with heels.
She wasn’t trying to prove anything, she didn’t need to. But despite the mess that was currently in her brain, causing the anxiety to bubble deep in her chest — she at least wanted to feel confident in her appearance, so that could shield her from everything in her brain.
The cocktails and nibbles were being held on the patio. It had been transformed, with floral arrangements sitting on the table and lanterns hanging on strings above them. The whole thing felt so cosy and so beautiful, that YN couldn’t help but smile.
The party had seemingly already started by the time she arrived, with people milling around with colourful cocktails in their hands, or some with small plates full of whatever deliciousness Maria had cooked up.
Her first stop was for a cocktail, knowing that the evening was going to be a lot easier to handle once she had the buzz of alcohol in her system. The cocktail she had chosen was fruity, the kind of sweet that could make a person completely forget they were drinking alcohol until they woke up the next morning.
Her next stop had been the nibbles. When she saw Maria had made small half-sized bruschettas, she immediately put three on her small plate.
“Oh!” Mid bite into one the many mini bruschetta’s YN had piled onto her plate she heard a hybrid of a gasp/squeal next to her, “I love your dress!”
It was Evelyn, standing next to her with a small plate in her hand, with only one mini bruschettas on it. She was wearing a lacy camisole and long flowing skirt, dolled up to the nines. YN’s heart sank slightly just looking at her.
“Oh,” YN managed to slip out, “Thank you.”
“Where’s it from?”
YN hesitated, “I don’t know… I might have thrifted it.”
“Oh,” YN watched as her nose curled up ever so slightly, “I wish I could thrift things like that! I never find anything!”
YN just hummed, wanting nothing more than to shove the rest of her bruschetta in her mouth but she resisted.
“You’re Harvey’s sister right?”
YN furrowed her eyebrows slightly, “Yes?”
“Oh how sweet!” Her voice goes up in octave once more, “Harry said that his little sister was here but I didn’t realise how cute you were!”
Cute. CUTE.
That was it. That was the final straw for YN. Without a care she placed another small bruschetta onto her place, totalling to four small bruschettas and gave Evelyn the sweetest smile she could muster.
“Excuse me,” YN gave Evelyn the sweetest smile she could muster before making her way towards one of the empty tables on the patio.
YN had officially had enough interacting for the day. She felt socially wrung out, her head hurt slightly and all she wanted was to eat her bruschetta and drink her cocktail in peace.
She ended up just people watching. She watched as Harvey and Yasmin made their way around everybody, chatting and laughing and obviously enjoying their wedding celebration so far.
They looked happy. Truly happy. Without even meaning to, YN started to spiral. Well, it wasn’t a big spiral per se it was more her wondering if she’d ever get that. She’d watched Harvey and Yasmin fall so in love with each other over the years, becoming each other’s person. She wanted a person. She’d thought she’d found her person, or at least one of them. But, maybe she hadn’t.
“I’m happy for them, I am but I don’t know if I could do the one girl forever thing,” YN heard a voice say behind her, slightly boisterous from the obvious alcohol intake but not one that she recognised.
“C’mon man, you’ll find the one,” Another man spoke, and this time it was a recognisable voice. It was Harry. It wasn’t as loud as the other one, but it was still audible from YN’s seat.
Part of her wanted to turn around. They obviously didn’t know that she was there, or if they did they didn’t care that she could hear their entire conversation word for word.
“Coming from you!” the boisterous voice replied, “Got no plans to settle down either?”
“Nah,” the word turned YN’s stomach in an indescribable way, “I don’t think my life’s built for it, mate.”
“You could have your pick of anyone,” the voice replied, “You could choose any girl you fancied.”
“Yeah,” Harry voice was quieter this time, as though it felt unsure, “Not on the cards for me, mate.”
That was enough for YN. She’d heard enough, and from the way that her eyes were watering she wanted to get as far away as she could before they fell. Pushing back from her chair, it made a clattering sound against the patio but she didn’t care. All she scared about was going back up to her room.
She clutched her glass close to her, and made sure that her plate of bruschetta was safe before climbing the steps into the villa. Just as she got to the door, Harvey walked out, almost knocking her bruschetta out of her hands.
“Hey,” He held his hands out, almost as though if the bruschetta did fall he was going to be there to catch it. He took one look at YN’s teary eyes and his expression hardened, “You okay? What happened?”
“Nothing,” YN shook her head, blinking rapidly in hopes that it would stop the tears from falling, “I’m fine.”
Harvey just gave her a look, “You’re not. You look like you’re about to cry.”
“Harv just drop it!” Her words came out harsher than she meant, “I’m fine. Go enjoy yourself, I’m just going to go up to bed.”
“No, come on,” He pointed to the patio, “It’s still early… Yas said that she wanted to talk to you about something anyway.”
“I’ll catch her in the morning,” YN gave him a smile, “I think it’s just jet lag… I’ll be fine in the morning, I promise.”
“Okay,” he nudged her arm lightly, “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right? I know that I’ve maybe not been the best these last couple of years but…”
“I’m fine I promise,” YN interrupted him, “I’ll see you in the morning, Harv.”
He just nodded. YN took that as her opportunity to slip away, making her way towards the staircase without bumping into anybody else.
Somehow, she managed to get all the way to her room before she let any tears fall. But, when they came they were hot and they were fast. She placed her drink and her plate down on the side, and then leant her hands against it, hoping that it would at least centre her in some way.
She was stupid. So, so stupid for thinking that she could handle this. For thinking that her heart could handle seeing him in this way after everything that happened. She couldn’t, and apart of her had always known that.
She just needed to stay as far away from Harry as she could. She needed to create a distance between them, one that had needed to be put in place for a long time.
Her heart couldn’t take it anymore.
Harry watched YN walk away.
He had just watched her walk away.
As Harry sat on the balcony looking over the sea, legs spread out on the table in front of him — it was all he could think about. When Ryan had been talking to him, way too drunk for it being that early in the evening, Harry had pretty much zoned out. He’d been polite, responded to his questions and that was it. Harry knew Ryan, but definitely not enough to start divulging in his deepest and darkest secrets — so he hadn’t.
If he’d have known that YN was sitting in front of her, he’d have chosen different words.
All he had to do was take quick scan. He hadn’t seen her come down so he’d just assume she wasn’t outside yet, but he was wrong.
There was some truth into what Harry had said to Ryan, but there was also more to the story. He would have explained that it’s complicated, that there’s more to the story than just finding someone to settle down with, that real feelings often complicate matters.
He just hated that he’d upset her.
There was so much unspoken between them, so much unsaid and yet neither one of them seemed to be able to find the words. So they danced around it, they avoided it and they just pretended that nothing was happening, which it wasn’t. But, Harry just didn’t think that they could carry on the way they were without something changing.
As he stared out at the still water, the moon’s reflection showing him the ripples of the waves in the distance, he decided that something did have to change. Both of them were not going to be able to enjoy the weekend unless they spoke about it.
The problem was, Harry didn’t think that YN wanted to talk about it.
He couldn’t blame her, it wasn’t an easy thing. There were so many levels, so many reasons as to why ignoring it would be better for everyone involved and yet Harry didn’t want that. He wanted them to lay everything out on the table and get everything off their chests.
This wasn’t going to end once the weekend was finished. They were going to be in each other’s lives, well, forever. They could avoid each other, but they both cared about Harvey, and therefore they were going to both be at important events for Harvey, together.
There was just something about being at the wedding that just made Harry want to sort everything out. It wasn’t just Harvey and Yasmin’s life that were going to change, everyone’s were. Dynamics were going to change, it was inevitable.
Harry was so deep in thought, in his own spiral that he hadn’t even heard the door open beside him. Not until he noticed Harvey dropping down in the chair next to him.
“You alright, H?”
“Yeah,” Harry nodded, “Just enjoying the quiet.”
“It’s so fucking peaceful out here,” Harvey sighed, extending his legs out in front of him just as Harry had, “Perfect place to get married.”
Harry smiled, “Anybody could tell you that… how come you’re out here anyway? I thought you and Yas would in pre-wedding bliss, planning the future.”
“She’s in with YN,” Harvey said after a few seconds or so.
“YN?” Harry asked, slightly too quick but he didn’t have the capacity to care, “She okay?”
“Yeah,” Harvey nods, and Harry could tell by his tone that he was telling the truth.
“Is Yas okay?”
“Yeah, they’re both okay, H,” Harvey nods, “I just… YN said something to me earlier and… I think she just needs family around her right now. I thought Yas would be better than me… I just… I don’t know.”
Harry nodded, “I’m sure she would’ve appreciated you checking on her.”
Harvey shrugged, “I don’t know if I might be part of the problem.”
Harry’s heart started to beat quicker in his chest. They were both dancing around something, as Harry seemed to be with both siblings, and yet neither of them wanted to say anything.
“You know what YN’s like,” Harry tries, praying that his voice came off strong enough.
“I know,” Harry watches as he rubs a hand over his face, “She just gets in her own head.”
That was something they had in common. It was so easy for everyone to get in their heads the harder things became, to ignore the problems in front of them or avoid it.
As Harry sat there in silence, sharing the space with one of his best friends in the entire world he realised something. He realised that if they didn’t talk, if they didn’t let everything that they’ve been holding in out — it wasn’t just them would feel the consequences.
Harvey was already feeling them. He didn’t know exactly what it was, and maybe he didn’t know the truth about Harry’s involvement. But, he could tell that there was something there.
Tomorrow.
Harry was going to talk to YN tomorrow. He had a full night to think about what he was going to say, and staring out at the sea whilst he did it seemed like a good idea to him.
Series Summary: You're a London-based author trying to finish edits on your debut romantasy before your publisher's deadline when a chance encounter with Harry Styles changes everything. What begins with shared coffees and conversations about dragons, magic, and fictional worlds slowly turns into something neither of you planned... just as his Wembley residency and your publishing dreams begin to collide.
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Chapter 1 | Preview
Summary: You're a London-based author racing to finish edits on your debut romantasy before your publisher's deadline collides with the Wembley residency. A rainy afternoon in your regular café turns surreal when Harry Styles—fresh off the Amsterdam leg, settling into London—takes the seat across from you and genuinely cannot stop asking about the fantasy world you've built. What starts as a chance encounter becomes coffee dates that feel like something more, and when he casually tells you he's leaving a ticket at will-call for tomorrow night, you realize your carefully structured life is about to get very, very complicated.
A/N: This is part one of a four part series 😊 I hope you like it! My Patreon giveaway is still online (go check it out!)!
Word Count: 4032
Warnings:
Lots of book talk
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The rain hits the café window in sheets. You glance up from your laptop, watch the water streak down the glass, then look back at your manuscript pages. Three colors of ink slash across the printed text. Red for character consistency, blue for world-building holes, green for prose that needs tightening. Your editor wants the final draft in three weeks. You have forty pages left to check and a looming sense that your magic system has more holes than a sieve.
Your latte sits forgotten near your elbow. It went cold an hour ago. The barista gave you a look when you ordered your third one, the kind of look that said "maybe try water next time." You ignored her. You needed the caffeine.
You highlight another paragraph on the page in front of you. Your protagonist, a cursed queen named Sable, is explaining the binding spell to her mortal soldier love interest. You read the dialogue out loud under your breath.
"I don't understand," Sable says. "The curse responds to intention, not action. If I want to break it, I have to want something more than I want my own survival."
You frown. That line landed better in the second draft. Now it feels obvious. You grab your green pen and cross it out, scrawl "too on the nose" in the margin, and keep reading.
The door chimes.
You don't look up. People come and go. This is your regular spot, a small Soho café with mismatched furniture and a dog that sleeps on a velvet chair near the register. The coffee is decent and the Wi-Fi works and nobody bothers you, which is all you need.
Footsteps approach your table. You finally glance up when someone stops right next to your chair.
A man stands there, shrugging off a vintage raincoat. Water droplets cling to his shoulders. He wears a linen shirt underneath, half the buttons undone, and his hair falls damp across his forehead. Rings glint on his fingers. He looks around the café, scanning the occupied tables, and his gaze lands on the only empty chair. It sits across from you, blocked by your spread of papers and your laptop and your three pens and your cold latte.
"Can I?" he asks.
You blink at him. Then you nod and pull your papers closer to your side of the table, clearing a path. "Yeah, go ahead."
He sits. He shrugs the raincoat off entirely and drapes it over the back of the chair. Underneath, the linen shirt is cream-colored, wrinkled from travel. He leans back and pulls out his phone, checks something, puts it away.
You go back to your manuscript.
The silence stretches. It should feel awkward, sharing a table with a stranger in a crowded café, but somehow it doesn't. He's not loud. He's not fidgeting. He just exists on the other side of the table, calm and present, while you work.
You make it through another two pages before he speaks.
"What's all that?"
You look up. He's leaning forward now, chin propped on his hand, staring at the explosion of papers in front of you. His eyes are green. You notice that first. Then you notice the stubble on his jaw and the slight smile on his mouth.
"Work," you say.
"I can see that." He reaches across the table before you can stop him and picks up one of your printed pages. His eyes scan the text. "A cursed queen and a mortal soldier walk into a war." He reads it out loud, inflecting like he's narrating a film trailer. "That's the plot?"
You snatch the page back. "That's not the plot. That's one scene. And you can't just read someone's work without asking."
"I'm asking now." He grins. It transforms his whole face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "A cursed queen though. What kind of curse?"
You stare at him. He stares back, waiting. He seems genuinely curious, not just making small talk. His posture is open, engaged.
"Are you actually interested, or are you just being polite because we're sharing a table?"
"Would I be asking about the curse if I was being polite?"
Fair point. You set down your green pen.
"Fine. She's cursed to feel every physical injury her enemies suffer. So she can't win a war without hurting herself. It's a empathy curse, basically. She has to care about the people trying to kill her."
His eyebrows lift. "That's proper. That's really good."
"You don't have to say that."
"I'm not saying it to be nice. I'm saying it because it's true." He shifts forward in his chair. "What's the magic system? Is it innate, or learned, or tied to something external?"
You blink. That's a specific question. Most people just say "oh, fantasy" and move on.
"It's tied to the land," you say slowly, watching his face. "The magic comes from the kingdom itself. If the kingdom falls, the magic dies. So the queen has to protect her borders even as her own people turn against her."
"Because of the curse."
"Because of the curse."
He nods, processing this. "And the mortal soldier. Does he have magic?"
"No. He's completely ordinary. That's the point. He's the first person who treats her like a person instead of a queen or a curse."
"He falls for her first, doesn't he."
It's not a question. You narrow your eyes at him.
"What makes you say that?"
"Because he doesn't see the crown or the curse. He just sees her. He'd fall first." He shrugs. "Is it endgame? The romance?"
"That's the plan."
"Good. I hate when authors chicken out of the romance."
You laugh, surprised. "You read a lot of romantasy, do you?"
"I read." He says it firmly, like he's defending himself. "Not as much as I'd like. Tour makes it hard. I've been on the road for—god, months now. Just wrapped Amsterdam. Ten nights."
