Summary: “You and Harry are very bad at being exes, and this wedding you’re both invited to really doesn’t help…”
Wc: 1.7k
Warnings: smut, very light choking, sub/dom dynamics (it switches!), jealousy, toxicity, cheating, tiny bit of nipple play
A/N: I found this blurb from a while ago sitting in my drafts and it was simply too freaky not to share, so I hope you enjoy! I’m working up a taglist, so if you want to be informed whenever I post a new blurb/one shot/etc, let me know!
General Masterlist
"This is bad."
Harry knew he was doomed the moment he said it, but saying the words was at least proof that he tried to restrain yourself. Though, from the moment he had seen you at the wedding tonight, he was already sold.
Growing up in a town where everyone knows each other had its pros and cons. Pros, the community felt like a large family. Cons, everyone knew about your dating life.
When you and Harry got together seven years ago, it was the talk of the town. For the longest time, your parents had (not so) secretly talked to each other about how nice it would be if you and Harry were to get together. The spark had been there since Harry's family moved a few houses down the street years ago. It was only in the last year of college that he finally dared to ask you on a date. The rest was history, until your relationship became history. Then it was all just tragedy.
About a year and a half ago, you guys had called it quits. You'd gotten a terrific job in another city, and the late nights and mixed schedules didn't do well for your and Harry's relationship. It was a mutual decision, and it had pained the both of you immensely. Harry never wanted to lose you, but it felt impossible to mix your lives in a way that was feasible for the both of you. Harry had offered to move with you, but you didn't want him to leave his life behind for you. You'd suggested moving back, but he wouldn't hear of it.
The relationship ended with Harry's words which you held onto dearly:
"If it's meant to be, we'll find our way back to each other."
Since then, you had in fact found your way back multiple times. There had been instances, parties or other functions, the both of you attended. More often than not, and by that you actually meant always, you'd end up in bed with each other. There was a magnetic pull that kept drawing him back to you, and vice versa. Sometimes, you were the first to cave, but most of the time it was him.
Tonight, was the first time it was perfectly mutual.
One of your high school friends, Sally, was getting married, and the both of you had been invited to the wedding. Harry had been dating someone new for the past few months. Her name was Sandra and he'd met her through a friend. She was nice, and fun, and Harry really wanted to try and make this work. Though, the second he saw you in that pink bridesmaids dress, he deeply regretted the decision.
You were furious, even though you had no leg to stand on. Still, you felt territorial over Harry. You hadn't even brought a date.
After the ceremony, Harry tried to go up to you, but you dodged his every attempt. You were annoyed with him and his date, and so you began shamelessly flirting with one of the groomsmen. It was incredibly toxic behavior, and you were aware, but it made Harry stare at you, and you couldn't rob yourself of that buzz.
When you went to the bathroom at one point, you hadn't even noticed Harry following you until you heard another pair of footsteps on the cobblestones. From that moment, both you and Harry knew there was a huge chance you'd end up with your legs spread for him, and that he definitely wouldn't be able to resist.
"This is very bad." Harry repeated as he stroked his cock over your entrance. Your heart was going a million miles an hour. You were sprawled out on the couch of a salon that had no locked door. Downstairs, there were loads of people chattering, but in this grand room, the only thing that echoed were their shaky breaths. You'd been bad before, what was one more time?
"We can stop, if you want to. I can go downstairs, find that groomsman—"
As soon as the words had left your mouth, Harry pushed himself into you. He swiftly clasped his hand to your mouth, muffling the moan that always escaped you when he got inside you. You loved that he anticipated that, you loved that he knew you.
This wasn't really a moment for slow, torturous sex. None of the events at which you hooked up were. Over the past two years, the both of you had mastered the art of the quick fuck. But something about this time was different. Harry was drawing it out.
"You're not going anywhere." He growled. His pace was slower than usual, but his thrusts were more intense. Your eyes fluttered shut as you took in the pleasure, fingers moving down to your clit. Wrapping your legs around him, you tried to soak up every second of the immense pleasure he was always able to bring you. You knew each other right to the last detail. For example, you knew how much he liked his hair pulled.
"Fuck I missed you." He blurted out as your hand clasped onto the locks at the back of his head. He grabbed onto your hips to pull you closer as he screwed you into the couch. You opened your eyes, nearly drooling at the sight of his flexed muscles that peeked through his unbuttoned dress shirt.
"What did you miss about me?" You pried, needing the ego boost. Harry was too kind not to share all his thoughts with you, especially during sex. You had him wrapped around your finger.