That's when it clicks.
You look at his face again. The jaw. The green eyes. The hair, still damp, pushed back from his forehead. The rings on his fingers. The linen shirt, the casual confidence, the way he walked in like he owned the room without trying.
"Oh," you say. "You're that Harry."
He goes still for a beat. Then he laughs. It's a real laugh, unguarded and loud, and it makes the dog on the velvet chair lift its head and stare.
"That's a new one," he says. "Most people pretend they don't recognize me for at least ten minutes. You held out for fifteen."
"I was working." You gesture at your papers. "I wasn't paying attention to anything except my own head."
"Clearly." He grins. "Otherwise you would've kicked me out the second I picked up your page."
"You're right. I should've." But you're smiling now, despite yourself. "Are you always this forward with strangers?"
"Only the ones writing about cursed queens." He leans back. "What's your name?"
You tell him. He repeats it once, testing the sound of it, then nods like he's filing it away.
"And you're working on this book right now? Like, it's getting published and everything?"
"It's my debut. Romantasy. I'm supposed to deliver the final draft in three weeks and I've still got forty pages of consistency notes to work through."
"Three weeks." He winces. "That's tight."
"Tell me about it."
The barista appears at your table with a fresh latte. She sets it down in front of you without being asked and glances at Harry with zero reaction. "On the house. You looked like you needed it."
"Thanks," you say, surprised.
She nods and walks away. Harry watches her go.
"Is she always that casual about everything?"
"This is my regular spot. She's seen me cry over my manuscript at least twice."
He laughs again, quieter this time. "Cry over your manuscript. That's dedication."
"That's deadlines." You wrap your hands around the warm cup. "So. Amsterdam. Ten nights. That's a lot of shows."
"Residency format. We set up in one city and stay for a while. It's different from arena-hopping. More sustainable. More time to actually exist in a place instead of just passing through."
"That sounds nice."
"It is. I mean, it's still work. It's still a massive production with twenty musicians and a string section and pyro and all that. But having a home base for a few weeks makes you feel more human."
"You're still playing stadiums though," you point out. "That's not exactly low-key."
"The venues are big, yeah. But the vibe is different this time. We're doing extended residencies instead of bouncing between cities every night. More nights in fewer places. It lets the show breathe." He pauses, fingers drumming on the table. "And we added a string section. Horns. Proper musicians, not just backing tracks. It feels less like a spectacle and more like an actual concert."
"I saw the Amsterdam photos. The catwalk looks massive."
"It is. Four pits around it. Kiss, Disco, Circle, Square. The whole stage extends into the crowd so you're surrounded on all sides." He grins. "Very intimate for ninety thousand people."
You snort. "Intimate. Sure."
"It is! Compared to stadium runs where you're a speck on the horizon, this feels close. I can see people's faces. That changes everything."
You take a sip of your latte. It's hot and good and you needed it. Outside, the rain keeps hammering the windows, turning the street into a blur of grey and headlights.
"Can I ask you something?" he says.
"You've been asking me things for twenty minutes."
"One more." He picks up another page from your pile. You let him this time. He scans the text and finds a line near the bottom. Then he clears his throat dramatically, sits up straighter, and starts reading.
"His hands trembled as he traced the edge of her jaw," he intones, projecting like he's on stage at the National Theatre. "The weight of centuries fell away and there was nothing left but this, only this, her breath against his skin like a promise the universe had been waiting to keep."
He finishes and looks at you expectantly.
Your face is burning. "That's a rough draft."
"That's incredible." He's trying to keep a straight face and failing. "The universe waiting to keep a promise. That's the most dramatic thing I've ever read and I've read my own lyric notes."
"It's supposed to be dramatic. It's a romantasy. The genre is literally about big feelings and heightened emotion."
"Big feelings," he repeats, delighted. "I'm going to use that. Big feelings."
"Please don't."
"Big feelings!" He says it louder this time, grinning. A couple at the next table glances over.
"Shh." You reach across and put your hand over his mouth before you think about it. His lips curve into a smile under your palm. You pull your hand back fast. "Sorry. That was weird."
"That was great." He's laughing now, quiet and bright. "I've been shushed in cafés before but never literally muffled."
"You were being loud."
"I'm always loud. Ask anyone."
The barista appears behind the counter and shoots you a look that says "keep it down." You raise your hands in surrender. Harry turns around, catches her eye, and gives her a little wave. She just shakes her head and goes back to wiping down the espresso machine.
"She loves me," he whispers.
"She's tolerating you. There's a difference."
"Same thing in my experience."
You shake your head, but you're fighting a smile. He settles back in his chair, still holding your page. He reads it again, slower this time, without the theatrical voice.
"Is the soldier based on anyone?" he asks. "Real person? Ex-boyfriend? That bloke you fancied at uni?"
You raise your eyebrows at him. "That's a personal question."
"I'm a personal kind of guy."
You consider the question. The truth is complicated. The soldier started as a collection of traits you found compelling, loyalty and steadiness and the willingness to stay when things get hard. He's not based on one person. He's based on a feeling you wanted to believe existed.
"He wishes," you say finally.
Harry's head tilts. "What?"
"The soldier. If he's based on anyone, he wishes he was based on someone worth writing about."
He considers that for a moment. Then he leans forward, elbows on the table, voice lower.
"I think he might be."
You meet his eyes. He holds your gaze steadily, no irony, no joke. The café noise fades. The rain keeps hitting the glass. Your pulse kicks up.
"You don't even know me," you say.
"I know you write about cursed queens who feel their enemies' pain. I know you care enough about your work to cry over it in public. I know you let a stranger sit at your table and read your rough drafts." He shrugs. "That's a start."
Your phone buzzes on the table. The spell breaks. You glance down at the screen. Your editor, emailing to remind you about the deadline. Again.
"I should probably get back to this," you say, gesturing at the papers.
"Yeah. Of course." He doesn't move though. He just watches you for another beat, then slides the page back across the table. "This one's good. The bit about the promise. Don't cut it."
"I wasn't going to."
"Good."
He stands, pulls on his raincoat, buttons it up. The fabric is damp against his shoulders. He looks at the window, at the rain still coming down, and sighs.
"London weather," he mutters. "Forgot about this bit."
"It's not always like this."
"No, sometimes it's worse."
You laugh, surprising yourself. He grins at the sound.
"Listen," he says, pulling out his phone. "What's your Instagram? I want to know when this book comes out. Proper release date, all that."
You hesitate for only a second. Then you tell him your handle. He types it in, follows you, and slides his phone back into his pocket.
"I'll DM you," he says. "If that's alright."
"That's alright."
He nods once, adjusts his collar, and heads for the door. He pauses with his hand on the glass, turns back to look at you.
"Keep writing. The world needs more cursed queens."
And then he's gone, out into the rain, disappearing into the grey Soho afternoon like he was never there at all.
You sit there for a long moment, staring at the closed door. Then you look down at your manuscript. The page he read is still sitting on top, slightly crooked from when he moved it. You straighten it with your fingertips.
Your phone buzzes again. Not your editor this time. An Instagram notification.
harrystyles started following you.
You stare at it. Then you watch as a DM appears.
harrystyles: Found your competition.
There's a photo attached. A bookshop window somewhere in Amsterdam, you think, based to the architecture in the background. The display features a stack of romantasy novels with similar cover art to what you've been imagining for yours. Dragons and swords and women in flowing gowns.
You laugh out loud. The dog on the velvet chair lifts its head again, unimpressed.
You type back: That's not competition. Those are mass market paperbacks. I'm going hardback.
harrystyles: Hardback. Very fancy.
harrystyles: What time do you usually write?
you: Afternoons. Mornings if I'm desperate.
harrystyles: Are you desperate right now?
you: Always.
harrystyles: Good to know.
You put the phone down and try to focus on your manuscript. You really do. You pick up your green pen, reread the paragraph about the binding spell, and realize you've absorbed exactly nothing since he left. The words sit on the page but your brain keeps replaying the conversation instead.
His voice reading your line. The way he said "big feelings." His fingers on your manuscript page like he had every right to touch it.
You groan and drop your head onto the table. The couple next to you looks over again. You don't care.
This is ridiculous. You're a grown woman with a book deal and a deadline and a perfectly functional life. You don't get distracted by random men in cafés, even if those random men happen to be global pop stars with green eyes and annoyingly genuine questions about magic systems.
You lift your head, grab your pen, and force yourself through another three pages of notes. Sable's curse makes more sense now. You've clarified the rules around intention versus action and how the empathy threshold works. Small victories. You underline a line of dialogue that still feels wrong and make a note to rewrite it tomorrow.
Your phone buzzes again. You glance at it.
harrystyles: How's the desperate writing going?
You look at the clock on the wall. It's past six. You've been here for hours and the rain has finally slowed to a drizzle.
you: Less desperate now. More tired.
harrystyles: Tired enough to stop?
you: Probably should. I'm just rereading the same paragraph over and over.
harrystyles: Sign of a good stopping point.
you: Sign of a fried brain.
harrystyles: Same thing at this hour.
You pack up your things. Manuscript pages go in your bag in no particular order, which you'll regret tomorrow. Laptop gets shut without proper closing tabs, which you'll also regret. The cold latte stays on the table for the barista to collect.
You wave at her on your way out. She gives you a small nod and then glances at your phone, which you're already looking at again.
You walk home through the wet Soho streets, dodging umbrellas and puddles, phone in hand.
you: Thanks for the bookshop photo btw. Made me laugh.
harrystyles: That was the point.
harrystyles: What's your book called?
you: The Copper Crown. At least for now. Publisher might change it.
harrystyles: The Copper Crown. I like it. Sounds like a pub.
you: A pub.
harrystyles: A very distinguished pub. With ale.
you: You're giving notes on my title now?
harrystyles: Free of charge.
You're smiling at your phone like an idiot. A man walking past you on the pavement does a double take, probably thinking you're smiling at him. You look away fast.
At home, you throw your bag on the couch, kick off your shoes, and put the kettle on. Your flat is small but it's yours, a one-bedroom in Bloomsbury that you can barely afford because advances for debut novelists don't go very far in London. But the rent is paid and the bookshelves are full and there's a window that looks out at the roof of the building next door. It's not a view, but it's home.
Your phone buzzes on the counter.
harrystyles: Question.
you: Another one?
harrystyles: Different category this time.
you: What category?
harrystyles: The are-you-going-to-the-show category.
You look at the screen. Then you look at the fridge, where your Wembley ticket is stuck under a magnet. You bought it back in February, the day they went on sale. You sat on the website for forty minutes in the queue and ended up with a seat in the upper tier, back row, section 312. Not ideal, but you were just grateful to get in.
you: I'm going to Wembley, yeah.
harrystyles: Which night?
you: Opening night. June 12.
harrystyles: Where's your seat?
You hesitate. You could lie. You could be cool about this.
you: Upper tier. Back row. 312.
harrystyles: You're joking.
you: I am not joking. The queue was brutal. I was lucky to get anything.
harrystyles: Back row.
you: It's still a seat.
harrystyles: It's practically a different postcode.
You snort out loud in your empty kitchen.
you: It's FINE. I'll see the stage. The screens exist for a reason.
harrystyles: The screens.
you: The big glowing rectangles that show your face when you're far away? Very useful technology.
harrystyles: I'm not having you watch me on a screen from the back row of section 312.
you: You don't get a say in this.
harrystyles: I'm making it my say.
you: What does that mean?
harrystyles: It means I'm upgrading you.
You stare at your phone. The kettle boils. You don't move.
you: You're what?
harrystyles: Upgrading. Kiss pit. East side. You'll be close enough to see my guitar picks. Close enough to catch a plectrum if I throw one.
you: Harry.
harrystyles: That's my name.
you: You can't just upgrade my ticket.
harrystyles: Already did. Will-call. Your name. Just bring ID.
you: I'm serious. That's too much. I paid for my ticket. I can sit in 312. It's fine.
harrystyles: It's really not.
you: It IS. I've sat in worse seats at gigs. I saw Beyoncé from behind a pillar once. This is nothing.
harrystyles: You saw Beyoncé from behind a PILLAR?
you: See? I have perspective. Section 312 is a luxury compared to the pillar.
harrystyles: This is tragic. I'm fixing it.
you: You're being ridiculous.
harrystyles: I'm being generous. There's a difference.
you: Is there?
harrystyles: Rhetorical question won't work on me. I went to a café today and sat with a stranger for two hours asking about her cursed queen. I'm clearly not operating on normal logic.
You sit down on your kitchen floor. You don't know why. Your legs just decided. The tile is cold through your jeans. The kettle clicks off behind you.
you: I don't know what to say.
harrystyles: Say you'll come.
you: Of course I'll come. I had a ticket already.
harrystyles: Say you'll come to the Kiss pit.
you: Fine. I'll come to the Kiss pit.
harrystyles: Good.
harrystyles: Wear something you can dance in.
you: Is that a note?
harrystyles: It's a suggestion.
harrystyles: From someone who will be watching you watch him.
You lean your head back against the cabinet doors. Your ceiling has a crack running across it that your landlord keeps saying he'll fix. You've lived here for three years. The crack is still there. You focus on it because focusing on your phone screen feels like too much right now.
you: You're going to watch me?
harrystyles: I watched you today. Watching you work. That wasn't nothing.
you: Harry.
harrystyles: That's still my name.
you: This is weird.
harrystyles: A bit.
harrystyles: Good weird though.
You type and delete three different responses. Then you type another one and delete that too. Finally you just send the only thing that feels honest.
you: Yeah. Good weird.
harrystyles: Get some sleep. You've got edits tomorrow.
you: You've got a show in two days.
harrystyles: Details.
you: Important details.
harrystyles: I'll worry about that later. Right now I'm just thinking about the girl with the red pen.
You look at your hands. There's still ink on your fingertips from the pens. Green and blue smudged across your knuckles. You didn't notice until now.
you: Goodnight, Harry.
harrystyles: Goodnight.
A pause. Then one more message.
harrystyles: See you June 12.
You put the phone down on the counter. The screen goes dark. You sit on your kitchen floor for another long moment, staring at nothing, feeling everything. Then you get up, make your tea, and go to bed. You fall asleep with your phone on your chest, still smiling.
☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆
Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖
the one where Y/N flies to London for Harry Styles, but somewhere along the route between Wembley, Madame Tussauds and the city lights, she realizes she might have been searching for herself all along.
author’s note: hi everyone!! this is my first story, so please be kind with me <3 english isn’t my first language, but i really wanted to share this little piece of my heart. i’d love to know what you think, if you enjoyed it, and if you think i should continue. any feedback would mean so much to me <3
word count: 5275 words of London, Wembley magic, quiet self-discovery, fangirl chaos and the kind of route that changes everything.
warnings: emotional introspection, mentions of feeling lost in life, loneliness, nostalgia, big dreams, soft angst. ALL FICTIONAL
let me know what you think of The Route Back to Me here!
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4
For three days, Harry didn’t appear. And Y/N hated admitting she counted. Not dramatically. Not with her phone in her hand every five minutes. Not glued to the hotel window like a side character in an overly intense adaptation of a romance she would pretend not to read.
But she counted.
On the first morning, she woke up and did not think of him. For almost seven seconds. Then she saw the note on the bedside table, folded beside the green notebook, and immediately hated herself for the way her chest tightened.
She didn’t open it again. She had already read it too many times.
I’m not going to show up today.
Not because I don’t want to.
Because I’m trying to learn not to turn you into the place I run to after doing something difficult.
It was a good note.
Annoyingly good. Mature, even. Which made it much harder to resent.
Y/N sat on the edge of the bed, staring at it as if the paper had personally inconvenienced her.
“You’re very evolved for a man who keeps leaving emotional stationery at reception,” she muttered.
The note, naturally, had nothing to say for itself. So she got dressed. She went out. She lived London. Or tried to.
It was easier in theory.
London had always been one of those places that existed in her head before it existed in front of her. A city made of old music videos, concert clips, rainy interviews, films watched too many times, bookshop windows, red buses, ridiculous rent prices she had once looked up for fun and then closed immediately for mental health reasons.
When she was younger, London had felt like a symbol. Not of perfection. Never that. More of scale. Like proof that a life could be bigger than the one people expected you to fit into. She had never known what she would do with that feeling. So she had done nothing. Which, she was beginning to realise, was a decision too.
A very boring one.
The first day, she walked until her feet hurt. She stopped for coffee near a window and watched people pass with tote bags, headphones, flowers, suitcases, office clothes, dogs, bad moods, and lives that seemed both completely ordinary and impossibly far from hers.
She opened the green notebook. For a while, she wrote nothing.
Then, slowly:
Today he didn’t come.
She stared at the sentence.
Added:
And I’m trying not to make that mean more than it does.
Then crossed out trying. Because, apparently, one emotionally complicated man had ruined the word for her.
She rewrote it.
And I’m not making that mean more than it does.
It looked much more confident than she felt. Still. Better.
On the second day, she went back into central London with less of a plan and more of a challenge. She wanted to prove she could be there without turning every corner into a possible scene.
Without imagining Harry walking towards her.
Without checking every tall man in a cap like some kind of deranged detective with romantic trauma and sore calves.
She lasted almost an hour. Which, honestly, she considered progress.
She went to Covent Garden and watched a street performer balance on something that looked both unsafe and financially questionable. She laughed when everyone clapped too early and the performer looked offended in five different languages without saying a word.
She found a small bookshop and spent twenty minutes in the notebook section despite already owning one.
“No,” she whispered to herself. “You already have an emotional commitment to a green notebook.”
A woman beside her looked over. Y/N pretended to cough. She left without buying anything. A triumph. She entered a perfume shop and left with a headache, which felt deeply on brand. Then she opened rental websites on her phone.
Closed them immediately.
Opened them again.
Closed them again when the prices made her stare at the sky as if God, the British economy and every London landlord owed her a formal written apology.
“Okay,” she muttered. “Maybe I’ll start by dreaming of a shared studio with three ghosts, a toaster, and a window that faces emotional damage.”
But she kept looking. Rooms. Jobs. Transport. Neighbourhoods. Courses. Coffee shops near Tube stations.
Little practical details that, together, began to look dangerously like a life. That was the part that scared her.
Not Harry.
Harry was improbable.
Harry was a story she would never have believed if someone else had told it to her.
London, somehow, felt possible. Difficult. Expensive. Terrifying. Too much.
But possible. And maybe that was why it unsettled her so much.
By the third day, she had stopped checking the reception desk every time she came back to the hotel. Mostly. Almost. Enough to lie to herself about it.
She had lunch alone and didn’t feel lonely the whole time. She took pictures of streets that looked too ordinary to be beautiful and decided they were beautiful anyway. She saved three room listings she could not afford and one she maybe could if she gave up joy, heating, and financial stability.
Then she sat in a café near the hotel, eating toast that had been buttered with the kind of care one might give to an enemy, and wrote:
Grown woman counts days since emotionally complicated man did not appear. More news at eleven.
She looked at the sentence.
Smiled into her cup.
At least she still had a sense of humour.
That seemed important.
Harry not showing up, this time, hadn’t been abandonment. She knew that. His note had been clear. He didn’t want to turn her into the place he ran to after doing something difficult. And Y/N respected that.
Even when she didn’t like it.
Even when a less dignified part of her wanted him to be less evolved and more impulsive.
Which was awful.
And human.
And, unfortunately, very her.
So she kept doing what she had promised herself. She lived London. Not as a tourist trying to tick places off a list, but as someone testing a possibility. As someone asking a dangerous question.
What if?
What if she came back?
Not for a concert.
Not for a route.
Not for him.
For herself.
The thought had started as a spark.
By the afternoon of the third day, it had become a thing she could not quite put down.
Y/N returned to the hotel with aching feet, a half-empty bottle of water in her bag, and a notebook full of sentences that were no longer all about him.
That felt like an achievement. Small. But real.
The receptionist looked up when she walked in.
Y/N automatically prepared herself for an envelope.
Seriously.
Her body had developed a Pavlovian response to hotel receptions. But there was no envelope.
Only the receptionist with a slightly different smile.
“Y/N?”
She stopped.
“Yes?”
“Someone is waiting for you in the lobby,” the girl explained, choosing her words carefully. “He said he only wanted me to let you know. If you don’t want to come down, he’ll leave.”
Y/N’s heart did that ridiculous thing.
Again: heart first, common sense second.
She looked towards the lobby.
And saw him.
Harry was sitting in an armchair away from the centre of the room, dark cap, simple T-shirt, sunglasses in his hand. No show. No visible team. No flowers. No gummies. No envelope.
Just him.
Waiting.
But this time, with permission. Y/N stood still for a few seconds. He saw her. He didn’t stand right away. Didn’t wave. Didn’t try to force the scene into happening. He simply waited. The decision was hers. Y/N drew in a breath.
“It’s okay,” she told the receptionist.
Then she walked over to him.
Harry stood when she approached.
“Hi,” he greeted.
His voice was careful. Not fragile. Careful.
Like he had learned that the space between them was not something to rush into just because he wanted to.
Y/N looked at his hands. Then his pocket. Then the table beside him. Harry followed her gaze and understood before she said anything.
“No envelope.”
“I’m shocked,” she commented.
“I’m trying to grow.”
“Dangerous.”
“I’ve heard that.”
Y/N crossed her arms, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her.
“And no gummies either?”
Harry slipped a hand into his pocket.
Y/N immediately pointed a finger at him.
“No.”
He stopped at once.
“You haven’t even seen what it is.”
“If it’s a gummy, I’m calling security.”
“Technically, there’s already security.”
“Then I’m calling security on you.”
Harry smiled.
For the first time since she saw him, the smile looked tired, but not lost. That did something to her.
“Do you want to take a walk?” he asked. “Or I can leave. Really.”
Y/N studied him.
He looked different. Not dramatically. Not as if one conversation, one broken engagement and a crushed gummy had somehow cured him.
But there was something less scattered about him. Less divided. As if some part of him had finally returned home.
“A walk,” she accepted. “But no route.”
Harry nodded.
“No route.”
They left the hotel and stepped into the late afternoon.
London was warm, restless and busy in that way it always seemed to be, as though everyone was late for something even when they had nowhere to be. Cars moved slowly. People crossed at the wrong times. Someone dragged a suitcase over uneven pavement with the kind of determination that deserved its own soundtrack.
For the first few minutes, they talked about small things.
Traffic.
The terrible coffee Harry had drunk that morning.
The fact that Y/N had seen another perfume shop and stood outside for almost two full minutes battling her own nature.
“And did you go in?” he asked.
“No.”
Harry looked genuinely impressed.
“Wow.”
Y/N straightened with fake pride.
“Thank you. I’m accepting applause.”
“Major personal growth,” Harry remarked.
“I almost cried.”
“I believe you.”
“Don’t mock me,” she warned. “It was a battle.”
Harry looked at her with exaggerated seriousness.
“I’m proud.”
Y/N turned her head to him.
“You’re saying that with far too much sincerity for a conversation about perfume.”
“I take your victories very seriously.”
She rolled her eyes.
“That should be annoying.”
Harry tilted his head slightly.
“And is it?”
“A little.”
“Only a little?”
“Don’t push it.”
He smiled. The lightness stayed between them for a few steps. Then, as always happened, the truth approached slowly.
Y/N was the first to glance at him.
“Are you okay?”
Harry let out a short breath.
“No.”
She nodded, almost satisfied.
“Good answer.”
He looked at her.
“Was it?”
“It was honest.”
“Wild concept,” Harry murmured.
“Truly. Should be in a manual.”
He let out a small laugh.
Then grew serious.
“I talked to Zoë.”
Y/N looked ahead. The name entered the air with the weight it would always have. Not because Zoë was there. Not because Y/N knew her. But because another person’s pain was not a detail. It was not something they could step around like a crack in the pavement.
“And?” Y/N asked.
“And it was awful,” Harry admitted.
“I can imagine.”
Harry shook his head.
“No. I mean, yes. But I don’t think you can really imagine it until you’re in it. There wasn’t shouting. There wasn’t a huge scene. That might have been easier.”
Y/N listened in silence.
He continued carefully, eyes on the street ahead:
“She already knew something was wrong. Not everything. Not you. But she knew I wasn’t there the way I should’ve been.”
Y/N’s throat tightened slightly.
“Did she ask about me?”
“Yes.”
Y/N closed her eyes for a moment.
Harry looked at her.
“I didn’t put you at the centre,” he stated.
She opened her eyes.
“Thank you.”
“I told the truth. That I met someone who made me realise things. But I told her this didn’t start with you.”
Y/N drew in a breath.
“Did she believe you?”
Harry took a while to answer.
“I don’t know if that matters right now. Not in the sense of making me feel better.” His jaw tightened slightly. “She’s hurt. She has every right to be.”
Y/N nodded.
“You’re right.”
“We’re… separated,” he said, the word coming slowly. “The engagement is over. But it isn’t clean. It isn’t simple. It isn’t something you close with one sentence.”
Y/N felt a strange tightening in her chest.
It wasn’t joy.
It wasn’t pure relief.
It was something more complicated, with guilt, tenderness, fear and a very quiet possibility mixed in.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Harry looked at her.
Y/N shrugged.
“I don’t know if that’s the right thing to say.”
“It is.”
“I didn’t want someone to get hurt.”
“I know.”
“But she did.”
“Yes.”
“And so did you.”
Harry nodded.
“Yes.”
She looked at him seriously.
“And that can’t become something beautiful just because you’re here now.”
“I know.”
“Good. Just checking.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
“You’re still hard on me.”
“And you still need it.”
Harry’s smile appeared slowly.
“Probably.”
They kept walking.
A bus passed too close to the curb. A group of girls walked by laughing at something on a phone. A man in a suit rushed past them carrying flowers and looking terrified, which Y/N privately decided meant either romance or apology.
Maybe both. Harry’s pace matched hers. Not pushing. Not leading. Just there. That was new too.
“Did you want to come sooner?” Y/N asked after a while.
Harry looked at her.
“Yes.”
The answer came without decoration.
Y/N swallowed.
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
He took a second.
“Because I realised wanting to see you wasn’t the same as having the right to.”
She looked away. That was annoyingly good. Again.
“You’re getting dangerous with these emotionally responsible answers.”
“I’ve been practising.”
“With who?”
“My ceiling.”
Y/N laughed despite herself.
“Poor ceiling.”
“It’s heard a lot.”
“I hope you thanked it for its service.”
“I’ll leave a note.”
She looked at him immediately.
“Absolutely not.”
Harry smiled properly then.
Only for a second.
But it was there.
The laughter faded naturally, not because it wasn’t welcome, but because neither of them could stay away from the centre of it for very long.
Harry looked down at the pavement.
“I wrote to you three times.”
Y/N turned her head.
“You did?”
“Not sent,” he clarified. “Just wrote. Tore them up.”
“Why?”
“Because the first one was me trying to sound fine.”
“Terrible start.”
“Exactly.” He exhaled. “The second one was me trying to sound noble.”
“Worse.”
“Agreed.”
“And the third?”
Harry glanced at her.
“The third was me asking if I could see you.”
Y/N felt the words settle somewhere under her ribs.
“But you didn’t send it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I couldn’t tell if I wanted to see you because I was ready, or because I was lonely.”
Y/N looked at him for a long moment. There were plenty of things she could have said. A joke would have been easiest. Something about emotional audits or men being allergic to solitude. But he had told her the truth. So she gave him one back.
“That was probably the right choice.”
Harry nodded, though it clearly cost him something.
“I know.”
“And I hated it a little,” she added.
His eyes lifted to hers.
Y/N looked ahead, pretending the street had suddenly become fascinating.
“I’m mature, not dead.”
A breath of laughter left him.
“Good to know.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Your maturity?”
“My honesty.”
“Too late.”
She rolled her eyes.
But she was smiling.
They passed a quieter street with trees and restaurants, people seated outside with glasses of wine, couples leaning too close, friends laughing too loudly, cutlery hitting plates. London seemed ready to begin another story before the last one had finished.
Y/N tightened her grip on her bag strap.
“I have something to tell you too.”
Harry turned his head to her.
“Okay.”
She pointed at him immediately.
“Don’t make a weird face.”
“I haven’t started.”
“You started internally.”
Harry blinked, amused.
“That’s a very difficult accusation to prove.”
“I’ve known you for a few days and unfortunately I already know when you’re about to make a face.”
He tried not to smile.
“Okay. I’ll control my face.”
“Thank you.”
Y/N took a breath.
“I’m thinking about starting a life in London.”
Harry stopped for half a second. Not enough to be dramatic. But enough for her to see.
“No,” she said immediately.
He blinked.
“No what?”
“Don’t make that face.”
“I’m controlling my face.”
“You’re controlling it badly.” She pointed at him again. “And before your world-famous ego starts writing internal speeches, this has nothing to do with you.”
Harry opened his mouth.
Closed it.
“I didn’t even say anything.”
“You said it with your eyebrows.”
“My eyebrows are innocent,” he defended.
“Your eyebrows thought they had just influenced migratory decisions.”
Harry laughed.
Y/N tried to remain serious, but failed.
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“London existed before you, you know.”
“I have a vague idea.”
“Good. Just so you don’t develop an emotional Big Ben complex.”
Harry let out a real laugh. A few people looked over. He lowered his head, still smiling.
“Emotional Big Ben?”
“Yes,” Y/N confirmed. “Big, loud, and convinced the whole city revolves around him.”
“That was offensive.”
“It was necessary.”
“Cruel.”
“Educational.”
Harry looked at her, still amused, but his eyes had softened.
Y/N looked away towards the street.