"Everything— fuck..." Harry cursed as you squeezed around his cock. "Your body, your face, your smile, these legs, these fucking tits."
A smile erupted from you. Harry's breathy ramblings warmed your heart and your pussy, and with a stark demand that you be on top, you began riding his cock after Harry sat down on the couch. His eyes shone as you tugged down the top of your dress, revealing your breasts.
"Touch me. Show me how much you missed me." You demanded, positioning yourself so you could bounce on his cock. It was only a split second before Harry's hands were your tits, and you moaned at the sloppy kisses he left all over your chest and neck.
"Fuck Harry, you're so good. You wanted it so bad, hmm?" You egged him on. It was such a pleasure to see him this way; worshipping every inch of your body.
"Yes baby." Harry nodded, slapping your ass. "Couldn't pass on this pussy, now could I?"
"Nah-ah, it wasn't about passing up. You just couldn't resist." You corrected him, rolling your hips into him, slowly opening the rest of his buttons to reveal that beloved butterfly tattoo he got upon your request.
"Don't act like you weren't gagging for it, babydoll." Harry argued, wrapping his hand around your throat. "Spend the entire night trying to find a replacement for me."
That ticked you off.
"You have a replacement downstairs and you still came looking for me." You dug your nails into his chest and began bouncing on his cock again. Harry cursed at your change of pace. "Knew nothing is better than me, didn't you?"
"Fuck baby, yes, yes..." Harry responded drowsily as you tried to pound yourself into him the best you could.
"Go on, then. Fuck me, and tell me there's no one like me." You said, exposing the one thing you truly wanted him to tell you. Seeing him with someone else was a blow to your ego. It was already satisfactory seeing him fall apart beneath you, but you needed the verbal affirmation.
You audibly gasped when he suddenly began fucking up into you. The bliss of his cock ramming into you overtook all your senses, and you couldn't do anything but clamp onto him as he spilled out the confession you wanted to hear.
"There's no one like you baby. No one comes close to his pussy. I fuck other girls and I think of you— shit." He began to ramble. "I close my eyes and imagine it's you baby, but it's never as good. Shit... tell me you think of me too."
"I think of you all the time Harry, you're the only one who makes me—" you are stopped in the middle of your sentence as Harry starts to pinch your nipples. You cry out in pleasure. "F–fuck! I'm gonna come!"
Holding onto his shoulders to keep your balance, you start orgasming around his cock as you say Harry's name in a muffled scream.
"Fuuucckkk, I love hearing you say my name." He drawled, continuing to massage your nipples as you felt his sperm shooting into you.
There wasn't much time to come down from the high, especially since you heard people walking up the steps. With the mixture of your and his cum dripping down your thigh, you adjusted your dress and put on your heels that had fallen off your feet somewhere in the middle of this hasty, wretched act. Then, a voice sounded from the hallway.
"Have you guys seen Harry?"
It was Harry's date, Sandra. You and Harry locked eyes, both a bit panicked. The sting of what the two of you had done prompted you to look down at the floor. It was always like this. In the moment itself, there was nothing but you and Harry, but the second it was over, the walls went back up and the shoulders turned cold. Harry felt terrible towards Sandra, not only because he had ditched her and fucked his ex behind her back, but also because he didn't want to return to Sandra at all. If he had it his way, Harry would be walking out the door with you on his arm, as his girlfriend.
But he knew you wouldn't budge. He knew you too well, so much that the thought of you not wanting him could hurt him like nothing else in this world.
And Harry was right, because you immediately headed for the bathroom without another word, and he knew he shouldn't follow...
CW: sugar daddy ceo harry x pa!yn. hella yearning but a rich af harry who wants to spoil his baby! there's a little bit of violence so be warned!! minors please dni!!! ENJOY!!
WC: 12.7k
Read part one here.
PREVIEW:
This should have rubbed him the wrong way… it should have stopped him from entering his card details on the website and paying an extra forty dollars for gift wrapping and an extra two hundred dollars for overnight delivery.
But it didn’t. It was like his fingers moved on their own accord when he purchased the item and wrote out the small note he wanted her to have. The man could only hope Y/N didn’t take his gesture the wrong way, though he was unsure if there was any other way to take it. He hoped she saw where he was coming from; hoped she didn’t get offended and send the parcel right back to the post shop.