“London has always called to me. Since I was younger. I don’t know how to explain it. There was something here that felt… bigger. Not perfect. Just bigger.” She paused, searching for the right words. “I think I always had that slightly ridiculous fantasy of living here one day. Not in a glamorous way. Not like I’d arrive and suddenly become someone with perfect coats and emotional stability.”
Harry made a small sound.
Y/N pointed at him without looking.
“Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not.”
“You are internally.”
“I’m controlling my face.”
“Barely.”
He pressed his lips together.
She continued:
“I just always imagined there would be a version of me here. Somewhere. A version who didn’t feel like she had to explain why she wanted more. A version who could walk into places alone and not feel like she was waiting for someone to make it legitimate.”
Harry didn’t interrupt. That helped. Y/N had not realised how much silence could help until him. Not the empty kind. The kind that stayed.
“I think I stopped taking it seriously because it sounded childish,” she admitted. “Like one of those things you say when you’re younger because the world still looks possible from a distance. And then you grow up and start calling everything that scares you reality.”
Harry looked at her, but didn’t say anything.
She glanced at him, then back at the street.
“And these days made me think. Not because of you. Or at least, not only because of you. More because I realised I’ve also spent too long waiting for life to give me some kind of permission.”
The words became quieter, but steadier.
“Maybe I need to make decisions too. Take charge of my life. Choose something because I want it, not because it’s easy to explain to everyone else.”
Harry stayed quiet for a few seconds.
Then he said:
“I’m happy.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes.
“Because I’d be closer?”
“Also.”
She raised her brows.
Harry lifted both hands, surrendering.
“I’m being honest.”
“Dangerous.”
“But not only because of that,” he added. “I’m happy because you’re choosing something of your own. Even if I weren’t here, I’d like knowing you chose.”
Y/N looked at him. The answer was annoyingly good. Worse, it sounded true.
“That was very adult.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m suspicious.”
“Understandable.”
“Was it rehearsed?”
“No.”
“Public relations?”
“Also no.”
Y/N sighed, pretending to worry.
“Terrifying.”
Harry smiled.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Even more terrifying.”
He laughed quietly. Then the conversation settled again.
They walked a little longer before finding a small square tucked between streets, quieter than the places around it. A few benches sat beneath trees. Someone had left a newspaper folded beside an empty coffee cup. A pigeon moved with the confidence of a property owner.
Y/N sat first. Harry sat beside her, keeping that careful space she had learned to recognise. Respect. Not distance. For a while, they watched people pass.
A woman with flowers wrapped in brown paper.
A man arguing with his phone.
Two children running after a ball.
A couple trying to understand a map.
London kept happening.
Without asking permission.
Y/N knew the next part had to be said.
Not because Harry seemed to be demanding anything.
He didn’t.
That was almost worse.
But because she needed to hear herself say it.
“Harry.”
He turned to her.
“Yes?”
“I don’t want to be anyone’s replacement.”
His smile slowly disappeared.
“I know.”
“I don’t want to be a pause,” she continued, eyes fixed on the trees ahead. “Or a reward. Or a plan B. Or the girl who appears after your life went wrong.”
Harry looked at her without interrupting.
Y/N took a breath.
“And I don’t want you to look at me months from now and realise I was just the person who happened to be there when everything got difficult.”
Harry stopped moving.
Not dramatically.
But enough for the air to change.
“Y/N.”
She kept looking ahead.
“That sounded dangerously serious.”
“Look at me.”
She exhaled softly.
“That sounds even worse.”
“Y/N.”
So she looked.
Harry’s expression was serious. Not harsh. Just clear.
“Stop doing that.”
She frowned.
“Doing what?”
“Putting yourself in a place I never gave you.”
Y/N went still.
Harry took a breath before continuing.
“You are not anyone’s replacement. You’re not an interval. You’re not a cure. You’re not a reward. You’re not the after of someone else. You’re not something that appeared because my life became uncomfortable.”
Her throat tightened.
“Harry…”
“You’re you,” he said simply. “And that is more than enough.”
Y/N looked away.
But Harry kept going before she could escape into a joke.
“It has nothing to do with other people. It has nothing to do with what ended, or who got hurt, or the mess I still need to sort through. I like being with you because you’re you.”
She pressed her lips together.
Harry’s voice softened.
“Because you tell me the truth. Because you make me laugh when I’m seconds away from turning everything into a tragedy with good lighting. Because you notice what people don’t say. Because you’re inconvenient at exactly the right moments.”
Y/N bit the inside of her cheek.
Harry saw.
This time, he commented.
“And because you do that when you’re trying not to feel something.”
Y/N closed her eyes.
“Illegal.”
“I know.”
“Extremely illegal.”
“I accept the sentence.”
She let out a low laugh, but there was emotion caught inside the sound.
Harry lowered his voice.
“I’m not asking you to fill any empty space. I’m asking you to stay in yours. As you. That’s all.”
Y/N looked at him again.
“That sounds simple.”
“It isn’t.”
“Right. I was getting suspicious.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
“But it’s honest.”
She stayed quiet for a few seconds.
Then drew in a breath.
“Then be honest with me about something.”
“Whenever I can.”
“No.” Her eyes sharpened. “Not that.”
Harry accepted the correction with a small nod.
“Always.”
Y/N held his gaze.
“Don’t choose me just because I’m easier than the pain you still need to feel.”
Harry didn’t answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was low but firm.
“You’re not easier.”
She almost laughed.
“Thank you?”
“You’re more real,” he said. “And that is much less comfortable.”
Y/N stared at him for a second. Then pointed at him.
“That was almost too beautiful.”
“Almost?”
“Don’t push it.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“You would.”
“I would.”
“At least you’re honest now.”
“Wild concept,” he echoed.
Y/N tried to stay serious.
Failed. The tension did not disappear. But it became bearable. As if the joke didn’t erase the weight. It only gave them a way to breathe inside it.
Harry looked down at his hands.
“I also don’t want to rush into anything,” he said.
Y/N watched him.
“Good.”
“Not because I’m unsure of wanting to know you,” he added quickly, then stopped himself. “No. That sounds like I’m trying to make a legal statement.”
“It did have suspicious press-release energy.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Continue. Less lawyer.”
Harry breathed out a laugh.
“I want to know you. Properly. I want to talk to you. I want to know how your day went, which notebook you bought even though you didn’t need it, which perfume almost defeated you, which London neighbourhood you insulted for being too expensive.”
She almost smiled.
“All of them.”
“I want to know all of them.” His voice dropped. “But I don’t want to use you to skip over what I still need to feel. And I don’t want you to feel like you have to occupy a space that has only just become empty.”
Y/N swallowed.
“Good answer.”
“I’m trying.”
She looked at him sideways.
Harry immediately corrected himself:
“I’m doing.”
Y/N pointed at him.
“Better.”
“Thank you, teacher.”
“Don’t call me teacher.”
“Highly uncertified professional?”
“Also no.”
“Existential critic?”
She considered it for a second.
“That one maybe.”
Harry smiled.
For a moment, he looked lighter. Not fine. Not healed.
Just lighter. That mattered more.
Y/N took her phone out of her bag. Harry glanced at it.
She unlocked the screen, opened the Madame Tussauds photo and handed it to him.
“Before we continue this adult and emotionally responsible conversation, I need to show you something.”
Harry took the phone. Looked at the picture. Went still. Then looked at her.
“You went to Madame Tussauds?”
Y/N pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh.
“I did.”
“And took a picture with my wax statue?”
“Technically, someone else took it.”
Harry looked at the photo again.
Y/N in the picture had the expression of someone trying not to mock a public figure made of wax. Wax Harry, naturally, looked flawless and empty.
He brought a hand to his mouth.
“Are you laughing?” she asked.
“I’m processing.”
“Liar. You’re laughing inside.”
“I’m laughing a lot inside,” he admitted.
“I laughed outside too. A teenage girl heard me talking to your statue.”
Harry closed his eyes.
“Please tell me you said something normal.”
Y/N looked away.
“Define normal.”
“Y/N.”
“I told him he was easier to deal with than you.”
Harry laughed so suddenly he had to lower his head.
Y/N looked deeply satisfied.
“And she agreed.”
“Of course she did,” Harry answered, still laughing. “He looks more emotionally stable.”
“Exactly.”
“Fewer notes?”
“Zero notes.”
“Arrives early?”
“He’s always there.”
“Doesn’t buy gummies?”
Y/N sighed.
“Unfortunately, no. A serious flaw.”
Harry handed her phone back, still smiling.
“I can’t believe you met my wax version before we exchanged numbers.”
Y/N looked at him.
The sentence stayed in the air.
Harry realised at the same time she did.
His smile softened.
“Can we?” he asked. “Exchange numbers?”
Y/N pretended to consider it.
“I don’t know. That’s a big step. So far our relationship has been sustained by hotel receptions and sugar.”
“We could try adult communication.”
“Do you know how to do that?”
“I’m willing to learn.”
“Good. Because leaving notes at reception does not count as adult communication.”
Harry raised one finger.
“It was a phase.”
“It was a limited series.”
“With strong reviews?”
“Excellent reviews. Terrible sustainability.”
Harry laughed.
Y/N handed him her phone.
He typed in his number slowly. Then called his own phone so he would have hers. When his screen lit up with her name, a small silence passed between them.
So simple. So normal. So strange after everything.
Y/N looked at the contact on her phone.
Harry.
Not H.
Not wired earphones stranger.
Not route.
Just Harry.
He put his phone away.
“Can I ask you something?”
Y/N looked suspicious.
“Depends.”
“If you really start looking for a life here… rooms, work, cafés, whatever… don’t choose London for me.”
She grew serious.
“I know.”
“I know you know,” Harry replied. “But I need to say it. Because maybe a selfish part of me is happy you’d be closer.”
“Maybe?”
He smiled without humour.
“Definitely.”
Y/N waited.
He continued:
“But I need to know that if I don’t enter this story the right way, you’ll continue yours.”
Y/N felt something in her chest.
Not a wound.
More like space.
“That’s the idea,” she said. “You’re not the city.”
Harry looked at her.
She shrugged.
“You’re just a very pretty problem inside it.”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
“Problem?”
“Pretty.”
“But problem.”
“Don’t be ungrateful.”
Harry laughed.
Then, lower:
“Fair.”
The city moved around them.
For the first time, the pause between them didn’t feel like uncertainty.
It felt like space.
Room for things to be careful.
Room for things not to be destroyed by being named too quickly.
Y/N looked at the trees in front of them.
“And you have to promise me something too.”
“Tell me.”
“Don’t make me a cure.”
Harry grew serious.
“I won’t.”
“Or proof that you made the right choice.”
“No.”
“Or a place you land when everything else gets difficult.”
He drew in a breath.
“Then I’ll learn how to walk to you.”
Y/N looked at him.
The sentence hit her quietly.
It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t exaggerated. It wasn’t forever. It was almost small. Maybe that was why it felt more true.
She looked away first, because of course she did.
“That was almost acceptable.”
Harry smiled.
“Almost?”
“Let’s not get carried away.”
“Of course.”
They sat there for a while, watching people pass.
Y/N did not know how long.
Long enough for the light to change. Long enough for the square to empty a little. Long enough for her to stop feeling like every silence needed a joke.
Eventually, Harry asked about London again.
Not like a man trying to be the reason. Like someone who wanted to know the shape of a dream without putting himself in the middle of it.
“What would you do first?” he asked.
Y/N looked at him.
“In London?”
“Yeah.”
She thought about it.
“Panic.”
Harry nodded gravely.
“Practical.”
“Then probably panic again, but with a coffee.”
“Reasonable.”
“Then maybe find a room that doesn’t look haunted.”
“Ambitious.”
“Find work. Or something that lets me stay long enough to figure out work. Maybe a course. Maybe something with music. Or writing. Or anything that makes me feel like I’m not just… existing between responsibilities.”
Harry’s expression softened.
“That sounds important.”
“It sounds expensive.”
“That too.”
“I looked at rent prices and almost had a spiritual experience.”
“What kind?”
“The kind where your soul leaves your body to avoid the deposit.”
Harry laughed.
Y/N smiled, but then her voice quieted.
“I don’t know if I’ll actually do it.”
“You don’t have to decide tonight.”
“I know.”
“But you’re allowed to want it,” he said.
She looked at him.
That hit harder than it should have.
Maybe because wanting things had always felt like the first step towards disappointing someone. Or inconveniencing them. Or having to explain herself.
Y/N swallowed.
“I’m trying to remember that.”
Harry opened his mouth.
Y/N pointed at him.
“Don’t.”
He closed it immediately.
“I was going to correct the word.”
“I know.”
“I’m proud of your self-awareness.”
“I’m proud of your obedience.”
“Temporary.”
“Obviously.”
They stayed there until the afternoon began folding into evening.
Lights came on slowly.
The air cooled a little.
Harry looked at her.
“I have to go soon.”
Y/N nodded.
“Me too.”
Neither of them stood right away.
This time, the silence wasn’t full of things unsaid.
It was full of things that maybe didn’t need to be said all at once.
Harry moved first.
“Can I walk you back to the hotel?”
Y/N looked at him.
He added quickly:
“Not as a route. Not as an excuse. Just because we’re going in the same direction. And because I’m still afraid you’ll wear criminal shoes without supervision.”
Y/N looked down at her trainers.
“They’re trainers.”
“Still. You never know.”
“Are you trying to seem useful?”
“I’m diversifying my skills.”
She laughed.
Then stood.
“You can walk with me for a bit.”
Harry stood too.
“For a bit.”
“No route.”
“No route.”
They began walking side by side. Not too close. Not too far.
Their shoulders brushed once when someone passed them on the pavement. Neither moved away.
Y/N looked ahead, trying to pretend she hadn’t noticed. Harry did too.
Which meant they both had.
“Don’t say anything,” she warned.
Harry kept his eyes on the pavement.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were.”
“I was.”
“Illegal.”
“I know.”
She smiled down at the pavement.
Harry saw. Of course he did. This time, he didn’t comment.
Miraculously.
When they reached the hotel, they stopped before the entrance.
The street had that soft end-of-day noise: rolling suitcases, taxis, voices, an automatic door opening and closing behind someone.
Y/N turned to him. Harry looked like he wanted to say something.
Not a beautiful sentence.
Not a promise.
Just something.
“Thank you for not appearing right away,” she said before he could speak.
He looked at her.
“It was hard.”
“I know.”
“But it was right.”
“I know.”
Y/N drew in a breath.
“And thank you for showing up today in a way I could refuse.”
Harry nodded.
“I’m learning.”
She raised an eyebrow.
He corrected himself, almost smiling.
“I’m doing.”
“Better.”
Harry looked at her for a few seconds.
Then asked:
“Can I text you tomorrow?”
Y/N pretended to think.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“The message.”
“Good morning?”
“Strong contender.”
“How did you sleep?”
“Adult.”
Harry looked at a plant near the hotel entrance and then back at her.
“I saw a plant and thought of my botanical murder charge?”
Y/N laughed.
“That one wins.”
Harry smiled.
And then it happened.
Not a kiss.
Not a grand declaration.
Not a gesture that turned everything into certainty before its time.
Just his hand moving closer, slowly.
Open.
Visible.
Waiting.
Y/N looked at it. Then at him.
Harry didn’t move. Didn’t ask. Didn’t pressure.
He simply left the choice in the space between them.
Y/N drew in a breath.
And placed her hand in his.
It was brief. Warm. Strangely simple.
His fingers closed around hers for one second.
Two.
Then let go.
Long enough to be true. Not long enough to become a promise neither of them was ready to carry.
Y/N swallowed.
“Slow.”
Harry nodded.
“Slow.”
She smiled.
“Good night, Harry.”
“Good night, Y/N.”
She walked into the hotel without looking back.
Not because she didn’t want to.
Because if she did, she might turn the moment into a scene.
And, for the first time, she didn’t need to.
In the lift, her phone vibrated.
Y/N pulled it from her bag with her heart doing irresponsible things.
A message from Harry.
I saw a plant. Thought of my criminal past.
Y/N covered her mouth so she wouldn’t laugh alone in the lift.
Then replied:
Proud of your growth. But keep your distance from all botanical beings until further assessment.
The three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Understood. Good night, existential critic.
Y/N smiled.
Good night, emotional Big Ben.
She expected that to be it.
A neat ending.
A soft place to stop.
The kind of final message that made sense if one was trying to be normal, careful, mature.
Then, just as the lift doors opened, her phone vibrated again.
Y/N looked down.
Also.
She stepped into the corridor, suddenly suspicious.
Another message appeared.
Dinner at mine tomorrow?
Y/N stopped in the middle of the hallway.
Stared.
Then another message.
Before you dramatise: dinner. Food. Table. Cutlery. Normal conversation.
Y/N pressed her lips together.
Her heart, traitorous and clearly lacking professional boundaries, did something warm and stupid.
Another bubble appeared.
I can also help you look for places to live and judge your neighbourhood choices discreetly.
Y/N leaned against the wall outside her room.
Then typed:
Discreetly?
The reply came quickly.
I make no promises.
She laughed once, quietly.
Then typed:
This sounds dangerous.
Harry replied:
You said you wanted to make decisions. I’m offering logistical support and real estate judgement.
Y/N stared at the screen.
The smile faded slightly.
Not because the message was bad.
Because it was good.
Because it was normal.
Because it was domestic in a way that felt more intimate than any grand confession could have.
Dinner.
A table.
Looking at rooms.
Judging neighbourhoods.
It was not a route.
Not a hotel reception.
Not a midnight crisis.
Not Wembley.
Just an invitation into a piece of real life.
Which made it more frightening.
She unlocked her hotel room, walked in, dropped her bag on the bed and stood there with the phone in her hand.
For a moment, she almost answered with a joke.
It would have been easier.
Instead, she typed:
I’m not coming to dinner at your house as an emotional post-engagement replacement.
She stared at the message before sending it.
Her thumb hesitated.
Then she sent it.
The dots appeared.
Disappeared.
For longer this time.
Y/N sat on the edge of the bed.
Her stomach twisted.
Then Harry’s answer came.
I know.
A second message followed.
Come as Y/N.
Then another.
The person who wants London.
And another.
Not the person who has to fix anything of mine.
Y/N’s throat tightened.
She looked away from the phone for a moment.
The room was quiet. The city moved beyond the window. Somewhere below, people were checking in, checking out, arriving, leaving, dragging suitcases over carpet.
She looked back at the screen.
Harry sent one more message.
And only if you want to.
Y/N exhaled slowly.
There it was again.
Choice.
Not pressure.
Not fate.
Not a route.
Just choice.
She typed:
That was irritantly well answered.
Harry replied:
I’m doing.
She smiled.
Then wrote:
Okay.
A second later:
But if you judge my housing choices too harshly, I’m judging your decoration.
Harry’s answer came almost immediately.
Fair.
Then:
But I should warn you I have one surviving plant.
Y/N narrowed her eyes at the phone.
Surviving or hostage?
The dots appeared.
That will be decided tomorrow.
She laughed properly then.
Alone in the hotel room, hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking once.
It felt ridiculous.
It felt young.
It felt like the world had not become easy, but had opened one small window.
Y/N typed:
Good night, emotional Big Ben.
Harry answered:
Good night, existential critic.
She placed the phone on the bed and went to the window.
London shone outside.
Still huge.
Still expensive.
Still impossible.
Still calling her.
Y/N opened the green notebook to a new page.
She wrote:
Maybe I’ll stay.
She stopped.
Then added:
Not for him.
She smiled.
For me.
The sentence looked terrifying.
It also looked like hers.
She sat with that for a while.
Then, beneath it, she wrote one more line:
Tomorrow I’m having dinner with a problem.
She paused.
Then added:
A very pretty one.
Across the city, Harry read her last message one more time before putting his phone away.
He was alone.
Not completely fine.
Not completely whole.
Not free in the uncomplicated way people liked to imagine freedom worked.
There was still pain.
Still guilt.
Still conversations waiting.
Still silence he would have to sit inside without turning it into someone else’s responsibility.
But he was more honest than he had been in a very long time.
And, for now, that was enough.
He looked across the room at the plant by the window.
It was, somehow, still alive.
Harry pointed at it.
“You have one job tomorrow,” he told it.
The plant, wisely, said nothing.
Harry almost laughed.
Then his phone lit up again.
A final message from Y/N.
Also, if the plant looks traumatised, I’m taking custody.
Harry smiled.
A real one.
Small.
Tired.
His.
He typed back:
Understood.
Then added:
I’ll warn it.
Outside, London continued.
No Wembley.
No twenty-four-hour shop.
No route marked on the ground.
No invented fate.
Just an enormous city.
Two lives still being put back together.
And a possibility neither of them needed to rush in order to prove it was real.
For the first time, they weren’t repeating a route.
the one where Y/N flies to London for Harry Styles, but somewhere along the route between Wembley, Madame Tussauds and the city lights, she realizes she might have been searching for herself all along.
author’s note: hi everyone!! this is my first story, so please be kind with me <3 english isn’t my first language, but i really wanted to share this little piece of my heart. i’d love to know what you think, if you enjoyed it, and if you think i should continue. any feedback would mean so much to me <3
word count: 7175 words of London, Wembley magic, quiet self-discovery, fangirl chaos and the kind of route that changes everything.
warnings: emotional introspection, mentions of feeling lost in life, loneliness, nostalgia, big dreams, soft angst. ALL FICTIONAL
let me know what you think of The Route Back to Me here!
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
Y/N tried to make the rest of the day belong to her.
After reading Harry’s note on that small bench, with London waking up around her and the green notebook resting in her lap, she decided she wasn’t going to let the morning turn into something sad.
At least, not entirely.
She tucked the note between two pages, closed the notebook and walked without much direction for almost an hour. She went into a bookshop. Drank an overpriced coffee. Sat in a garden where no one knew anything about cherry gummies, missed routes or men who arrived too late.
She tried to convince herself she was fine.
She wasn’t unwell.
It was different.
She was somewhere between disappointment and understanding. Because, as much as it hurt to admit it, a part of her had already known. Harry could want to show up. He could want to breathe. He could even want to choose. But there was still an entire life pulling him backwards before he could take the step.
And she didn’t want to be one more thing pulling at him.
That thought stayed with her all day.
On the Tube.
In the café.
On the park bench.
While she wrote loose sentences in the notebook, not quite sure whether she was writing about him or about herself.
Someone can see you and still not know what to do with it.
Then she crossed the sentence out.
Not because it was wrong.
Because it was too right.
When she returned to the hotel in the late afternoon, legs tired and head full of sun, she almost managed to walk past reception without looking at the desk.
Almost.
The receptionist called her before she reached the lift.
“Y/N?”
She stopped.
Her body reacted stupidly before her mind could allow it: heart first, common sense second.
She turned around slowly.
“Yes?”
The girl smiled discreetly and lifted an envelope.
“This was left for you.”
Y/N closed her eyes for half a second.
Of course.
Because apparently, her life in London had become a sequence of envelopes left at hotel receptions by a man who should have had far better ways to communicate and yet kept choosing paper.
She walked closer.
“Thank you.”
She took the envelope.
Her name was handwritten on the front.
The same handwriting.
Y/N went upstairs with the envelope held tightly between her fingers, telling herself she wasn’t going to open it right away. She was going to shower, drink water, maybe eat something, maybe behave like a normal person with some emotional control.
She opened it the second she shut the door.
Of course.
The note was short.
Shorter than the last one.
But, for some reason, it felt heavier.
Y/N,
I don’t want to keep appearing on a street and waiting for chance to do the work for me.
You said you still had a week of London left.
Tomorrow, I’ll be at Kew Gardens at 11 a.m., near the glasshouse. Real flowers this time. Not LEGO. Not gummies.
You don’t have to come.
But I needed to make a choice that was mine.
No show. No route. No invented fate.
Just choice.
— H.
Y/N stood in the middle of the room.
She read it once.
Then again.
Then a third time, because apparently she had developed an unhealthy relationship with notes written by emotionally unavailable men.
Kew Gardens.
11 a.m.
Real flowers this time.
Not LEGO.
Not gummies.
No show. No route. No invented fate.
Just choice.
Y/N let out a low, humourless laugh.
“Great,” she muttered to the empty room. “Now we have existential botanical meetings.”
She sat on the edge of the bed and placed the note beside the green notebook.
She didn’t know if she was angry.
She didn’t know if she was touched.
Probably both, which was irritating.
She opened the notebook to a new page, pen resting between her fingers, and sat there for a while without writing anything. Finally, she wrote:
He arrived too late. Now he wants to arrive first.
She stared at the sentence.
Then added:
I don’t know if that changes anything.
She stopped.
Bit the inside of her cheek.
Remembered Harry noticing it.
“Forbidden,” she muttered, as if he were there. “This should be illegal.”
But the room didn’t answer.
Only the air conditioning, too cold.
The next morning, Y/N woke up before her alarm.
Which annoyed her immediately.
It was always a bad sign when her body woke before the alarm because of anxiety, hope, or some humiliating mix of both.
She spent a few minutes staring at the ceiling, just like the day before, but this time the certainty wasn’t simple.
She wasn’t going.
She was.
She shouldn’t.
Maybe she would.
It was only a garden.
Only a conversation.
Only Harry Styles asking her to meet him at eleven in the morning near a glasshouse, as if that were a remotely normal thing.
Y/N covered her face with both hands.
“Ridiculous,” she said into her palms.
But she got up.
Showered.
Dressed simply, because if she made too much effort she would hate herself, and if she made too little, she would also hate herself. She chose a light, comfortable dress with tiny flowers almost hidden in the fabric, and white trainers. She left her hair natural again, curls loose and still a little unruly from the humidity. She put on sunscreen, a little blush, and no glitter.
It wasn’t Wembley.
It wasn’t night.
It wasn’t a show.
It was daylight.
It was London.
It was choice.
Before leaving, she placed the green notebook in her bag. Then she hesitated beside the unopened bag of flower gummies on the bedside table.
She took them too.
She didn’t know why.
Maybe because if he was bringing real flowers, she could bring the ridiculous ones.
Maybe because she no longer knew how to meet him without carrying a joke in her hand, just in case she needed to defend herself.
The journey to Kew Gardens felt too long and too short at once.
By the time she arrived, the sun was already warming the ground. There were families with prams, couples walking slowly, people with cameras hanging from their necks, tourists checking signs. Everything looked too peaceful for the size of the confusion in her chest.
Y/N followed the signs towards the glasshouse.
With every step, she reminded herself she could still leave.
The difference was that, this time, she knew she wouldn’t.
She saw him before he saw her.
Or maybe he had already seen her and was simply giving her time.
Harry was sitting on a bench slightly away from the main path, wearing a pale cap, sunglasses, and a light linen shirt over a white T-shirt. His wired earphones were coming out of his pocket, loosely tangled. There was no team around him. No visible security. No crowd.
Just him.
Sitting.
Waiting.
And, for the first time, early.
Y/N walked towards him slowly.
Harry stood as soon as he saw her.
He didn’t smile immediately.
Maybe because he understood that an easy smile might ruin the seriousness of the moment.
“You came,” he said.
Y/N stopped a few steps away.
“You’re early.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
“I’m trying to change the pattern.”
The sentence caught her more than it should have.
Y/N looked away towards the glasshouse behind him, the sun reflecting on the glass, the green leaves beyond it.
“That was almost adult.”
“Almost?”
“Let’s not get carried away.”
He let out a low laugh.
And for a second, it was easy again.
Which was exactly the problem.
Harry gestured to the bench.
“Do you want to sit?”
Y/N looked at it as if it were a highly suspicious proposal.
“There isn’t a hidden VIP list under it, is there?”
“No.”
“No team member ready to hand me water?”
“Also no.”
“Gummies?”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bag of cherry gummies.
Y/N stared at him.
Harry shrugged.
“Technically, I brought them myself.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Predictable, maybe.”
“That too.”
They sat down, leaving some space between them. Not much. But enough for the morning not to forget there were still things unresolved.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
The garden moved around them with an almost offensive calm. Birds, footsteps on gravel, distant voices, a light wind stirring the leaves. Everything seemed to exist without urgency.
Harry looked down at his hands.
“I didn’t send anyone to find you.”
Y/N turned her head to him.
“What?”
“After yesterday.” He took a breath. “I could have asked for your number. I could have asked where you’d be. I could have had someone find out. I didn’t.”
She studied him.
“You used reception.”
“I used the only door you had already left open.”
Y/N went quiet.
It was a good answer.
Annoyingly good.
“That sounds rehearsed.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Worse.”
He smiled a little.
Then grew serious again.
“I didn’t want to invade your life.”
“Harry, you left a note at my hotel reception asking me to meet you in a garden.”
“I said I didn’t want to invade. I didn’t say it was completely normal.”
Y/N tried not to smile.
She failed slightly.
Harry saw.
Of course he did.
His eyes lingered at the corner of her mouth, then lifted to her eyes, and Y/N immediately felt the urge to hide behind sarcasm.
“Don’t start.”
He tilted his head.
“I haven’t started anything.”
“Yes, you have.”
“Doing what?”
“Noticing things.”
His smile appeared fully then.
Y/N pointed a finger at him.
“Right. That’s enough. You’re banned.”
“Again?”
“Always.” She narrowed her eyes. “We’ve talked about this. It should be illegal.”
Harry looked down, still smiling.
“I remember.”
“Then respect the law.”
“It’s hard.”
“It’s not hard. Just stop.”
“I don’t want to.”
The answer came out too simple.
Too honest.
Y/N lost the next sentence.
Harry looked at her calmly.
“I like noticing you.”
Her chest tightened and, by reflex, she bit the inside of her cheek.
His expression softened.
“See?”
Y/N closed her eyes.