His doubts were eased when he came into work that same afternoon after the conference him and Mitch had attended and Y/N seemed painfully normal. Maybe even a bit happy, if Harry’s own eyes weren’t betraying him. She was chippier than usual—she looked nicer today as well, sporting one of Harry’s favorite items on her which was the matching pink skirt and blazer set she wore very rarely. Her hair was down and her cheeks matched the shade of her lapels…
She was always very beautiful, but today she was pretty.
Most of the day today comprised of her, Mitch and Harry locked up in his office brainstorming ideas, and fuck, he was finding it hard to cocentrate on anything apart from her scent which quite literally invaded all of his senses. She was driving him nuts and he was sure she had no idea of it.
Harry was always a very calm and composed man.
Having been in a prestigious leadership position from such a young age, he had to learn how to adopt to every sort of situation, no matter how uncomfortable or awkward it may be. Countless events, interviews, deals, meetings he would attend where someone would say the wrong thing that rubbed him the wrong way, and Harry was forced to hold his tongue before his brain caught up with him. Usually, he’d give the other person a cold stare, followed by a soft warning, or if they were superior to him somehow, like he was closing in on a deal and really needed the other person on his side, the most he would do was clear his throat and move past the topic as quick as possible.
Very rarely did he ever lash out at someone. The last time he did something close to that was when Jerry insulted Y/N right in her face, like she wasn’t another human with real feelings and emotions. Like her idea wasn’t actually genius and a massive hit when it was sent to Analytics the following morning. Like she was disposable—which in reality, most of his PAs have been, considering they didn’t last more than three months under Harry’s nit-picky demands. But still, that gave the man no right to treat Y/N like she was nothing but garbage. If Harry was being honest, that day, after a long time, he truly felt what it was like to have his blood boiling.
He only knew Y/N for a very short time, but (by whatever fucking miracle) she earned a soft spot in the heart of the otherwise cold and estranged CEO. Maybe it was because she was just sweet—eager to please and well-spoken. Or maybe it was because Harry, no matter how much he prided himself in being emotionless and not the relationship type, was developing a little (fat) crush on her.
Now this took a lot of guts for him to admit, so it shouldn’t be taken likely. Harry almost never had crushes on people. Sure, he would think they were cute—he wasn’t going to deny a bit of eye-candy every now and then. He could appreciate a good-looking person. But it usually just stopped there. Never running below the surface—always skin-deep. This time, he didn’t know what it was about her (and he was too scared to explore any further) that made him feel borderline obsessive. She consumed his senses; most days, being the first person he looked for when he entered the office building and the last person his mind went to before he went to bed.
Heck, she was starting to show up in his dreams at this point. Most of the time, they were weird—like her and Harry would be riding unicorns into the sunset or fighting alien gorilla warriors (don’t ask him why, he has no idea what goes on in his subconscious). But what was weirder was that she was there, invading his every thought, asleep or conscious, and her fucking scent lingered in his office and then his clothes all the goddamn time, and it was driving him nuts.
He hated feeling this way.
It was like he was in shackles, and the key was in her hands, which she dangled right before his eyes like she was taunting him. And maybe in a way she was; surely she knew the effect she had on him. She was around him for eight hours a day, and she was normally a very observant girl, from what he learned working with her (the first time Y/N brought Harry his morning coffee, he took the lid off before drinking because he hated the sippy-cup they served it in, and ever since that once, he never had to take a lid of himself—she’d serve it to him just how he liked, without a single word about it exchanged between them). There was simply no way she hadn’t caught on to his schoolgirl crush. If not, she’d have to be the most oblivious person in the world.
Nevertheless, he was tired of this helpless feeling. He wanted to take matters into his own hands and get back control of the reigns. Not knowing how things were going or how they would turn out was Harry’s biggest nightmare, and he just couldn’t bear to live like this anymore.
So his solution (which he only gave about eight minutes of thought) was to offer her the arrangement. Hear him out for a second… he thought maybe his itch could finally be scratched if he just fucked her. Surely this whole crush thing was only happening because he wanted her in his bed… surely just having her in that way would make the pain go away. It would be just like a business arrangement—a give and take. In return for her body, he’d spoil her as much as she wanted. Frankly speaking, Harry had money to burn. Mountains of it, just accumulating with no true purpose. And Y/N was a girl with needs. She did tell him she was really desperate for the job because she worked at a shitty underpaying cafe, so she would appreciate this, right?
It was worth a shot, Harry decided. If the conversation didn’t go how he wanted it to, they could pretend like nothing happened and they would move on. Harry would just fuck Sophie instead and maybe that would satiate his needs (he knows it wouldn’t, but he literally cannot accept that right now because he needs this to work out. There was no desire to ever go through with plan B).