“No.”
“You’re doing it.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re trying to run.”
“I’m literally sitting on a bench.”
“Inside.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him, indignant.
“You’re unbearable.”
“You’ve told me that before.”
“And apparently it wasn’t enough.”
Harry laughed softly.
But then the laugh faded naturally, without becoming heavy. It simply became honest.
“You try to run the exact second something touches you,” he said. “You roll your eyes when you think I’m being dramatic. You look away when the conversation gets too close. You change the subject like a joke is a locked door.”
Y/N looked at the flowers in front of them.
Her entire body wanted to interrupt him.
Make a joke.
Tell him to shut up.
Ask if he had woken up wanting to be a garden therapist.
But she said nothing.
Harry continued, quieter.
“And then, somehow, you always come back to the truth.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable.
It was worse.
It was intimate.
Y/N tightened her fingers around the strap of her bag.
“You know that’s a dangerous thing to like, right?”
“I know.”
“Then don’t make it sound beautiful.”
“I’m not trying to make it sound beautiful.”
“You’re always trying to make everything sound beautiful.”
Harry looked at her.
This time, he didn’t smile.
“Maybe that’s the problem.”
Y/N looked back at him.
And for one second, the joke died between them.
Not heavily.
Honestly.
She looked away first.
Not because she wanted to.
Because his gaze was doing that thing again.
That irritating, calm, almost silent thing where he seemed to notice everything she was trying to hide. The way she tightened her fingers. The way she bit her cheek before answering. The way she pretended to look at the flowers when really she was just trying to buy time.
Harry didn’t push.
Maybe that was what made her speak.
Not pressure.
Not a question.
Not a look waiting for the right answer.
Just his silence.
A silence that seemed to say: you can say it, if you want. And if you don’t, I’m still here.
Y/N took a breath.
“I don’t think I’ve ever really let someone know me like this.”
Harry looked at her, but didn’t speak.
She laughed quietly, without humour.
“Or maybe I’ve never found someone who wanted to spend time doing it.”
The sentence came out simply.
Too simply for how large it felt inside her.
Y/N opened her bag, took out the green notebook and rested it on her lap, just to have something in her hands.
“I’m not saying this for pity, attention or some dramatic moment, okay?” She glanced at him, serious. “Don’t make a film out of this.”
The corner of his mouth moved, but Harry held back the smile.
“I won’t make a film.”
“You will. You look like you’re already choosing the soundtrack.”
He let out a low laugh.
“Okay. Maybe a short film.”
“Harry.”
“Sorry.”
She rolled her eyes, but there was something more fragile in the gesture.
Then she looked back at the flowers.
“I just…” She stopped, searching for the words. “Sometimes I feel like I notice everything. Little changes. People’s tone. What they say when they mean something else. The way someone goes quiet when they’re sad, or laughs too loudly when they’re uncomfortable.”
Harry listened with an attention that almost made her want to stop.
But she kept going.
“And I don’t know. I think, for a long time, I felt like I saw people that way, but no one saw me. Not like that.”
Her voice dropped.
“As if I was always paying attention to everyone and everything, but when it came to me, people only saw the easiest version. The one who makes jokes. The one who manages. The one who doesn’t bother anyone.”
Harry went very still.
Y/N bit the inside of her cheek.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
And, for once, she didn’t scold him for it.
“Maybe that’s why I’m so good at being alone,” she said. “Or pretending I am. Because it’s easier to say I like my own company than admit that sometimes it feels like no one has taken enough time to understand me.”
The words stayed between them.
Bare.
No joke to cover them.
Y/N let out a small breath and shook her head, as if immediately regretting having spoken.
“Right. There. It slipped out.” She pointed a finger at him. “Don’t turn this into a thing.”
Harry looked at her.
“It is a thing.”
“No.”
“It is.”
“Harry.”
“Not a thing I’m going to use against you,” he said, lower. “Not a thing that makes me pity you. But it is a thing.”
Y/N fell silent.
He continued carefully:
“Because I think I understand.”
She looked at him.
Harry drew in a breath.
“Not in the same way. I’m not going to pretend that. But I understand what it’s like to be surrounded by people and feel like almost no one is really looking. They’re just looking at what they need you to be.”
Her expression softened almost against her will.
Harry looked at the flowers in front of them.
“And maybe that’s why I like talking to you so much.”
Y/N held the notebook against her chest.
“Because I lecture you?”
“Also.”
She almost smiled.
Harry looked at her again.
“But mostly because you don’t look at me like I’m something already decided.”
Y/N didn’t answer.
His voice lowered.
“And I like noticing you because you seem to spend a lot of time thinking no one will.”
Her throat tightened.
“That was low.”
“It was true.”
“You’re very inconvenient sometimes.”
“I learned from a highly uncertified professional.”
She let out a small laugh despite the moisture in her eyes.
“Don’t use my own lines against me.”
“Never.”
“Liar.”
Harry smiled.
This time, she didn’t look away immediately.
And, for a few seconds, she felt something strange.
Not exactly safety.
Not yet.
But maybe the beginning of it.
The possibility of being seen without having to explain herself entirely.
The possibility of someone noticing and staying.
Even after the parts that weren’t funny.
Harry looked at the notebook in her lap.
“You used it.”
Y/N lowered her eyes.
“I did.”
“More than two pages?”
“Don’t be invasive.”
“That’s a yes.”
“That’s an accusation.”
“I’m proud.”
“Don’t be. I could still dramatically abandon it on page three.”
“But you started.”
Y/N ran her fingers over the green cover.
“Yeah.”
Harry looked at her as if he understood what that meant, even without reading a single word.
And maybe he did.
Maybe some people didn’t need to know the exact contents of something to understand the effort it had taken.
Y/N took a breath and decided vulnerability had been given enough room.
“I brought something,” she said.
Harry lifted his brows.
“You did?”
She took the unopened bag of flower gummies he had left her at the concert out of her bag.
Harry looked at it and then at her.
“You didn’t eat them.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because they were too specific.”
“Is that a reason?”
“It’s an excellent reason.” She placed the bag between them. “Also, you said there would be real flowers today. I thought the fake edible ones might feel excluded.”
Harry laughed.
The sound spread into the morning with a lightness that felt almost indecent after the conversation they had just had.
“I wouldn’t want that.”
“Of course not. You’re very sensitive to botanical issues.”
“I am.”
Y/N opened the bag and took out a flower-shaped gummy.
She held it out to him.
Harry accepted it.
“Emotional treatment upgrade?” he asked.
“Clinical reassessment.”
“And the diagnosis?”
She watched him for a second.
“Still complicated.”
“Prognosis?”
“Guarded.”
Harry put the gummy in his mouth and chewed with exaggerated seriousness.
“These are better than the cherry ones.”
Y/N brought a hand to her chest, offended.
“Take that back.”
“I can’t.”
“You can and you will.”
“They’re better.”
“This is betrayal.”
“Maybe I’m evolving.”
“Not at the expense of cherries.”
He laughed again.
And for a few minutes, they let the conversation stay like that. Light. Absurd. Small. As if there wasn’t an engagement, an entire life, an inevitable conversation waiting for him somewhere else.
But there was.
Y/N knew.
Harry did too.
She was the one who returned to the truth first.
“Why did you ask me to come?”
Harry looked at the bag of gummies between them.
Then at the real flowers.
Then at her.
“Because I didn’t want the last thing between us to be me arriving too late.”
Y/N stayed still.
“That’s not enough of an answer.”
“I know.”
“Harry.”
He nodded slowly.
“I asked you to come because I wanted to make a choice that was mine. No stadium. No route. No adrenaline. No being able to say it was chance.”
Y/N watched him carefully.
“And now?”
He drew in a breath.
“Now I have to make the others.”
Her chest tightened.
“What others?”
Harry looked down at his hands.
“My life.”
The answer was simple.
So simple it almost hurt.
Y/N waited.
He continued:
“Yesterday, when I arrived late, I realised something I think I’ve known for a long time. I just didn’t want to hear it.” He paused. “I keep letting people decide where I should be.”
Y/N said nothing.
“Not only physically,” he added. “It’s not just the team, the friends, the commitments, the rooms where everyone seems to need ten more minutes of me. It’s everything. The image. The next step. What looks right. What looks mature. What makes sense to the people looking in.”
His voice dropped.
“The engagement.”
Y/N looked away for a second.
Not because she didn’t want to hear it.
Because the word still had weight.
Harry noticed, but didn’t stop.
“I think I accepted an entire life because it seemed like the next right thing. Because everyone around me seemed so certain for me that I stopped knowing whether I was certain too.”
The garden seemed to grow quieter.
Y/N looked at him.
“That’s sad, Harry.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
“But it’s also your responsibility.”
Harry looked at her.
And, for a moment, instead of looking hurt, he looked almost relieved.
“See?” he said.
Y/N frowned.
“What?”
“That.”
“What, that?”
“You say things.” His voice gained a quiet intensity. “Even when they’re inconvenient. Even when I’d rather you softened them. Everyone around me tries to find a pretty way to tell me what they think I want to hear. You look at me and say, ‘that’s your responsibility.’”
Y/N crossed her arms.
“So you’re saying you like being told off?”
“I’m saying I like getting to know you.”
The sentence stayed in the air.
Simple.
Direct.
No metaphor.
Y/N completely lost the urge to joke for two whole seconds.
Harry continued, as if now that he had started, he couldn’t keep the rest in.
“I like knowing you buy notebooks and then get scared of ruining the pages. I like that you smell perfumes until you get headaches and then do it again anyway.”
Y/N opened her mouth.
He raised a hand.
“And I like that you’re incapable of admitting you were waiting for someone, even when you stand in a street long enough to start hating yourself for it.”
She froze for half a second.
Then narrowed her eyes.
“You don’t know if I stood there that long.”
“I don’t.”
“So you’re making it up.”
“I’m assuming.”
“Don’t assume.”
“I’m reading you.”
“Illegal.”
“I know.”
She tried to keep a serious expression.
She didn’t fully manage.
Harry looked at her with a softness that made the morning seem slower.
“I like that you tell me the truth to my face. I like that you don’t seem afraid to contradict me. I like that you pull me back to reality when I start turning my life into a well-lit tragedy.”
Y/N let out a short laugh.
“A well-lit tragedy?”
“I’m in entertainment. We have good lighting.”
“Idiot.”
“See?”
“What?”
“You’re insulting me.”
Y/N closed her mouth.
He smiled.
“Useless fact number four.”
She looked at him threateningly.
“Don’t use that.”
“Too late.”
“I’m leaving.”
“You’re not.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes.
“Careful.”
Harry’s smile slowly faded.
“Sorry.”
She noticed the shift immediately.
“No, I didn’t—”
“I know.” He nodded. “But I don’t want to assume you’ll stay. Not even as a joke.”
Y/N fell silent.
That small correction affected her in a way she hadn’t expected.
Because he had understood.
Even there, in the middle of a joke, he had understood the line.
Harry drew in a breath.
“I don’t want you to just be a stranger on a route,” he said.
Y/N went still.
The sentence seemed to touch her before she could stop it.
“Then what do you want me to be?”
Harry didn’t answer right away.
Maybe, in another life, he would have said something too big. Something too beautiful. Something that sounded like music, a promise, fate.
But that morning, sitting beside her with real flowers in front of them and no crowd to hide the truth, Harry chose to be simple.
“Someone I can get to know better,” he said. “Without Wembley. Without only showing up when I manage to escape. Without turning you into an excuse not to look at my life.”
Y/N looked at him.
“And Zoë?”
Harry closed his eyes for a second.
Not in irritation.
In guilt.
When he opened them, there was sadness there.
But there was something new too.
Clarity.
“I need to talk to her.”
Y/N didn’t look away.
“Because of me?”
“No.” The answer came firmly. “And that’s the first thing I think I’ve understood properly. You didn’t cause anything. You just made noise in a place I’d been trying to keep quiet.”
She stayed silent.
Harry continued:
“The conversation I need to have with Zoë started before I met you. I’m the one who only had the courage to hear it now.”
Y/N drew in a breath.
“Then don’t put my name in the middle of it.”
“I won’t.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He looked at her. “It would be unfair to her. And to you.”
Y/N studied him for a few seconds.
“And to you,” she added.
Harry looked surprised.
She shrugged, uncomfortable.
“You need to stop treating yourself like you’re just a consequence of everyone else’s life too.”
The sentence came out before she could polish it.
Harry went still.
Y/N grimaced.
“Right. See? This is why I usually make jokes. The moment I try to be serious, I sound like I’m writing quotes for motivational mugs.”
Harry laughed quietly.
But his eyes were different.
“It didn’t sound like a mug.”
“Liar.”
“It sounded true.”
She looked away.
“Worse.”
Harry smiled, but it was sad.
“I know I have to talk to her. And I know it can’t be about you.”
Y/N nodded slowly.
“It really can’t.”
“I’m not going to go to her and say I met someone.”
“Good, because that would be awful.”
“It would be cowardly,” he said.
Y/N looked at him.
Harry held her gaze.
“The conversation is: I’m not living a life I chose. Not properly. And maybe I let something go too far because everyone seemed so certain it was the right step, and I was too tired to be the only one saying no.”
His honesty sat between them, clean and heavy.
Y/N didn’t try to soften it.
He seemed to need her not to.
“That’s going to hurt her,” she said.
Harry swallowed.
“I know.”
“And it’s going to hurt you.”
“I know.”
“And it won’t all be solved because you said one pretty sentence in a garden.”
The corner of his mouth moved, but it didn’t become a smile.
“My responsibility?”
“Your responsibility.”
Harry nodded.
“That’s why I have to go.”
Y/N felt her heart tighten, even though she knew it was the right answer.
“Now?”
“In a bit.” He looked at her. “I wanted… I don’t know. I wanted to stay longer.”
“But?”
“But if I stay just because it’s easier to be here than to face that, then I’m doing the same thing again.”
Y/N looked at the flowers.
He was right.
Which was extremely irritating.
“That’s probably the most adult thing you’ve said since I met you.”
Harry let out a short laugh.
“Thank you?”
“Don’t get excited. The bar was low.”
He laughed.
And, for the first time that morning, the laugh didn’t sound like an escape.
It sounded like rest.
They sat there a little longer.
They didn’t talk about love.
Didn’t talk about the future.
Didn’t talk about promises.
They talked about small things.
The green notebook, which Y/N absolutely refused to let Harry read.
“Not even one sentence?” he asked.
“Absolutely not.”
“What if I promise to be respectful?”
“Worse. I hate respectful readers.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It does in my head.”
“Terrifying.”
“Thank you.”
They talked about Kew Gardens, though neither of them seemed to know much about plants beyond “pretty”, “looks hard to keep alive” and “this would make a great LEGO version.”
Harry confessed that he had once bought a plant because someone told him it was impossible to kill, and it died within three weeks.
Y/N called him a botanical murderer.
He accepted it with dignity.
When the silence returned, it no longer felt so sharp.
It was simply the kind of silence that appears when two people know the important conversation has already happened, but neither wants to be the first to stand.
Eventually, Harry looked at the time.
Y/N saw.
“Go.”
He lifted his eyes to hers.
She tried to smile.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was there.
“Go do the adult thing before you change your mind and start writing notes at receptions again.”
Harry let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
“You’re very hard on me.”
“Yes.”
“I like that.”
“Concerning.”
He looked at her for a long second.
Then grew serious.
“I wanted to ask you to stay.”
Y/N felt her throat tighten.
“But?”
“But first I need to stop being someone who runs.”
She nodded slowly.
“Then stop running.”
Harry looked at her.
The sentence seemed to pass through him in a way no song, no light, no stadium could have.
Then he nodded.
“I’m trying.”
“No.” Y/N stood from the bench, holding the notebook to her chest. “Trying is what you say when you still want room to fail without taking responsibility.”
He went still.
She took a breath.
“Do it.”
Harry looked at her.
For one second, it seemed like he might say anything. A beautiful answer. A thank you. A promise. A sentence that would stay caught in the air between them.
But maybe he had learned.
Maybe, this time, he knew some things didn’t need to be made prettier.
“Okay,” he said simply.
Y/N nodded.
“Okay.”
Harry stood too.
They faced each other, the bench between them and the whole garden continuing around them as if nothing was changing.
He didn’t touch her.
She thanked him for that silently.
But then Harry looked at the open bag of flower gummies on the bench.
“Can I take one?”
Y/N looked at him.
“For emotional support?”
“For courage.”
She picked up one flower-shaped gummy and handed it to him.
Their fingers touched.
Just for a second.
Less than on other nights.
More honest than almost anything.
Harry closed the gummy in his palm.
“Thank you for coming.”
Y/N drew in a breath.
“Thank you for being early.”
His smile was small.
Sad.
Real.
“Y/N?”
“Yes?”
“I want to get to know you better.”
Her chest tightened again.
Harry continued before she could run from it.
“Not today. Not as an excuse. Not before I do what I need to do.” His voice dropped. “But I want to.”
Y/N bit the inside of her cheek.
He saw.
He didn’t comment.
Miraculously.
“Then do what you need to do,” she said.
Harry nodded.
Then he turned.
This time, when he walked away, it didn’t look like an escape.
It didn’t look like running.
It didn’t look like a desperate attempt to exhaust his body enough to quiet his mind.
It looked like direction.
Y/N stayed there, near the glasshouse, the green notebook pressed to her chest and the open bag of flower gummies on the bench.
She watched him disappear down the tree-lined path.
And she didn’t know if this was the beginning of something or the end of the most beautiful part of it.
Maybe it was both.
Maybe every real choice carried a little loss inside it.
Y/N sat down again.
Opened the notebook to a new page.
For a while, she didn’t write.
Then, with her hand slightly unsteady, she let the pen touch the paper.
Today, he arrived early.
She stopped.
Looked down the path where Harry had disappeared.
Then added:
Now we’ll see if he reaches himself in time.
She closed the notebook.
The sun shone against the glass of the greenhouse.
The real flowers stayed in front of her.
The fake gummies tasted far too much like sugar.
And, for the first time since Wembley, Y/N didn’t wait for a route to bring her an answer.
She stood.
Put the notebook back in her bag.
And walked through the garden, leaving enough space behind her for Harry, if he wanted to come back, to do it by choice.
The morning in Tuscany did not wake you up gently.
By six thirty, the sky over the east wing of Villa Lira was already a pale lavender, the heat of the coming day already felt. Harry lay flat on his back beneath the heavy white mosquito netting, one arm slung over his forehead.
The silence of the night was gone, replaced by the dry rhythmic screeching of the cicadas in the cypresses and, from somewhere directly below his open window, the soft rhythmic thud scrape of stone being swept. Nonna Sofia, likely, clearing the fallen leaves of the night from the back terrace before the sun turned the flagstones hot.
Harry rolled over, his bare shoulder digging into the linen sheet. He felt the dull familiar ache of a body that had spent too many years on planes and stages, but for the first time in months, there was no tour manager knocking on his door with a schedule, no radio promo, no vocal warm ups. Just six weeks of nothing.
He sat up, pushing the netting aside, and padded barefoot to the French doors.
The air outside was cool for only a few more minutes, smelling intensely of damp rosemary and the sweet almost fermented scent of the overripe fig tree near the well. He leaned his forearms on the stone balustrade of the terrace, looking down at the garden.
And then he saw her.
On the flat grassy clearing just past the broken stone fountain, Willow was setting up.
She was alone, moving with a quick, unbothered efficiency that was entirely different from the quiet, defensive girl who had shrunk into her oversized t-shirt at the dinner table last night. She was wearing a matching ribbed activewear set in a shade of tangerine orange that made her golden skin look almost incandescent in the early light. Her dark hair was piled high on her head, held together by a large claw clip with a few loose, damp curls escaping around the nape of her neck.
Harry watched as she unrolled a series of thick burnt orange yoga mats on the grass, arranging them in a wide circle. She didn’t look up at the house. She had a small portable speaker in one hand, and as she set it down on a low stone wall, she began to move her hips to a quiet bass heavy neosoul track that started to drift through the morning air.
He smiled, his chin resting in his hand. She was dancing, just a little, a loose private sway of her hips as she adjusted the volume, entirely unaware of the observer on the second floor.
By seven, a small caravan of beat up Fiats and ancient Vespas began to rumble up the gravel driveway. Harry, now dressed in a pair of loose cream colored linen trousers and an unbuttoned, short sleeve green knit shirt, watched from the shaded pergola of the back terrace with a cup of espresso in hand.
Six women, ranging from twenty somethings in vintage athletic gear to older Italian signoras with deep tans and sturdy frames, walked through the archway. They didn't look like high society clients, they looked like locals. They greeted Willow with loud rapid fire Italian, cheek kisses, and a flurry of hand gestures.
And Willow met them head on. Her laughter was loud, a smoky uninhibited sound that carried easily across the lawn.
"Ah, Francesca!" Willow called out, her voice dropping into that rapid fluid Italian Harry had heard brief snatches of the night before. She threw her arms around an older woman, kissing both her cheeks. "Hai portato le uova? Nonna ti adora." (Have you brought the eggs? Nonna adores you.)
"Sì, sì, per Sofia sempre," the woman laughed, patting Willow’s cheek with a hand that had spent a lifetime in dirt and olive groves.
Harry sat back in his iron chair, sipping the dark, thick espresso. He didn't want to interrupt, but he couldn't take his eyes off her. She was magnetic. She corrected their postures with gentle firm touches, laughing when one of the younger girls made a dramatic show of collapsing onto her mat during a stretch. She was teasing them, her tone light and dry, but there was a fierce protective warmth in the way she kept her eyes on each of them.
When the class began, the chatter died down, replaced by the deep synchronized sound of breathing and the low hum of the speaker.
Willow stood in the center of the circle, her voice carrying a quiet commanding weight as she guided them through the movements.
"Inhale, fill the lungs," she said in English, her voice dropping a register, smooth and steady. "Espira... lascia andare tutto. Let it all go. The heat, the stress, the things your mothers told you this morning."
A collective snort of laughter went through the group, and Willow offered them a wicked knowing grin.
Harry’s chest tightened slightly. He recognized that feeling, the effortless authority of someone who knew exactly who they were when they were doing the thing they loved. He’d spent his life commanding rooms of eighty thousand people, but watching this twenty two year old girl command a circle of seven women under an olive tree felt just as heavy and real.
When the class ended an hour later, the women lingered, drinking cold water infused with lemon slices that Willow had brought out in a large glass pitcher.
Harry decided it was time to make his presence known. He stood up, sliding his hands into the pockets of his linen trousers, and strolled down the stone steps into the garden.
The conversation among the women ground to a sudden absolute halt as he approached. Two of the younger girls froze mid sip, their eyes widening so fast Harry thought they might pop out. Even the older signoras went still, their gaze tracking his slow easy stride.
Willow, who was bent over rolling up her mat, noticed the sudden silence. She straightened up, wiping a bead of sweat from her collarbone with the back of her hand and turned.
Her eyes met his, and for a split second, that familiar guarded look flickered across her face. But she stood her ground, her chin lifting slightly as she took in his bare chest peeking through the green knit shirt.
"Morning," Harry said, his voice a low gravelly rumble. He offered the group an easy charming smile. "Hope I'm not interrupting the afterparty."
One of the younger girls, a brunette with smudged red lipstick, let out a tiny choked sound.
Willow roll her eyes, though her cheeks flushed a very faint delicious pink beneath her tan. "You're fine," she said, her tone dry. "We're just finishing up. Girls, this is Harry. He’s... staying in the east wing."
"Gesù Cristo, è davvero lui," the girl in red lipstick whispered, not nearly as quietly as she thought.
Harry chuckled, stepping closer. He extended a hand to the older woman, Francesca. "Nice to meet you. I'm Harry."
Francesca looked at his hand, then up at his face, and let out a loud appreciative cackle. She wiped her hands on her shorts and shook it vigorously, saying something in rapid Italian that made Willow immediately groan and cover her face with her hands.
"What did she say?" Harry asked, his eyes dancing as he looked at Willow.
"Nothing," Willow shot back quickly, her tone warning. "She said you have nice teeth."
"She did not say that," Harry laughed, leaning his hip against the low stone wall. "My Italian is bad, Wills, but it’s not that bad. Something about... bello?"
"She basically said you look like you'd be very good at making mistakes," Willow muttered, picking up her water bottle. She took a long sip, her feline eyes watching him over the rim.
Harry’s eyebrows arched. He let out a low, delighted laugh, his gaze locking onto her. "Did she now? Well. Francesca has excellent intuition."
The younger girls giggled, and Willow let out a short exasperated breath, though the corner of her mouth twitched. She turned her back to him to pick up another mat, her orange clad hips shifting with the movement.
"Alright, out," Willow called out to her class, waving her hands in a shooing motion. "Via, via! Go home before my mother comes out and tries to charge you tax for using the air."
The women laughed, gathered their things, and began to filter back toward their cars. Francesca gave Harry a heavy, meaningful pat on the arm as she passed, whispering, "Buona fortuna, ragazzo." (Good luck, boy.)
"Grazie," Harry said, winking at her.
Once the sound of the engines faded down the gravel driveway, the garden fell into a quiet heavy stillness. The sun was higher now, the heat starting to bake the grass, releasing the scent of crushed clover and dry earth.
Willow was still packing up, her movements deliberate and a little too fast.
Harry watched her for a moment. He walked over slowly, stopping just a foot away from her. The scent of her, sunscreen, lemon, and warm clean sweat, wrapped around him.
"You're very good at that," he said quietly.
Willow paused, a rolled up mat in her hands. She didn't look up immediately, her long dark lashes casting shadows on her cheekbones. "At what? Sweeping my friends out before they try to steal your rings?"
"At teaching," Harry said, his voice steady and soft. "You have a presence out here. Quite different from last night."
She finally looked up, her jaw tightening just a fraction. There was a defensive sharp edge in her eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Harry said, stepping just an inch closer, his height casting her in shadow, "that last night you looked like you wanted to melt into the floorboards. Today, you look like you own the place. I like this version of you."
Willow stared at him, her chest rising and falling with her breath. "I don't have 'versions,' Harry. I just don't like being dissected over dinner by people who think my life is a waste of space."
"I don't think your life is a waste of space," Harry shrugged.
She blinked, caught off guard by the lack of sarcasm in his tone. She looked down at his chest, then back to his eyes, her throat swallowing hard.
"Right," she murmured, her voice losing a bit of its bite. She picked up the last mat. "Well. I need to go help Nonna. And change before my mother sees me in 'those awful orange things' again."
"I think the orange is brilliant," Harry said, his voice lingering on the word. "Don't change it on her account."
Willow's lips parted slightly. She gave him a long, searching look, as if trying to find the catch, the celebrity game, the easy flirtation. But Harry just stood there, his hands loose in his pockets, his gaze steady and entirely untamed by her sharp edge.
"We'll see," she whispered. She grabbed her bag and walked toward the kitchen entrance, her bare feet silent on the grass.
Harry watched her go, a slow, quiet smirk spreading across his face.
Oh, she was going to be a handful. And he had five and a half weeks left.
The long wooden table in the dining room was shaded from the midday sun by heavy dark green shutters, but the heat still found its way inside, making the air feel thick and lazy.
Nonna Sofia had outdone herself for lunch, a massive platter of panzanella salad with stale bread soaked in olive oil and tomatoes, cold plates of prosciutto and melon, and a bowl of fresh figs that had been cooling in the cellar.
Elena Arden sat at the side of the table, her silk blouse pristine, a heavy gold watch ticking on her wrist. She was already nursing a glass of white wine, her fingers tapping a slow irritated rhythm against the stem. Richard sat at the head, half engrossed in a stack of student thesis papers, a red pen gripped in his hand. Lila, who had arrived late the night before from Milan, sat next to her mother, looking like a carbon copy of Elena, cool polished and entirely out of place in the rustic peeling villa.
Harry sat across from them, his loose linen shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, looking entirely relaxed.
And then there was Willow.
She had changed, but she hadn’t listened to her mother. She was wearing a pair of vintage, high waisted denim shorts that were frayed at the edges, and an oversized, faded orange t-shirt with a vintage graphic of an Italian soda brand on the front. Her hair was still up in the claw clip, but she had touched up her nails with a fresh, defiant coat of bright orange polish.
She sat down next to Theo, who was already shoving a piece of prosciutto into his mouth.
"Theo, for God’s sake, use a fork," Elena sighed, not looking at him, but keeping her eyes locked on Willow’s hands as she reached for the bread. "And Willow... did you really have to paint your nails that color?"
Willow didn't even blink. She took a piece of crusty bread, tore it slowly, and looked her mother dead in the eye.
"I thought it matched the peeling paint on the walls. You know, cohesive design. Since we love 'character' so much." Willow said, her voice dripping with sweet dripping sarcasm.
Lila let out a soft, delicate sniff of disapproval. "It's a bit loud, Wills. Especially for lunch."
"Lila, please," Willow smiled, "You live in Milan. The loudest thing you’ve heard in three years is a curator whispering about a fake Renaissance frame. Let me enjoy my noise."
Richard grunted, not looking up from his papers. "Let her paint them whatever she wants, Elena. It’s summer."
"It's about presentation, Richard," Elena said, her tone tightening. She turned her attention to Harry, her face instantly smoothing into a polished high society grin. "Harry, dear, I hope the noise from Willow's... friends didn't wake you this morning. I heard the most dreadful racket from the garden at seven AM. I’ve told her before, those classes belong in a community hall, not at the villa. It's so... middle class."
Harry sat back, his fingers tracing the edge of his wine glass. He looked at Willow, who had gone entirely still, her jaw tight, her fingers pressing into the wooden table.
But Harry took a sip of his wine, his gaze moving slowly to Elena.
"Actually, Elena," Harry said, his tone incredibly polite, "I woke up early specifically to watch. It was beautiful. Very professional. In fact, I was thinking about asking Willow if she’d let me join tomorrow. My lower back has been a mess since the tour."
Willow’s eyes snapped to his, her mouth parting slightly in sheer unadulterated shock.
Elena blinked, her smile faltering for a fraction of a second. "Oh. Well... if you think so, Harry. I just worry she’s wasting her time. A graphic design degree is hard enough to secure a job with these days, let alone... stretching on the grass."
"It’s not 'stretching on the grass,' Mom," Willow said, her voice dropping into an icy dangerous register. "It’s a business. I pay my own phone bill and my own gas with it. Which is more than Lila can say, considering you’re still paying her rent in the Brera district."
Lila’s face flushed a deep ugly red. "That is entirely temporary, Willow! And it’s an investment in my career!"
"An investment," Willow mocked, leaning forward, her elbows on the table "Right. Just like that five thousand euro handbag you bought last month? Is that an investment in art history, too?"
"Willow!" Elena snapped, her voice losing its polished veneer. "That is enough. You are being incredibly rude to your sister. In front of our guest."
"Oh, don't use Harry as a shield, Mom," Willow laughed, a dry bitter sound. "Harry’s seen real talent. He knows the difference between an investment and a tax write off."
Harry watched the exchange with a quiet, intense fascination. She was scrappy. But beneath the sharp comebacks he could see the quick tight pulse beating in her throat. She was hurt. She was fighting because if she didn't they would bury her.
"I think," Harry said, his voice cutting through the rising tension like a cool breeze, "that Willow’s work is incredibly impressive. Design and wellness go hand in hand these days. It’s very modern."
He looked directly at Willow, his eyes locking onto hers, holding them steady.
Willow met his gaze, her chest rising and falling. For a long, heavy beat, she didn't look away. The fire in her eyes slowly cooled, replaced by a quiet startled vulnerability. She swallowed, her shoulders dropping just a fraction.
"Thank you," she murmured, her voice losing its sharp edge entirely.
Richard finally set his pen down, reaching for the platters. "Well. Eat. Before Nonna comes out and yells at us all."
The rest of lunch passed in a tense, quiet truce. Elena tried to steer the conversation to the local wine estate owners, Lila made passive aggressive comments about the humidity in Milan, and Theo asked Harry if he wanted to see his skateboard ramp later.
Throughout it all, Harry kept his hand low resting on his own thigh, but his eyes never really left Willow. And every time she caught him looking, her fingers would twitch against her orange nails, her cheeks warming under the Tuscan sun.
By four in the afternoon, the heat was blinding, turning the air into a shimmering heavy blanket that made movement feel like an Olympic sport. The villa had fallen into the quiet of controra, the afternoon siesta where even the cicadas seemed to lose their breath.
Harry had spent the last two hours in the old study, his fingers tracing lazy out of tune chords on the upright piano. The keys were stiff and the sound was dusty but there was a sweet nostalgic resonance to it that he liked. He had a notebook open on the music stand, a few scribbled lines of lyrics crossing each other out but the creative block was still there, a heavy stubborn wall in his chest.
He sighed, running a hand through his damp hair and stood up. He needed air. Or water.
He walked down the dim cool hallway of the east wing, his bare feet making no sound on the ancient terracotta tiles. As he passed the doorway to the back terrace, he heard voices.
"I’m just saying, Mira, she’s a disease," Willow’s voice was low and she was leaning against the stone archway, her phone pressed to her ear, a half peeled orange in her hand. "She literally showed up to the bar just to look at my top. I swear to God, if Gia comes near me at the solstice party next week, I’m going to throw her in the fountain- Yes, Lila is here too."
Harry stopped in the shadow of the hallway, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"No, I didn't hit her," Willow muttered, rolling her eyes as she listened to her friend. "Because Harry was there. And he’s... I don't know, Mira. He’s different. He’s not like the people Mom usually brings around to show off. He’s usually quiet but he looks at me like he knows exactly what I'm thinking, and it's annoying."
Harry’s grin widened. He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, letting his presence be known.
"And he has this way of... of just standing there," Willow continued entirely unaware of him, "like he owns the place. It’s ridiculous. I want to pop his balloon."
"Do you now?" Harry asked, his voice a low dry purr.
Willow froze.
Her phone slipped a fraction in her hand. She turned her head slowly, her feline eyes widening as she saw him leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, a knowing wicked smirk on his lips.
"I... I have to go, Mira," Willow whispered into the phone, her eyes locked on Harry. "Yeah. I'll call you later."
She hung up, sliding the phone into the back pocket of her denim shorts. She stood tall, her chin lifting. "Have you ever heard of personal space, Styles? Or do you just lurk in hallways professionally?"
"I was looking for water," Harry said, stepping out onto the terrace. He walked over to her, his movements slow deliberate and entirely unbothered by her bite. "But then I heard my name. And something about popping my balloon?"
Willow’s cheeks flushed a bright beautiful pink, but she didn't back down. She took a slice of her orange and popped it into her mouth, chewing slowly as she stared him down. "You have a big ego. I’m sure people pop it all the time."
"Not usually," Harry said, stopping just a foot away from her. He was much taller than her, his shadow completely enveloping her frame. He looked down at the orange in her hand. "Can I have a piece?"
Willow looked at the orange, then at his mouth, her eyes darting quickly to his lips before snapping back to his eyes. She then tore off a slice and held it out to him.
But instead of taking it with his fingers, Harry leaned down slightly, his eyes never leaving hers, and took the orange slice directly from her fingers with his lips.
His warm soft lips brushed against her fingertips for a split second, a quick, electric shock of contact that made Willow’s breath hitch. He chewed slowly, his gaze locking hers in place, heavy and unyielding.
"Mhmm, this is so sweet."
Willow swallowed, her fingers trembling slightly as she pulled her hand back. She looked away, her jaw working. "It's just an orange, Harry."
"If you say so," he said, his tone teasing.
Willow went entirely still under his gaze. Her eyes flicked back to his, wide and startled, her usual sharp comeback dying on her tongue.
"You're very brave when you're yelling at your mother," Harry said softly, his thumb tracing the soft line of her jaw. "But you're very quiet right now, puppy."
The nickname hit her like a physical wave. Her chest tightened, her breath catching in her throat. She stared at him, her lips parting slightly. "Don't call me that," she whispered, but there was no heat in it.
"Why not?" Harry asked, his thumb gently pressing into the hollow of her throat, right where her pulse was racing like a trapped bird. "It suits you. You bark a lot, but you're very sweet when you're quiet."
Willow pulled back, breaking the contact, and glared at him. "I'm not sweet. And I'm not a fucking dog, come on"
"Never said you were," Harry smirked, his hand falling back to his side, looking entirely pleased with himself. "But you are very reactive. It's cute."
"Go back to your piano, Harry," she muttered, her voice shaking slightly as she turned her back on him and walked toward the edge of the terrace. "Before I find something heavier than an orange to throw at you."
"I'll be upstairs," Harry called out, his voice warm with laughter as he turned back toward the hallway. "And I'm still coming to your class tomorrow. Don't forget my mat, puppy."
Willow didn't answer, but as she stood at the stone railing, her fingers flew to her neck, tracing the exact spot where his hand had been. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears, louder than the cicadas, louder than the heat, louder than anything else in the world.
The sun began its slow dramatic descent behind the Tuscan hills around seven, painting the sky in violent shades of purple, deep orange, and gold. The air finally began to lose its heavy baking quality, replaced by a light cool breeze that rustled the olive leaves.
Harry was sitting on his private terrace, his acoustic guitar resting on his knee. He wasn't playing, he was just watching the light change, his mind surprisingly quiet.
The door to his room creaked open.
He didn't turn around, already knowing the light tentative step.
Willow stood in the doorway, her silhouette dark against the warm light of his room. She had changed into a simple oversized white button down shirt that looked like it belonged to her father, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and her denim shorts. She held a small glass bowl in her hands.
"Nonna said you didn't eat much at lunch," she said, her voice quiet. "She made me bring you some fresh peaches. They’re cold."
Harry turned his head, offering her a soft genuine smile. "Come in, Wills."
She walked out onto the terrace slowly, her eyes tracking the movement of his fingers on the neck of his guitar. She set the bowl of peaches down on the small iron table between their chairs and sat down, pulling her knees up to her chest, her bare feet tucked under her.
"Are you writing?" she asked, looking at the notebook on the floor.
"Trying to," Harry sighed, setting the guitar down against the stone wall. He reached for a peach, cutting it in half with a small pocket knife he had on the table. He offered her half. "My head is a bit crowded lately. Hard to find the thread."
Willow took the peach, her fingers brushing his. She didn't pull away as quickly this time. She took a bite, the sweet cold juice glistening on her bottom lip. "My dad says you're a genius. He doesn't say that about many people. Usually, he thinks everyone who doesn't write classical fugues is an idiot."
Harry laughed. "Richard is very kind. But genius is a bit much. It's just... finding the right words for the noise in your head."
"I get that," Willow said, looking out over the hills. "With design, it's the same. You have this image in your head, this perfect clean thing, and then you try to draw it and it just looks like dirt. It's frustrating."
"Show me," Harry said.
She blinked, looking at him. "What?"
"Your sketchbook," Harry said, leaning forward, his forearms resting on his knees. "The one your mom was talking about. I want to see your work."
Willow’s jaw tightened, her defensive guard instantly twitching. "No. It's not... it's not a thing. It's just mess."
"I like mess," Harry said. "Go get it. Let me see."
Willow stared at him, her breath catching again. She wanted to say no. She wanted to tell him to go to hell, that her art was hers and she didn't owe him anything. But there was something in his eyes, a deep, unshakeable respect, a genuine curiosity that she had never, ever received from her mother or Lila, that made her defenses crumble.
She stood up without a word and walked back into the room.
A minute later, she returned holding a thick worn leather sketchbook with a bright orange elastic band holding it closed. She sat back down, her fingers gripping the edges of the book tightly.
"If you laugh," she warned, her feline eyes narrowing, "I will literally throw your guitar over the edge."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Harry said softly.
She opened the book, turning the pages slowly before setting it on his lap.
Harry looked down.
The pages were filled with loose frantic and incredibly beautiful charcoal drawings. There were sketches of Nonna Sofia’s hands kneading dough, Theo on his skateboard, his body suspended in mid air, the cracked empty pool reflecting the branches of the cypresses and pages of abstract modern graphic layouts that used bold geometric lines.
It was raw. It was violent, emotional, and incredibly talented.
"Willow," Harry murmured, his fingers tracing the edge of a drawing of Nonna’s hands. "These are... brilliant. Really. You have an incredible eye for movement."
Willow watched his face, her bottom lip tucked under her teeth, her chest tight. She was waiting for the 'but.' She was waiting for him to say they were nice, but maybe she should focus on something more practical.
But he didn't. He just kept turning the pages, his eyes wide and full of genuine wonder.
"This what your mom thinks is a waste of space?"
Willow shrugged, looking down at her hands. "She thinks if it's not in a gallery in Florence or Milan, it's not real. She wants me to be like Lila. Perfect. Quiet."
"Perfect is boring," Harry said, his voice unyielding. He closed the book gently and handed it back to her, his hand resting on top of hers. "And you are definitely not quiet. Thank God."
Willow let out a small breathless laugh, her eyes lifting to his. The tension between them changed, softening into something warm and intimate.
"You're not what I expected," she whispered.
"No?" Harry smiled, his thumb tracing the back of her hand. "What did you expect?"
"I don't know," she said, her voice dropping, her eyes tracking the movement of his thumb. "Someone who... who wanted everyone to look at him all the time. But you... you look at everyone else."
"Not really everyone," Harry said softly.
Willow’s breath hitched. She looked at his eyes, finding them dark and completely focused on her. She felt that sudden terrifying pull again.
"I should go," she murmured, though she didn't move an inch.
"Stay," Harry commanded quietly, his hand tightening slightly over hers. "Just for a bit. The sun’s almost gone."
She did.
They sat in the deepening purple light of the Tuscan evening, the silence between them warm and heavy, filled only by the distant lazy chirp of the late night cicadas. Willow’s hand remained beneath his, the heat of his skin seeping into hers, a silent promise of the summer that was only just beginning.
author's note: hello! here is pt.3 for my mini series. im not totally sure what direction i would like this story to go, if anyone has ideas pls lmk! and yes i based Y/N's bsf after Brooke Davis from One Tree Hill. i hope y'all like it! <3 -hattie
summary: in which, you work at your family's ice cream shop by the beach with an annoyingly charming coworker whom you hate or do you?
pairing: harry styles x fem! reader
warnings: use of Y/N
"look, Y/n, all I'm saying, is it wouldn't kill you to be nice to Harry every now and then. He really likes you." Brooke said as she rifled through the clothes on the rack, pulling a hanger out every now and then to look at a top. She was right, and part of me knew that - but being nice to Harry was me basically allowing myself to give into my feelings for him. I knew what would come from getting closer to him. Yet, I still hadn't figured out why I was so scared of that idea.
"Would this shirt make my boobs look good?" I quickly changed the topic with something my best friend loved to talk about. Clothes.
"I know what you're doing" Brooke eyed me, clearly annoyed. "stop trying to change the subject. I know you like him too. You bite your cheek so you don't smile every time he flirts with you"
I hated how right she was.
"It wouldn't work anyway, B. I'm only ever here for the summer to work with my dad. The rest of the year I'm back home and I don't think about this shitty Island!"
I threw my hands up exasperated before grabbing the few blouses I'd picked out and walked to the fitting room. My best friend following right behind me. Naturally.
Brooke has been my best friend since middle school. She's seen how awkward I can be, and she saw me before I got my supposed "glow up" the summer before freshman year started. I had been a completely different girl a few summers ago. And god, was I glad that girl was gone.
As I tried on the white top I'd picked, I immediately knew I'd buy it. It made me look super tan, my tits were sitting pretty, and I felt amazing in it. It also didn't hurt that I knew Harry would like. But that wasn't the point! I wasn't buying it because of him. No. Totally not - at least that's what I told myself.
Brooke and I quickly paid before exiting the store. Walking toward the blessed store that was Wetzel's Pretzels. Our plans were quickly averted when I spotted Harry only a few feet away from us. I pulled my best friend with me behind a tall fake plant.
"Y/N! what are you doing?!" she scolded me, the crease in between her eyebrows was showing - she was clearly pissed at me
"Harry is right there I don't want him to see us!" I whispered through tight teeth. Brooke just rolled her eyes at me before pushing me out into the clear hallway.
I would've been fine. If i had seen the "caution! wet area" sign. But I didn't. And I fell - right in front of Harry.
Fuck.
"Hey, baby" He glanced down at me before giving me his trademark grin. The same one that greeted customers and the same one that I thought about every night before I went to bed
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