And if that kiss in his office meant anything to her, she had to at least give it some thought and consideration.
Typically, Harry was never much of a kisser. He thought it was too intimate—it introduced too many emotions between two people. The kiss was always the central, pivotal moment in almost every rom-com he ever watched. Meeting each other’s lips, tasting each other, holding each other—it always held so much meaning, and if there was one thing Harry avoided in any romantic relationship, it was meaning. He just didn’t have the time or capacity to give it any priority in his life.
But kissing Y/N was different. Maybe it was because he was thinking about doing it for a long time—ever since he first laid eyes on her, if he was being truthful. How could he not? She was pretty, she was smart, she was funny. She was obviously very good at her job. That was why he kissed her. It was more of a token of appreciation. At least that was what he told himself. And when she licked into his mouth and whimpered like that…he just couldn’t think straight. She’d single-handedly sent all of his nerves into haywire—his system was completely fried.
Now what Harry didn’t expect was to see Y/N wrapped up in another man’s arms the second he stepped out of his office to make the said offer to her. And that moment was precisely when he felt all the calmness and composure evaporate from his body within seconds for the first time in his life. He really had no right to feel that way—Y/N wasn’t his. A single kiss didn’t have to mean anything to either of them but fuck—it did to Harry. It meant way more than he would ever admit. He wondered how people could live like this; giving another person the power to control how they felt, how they acted… he never thought he would be in that position.
But here he was, watching the one girl he actually liked kiss her boyfriend, while he stood and watched like a sad puppy. For a second, he was wordless. His brain this time couldn’t catch up with him at all. Probably because this was something Harry seldom experienced… jealousy.
It took the two of them parting and smiling at each other for Harry to finally use his tongue. The boy was stuffing an obnoxious bunch of flowers into Y/N’s hands and was just about to say something (probably) sickeningly sweet to go along with it when Harry’s voice sliced through the air, “What’s this?”
The couple broke apart abruptly and Y/N looked at Harry with wide eyes, like a deer caught in headlights. Her face was bright red, and in any other circumstance, Harry would find that endearing, but right now, he couldn’t think straight. Not when that twat kept his arm around her waist possessively, like he was scared the girl would be snatched away from him. Luckily, they were in Harry’s fucking building, so when Y/N stuttered, “Mr Styles! This… this is my boyfriend, Sam. He was just stopping by t—”
He could say things like: “Let’s keep the theatrics outside the office, please. I need to see you privately. Sheila will escort him out.”
His tone was hard and borderline rude—it wasn’t like him to speak to her like that, when he was normally softer, more understanding. Harry didn’t like being this way, but something in him at that moment just didn’t sit right. And that something was this newfound hot, raging, jealousy.
The boyfriend—Sam—opened his mouth in protest but Harry didn’t stay to hear any of it, turning around and storming back into his office to page Sheila. He could see through the glass Sam and Y/N engaged in a heated conversation, and for a second she felt him looking and locked eyes with him, an unreadable expression on her face. Harry busied himself with his computer, clicking and typing emptily at a random email he pulled up and pretended to read. A few seconds later, Y/N (and that fucking haunting scent she carried) slowly crept into his room.
She was fiddling with her hands. Her face was riddled with guilt—what for, Harry didn’t exactly know. Putting his unreasonableness aside, he could at least admit that she didn’t do anything like, extremely wrong. Harry knew she was in a relationship when he kissed her, he knew she was in a relationship when he decided to ask her to be his sugar baby.
He just didn’t care. Which is an awful thing to admit, he knows, but he had to give her the benefit of the doubt. Y/N wasn’t at fault. And there should be no reason for her to stand before him looking like that; like she’d committed a horrible crime and Harry was going to deliver her a sentence.
Despite all this, Harry remained stoic.
“I’m so sorry, Mr Styles,” She started, “I didn’t know he was coming. I would never had let him come all the way up to my desk like that. And…and I guess I shouldn’t have kissed you either. It was a m—”
“The report from Analytics is ready.” Harry cut her off, schooling his expression into one of professionalism. He was a businessman through and through—he knew how to handle himself (or that’s what he told himself, anyway).
“Hmm?” Y/N appeared genuinely befuddled. She met his gaze. “About your internal suppliers proposal.” Harry said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world—it should’ve been really, since she was the one who sent it off to the team to be evaluated. She must be way out of sorts if she couldn’t keep up with him; normally, she was always two steps ahead.
“Oh, right. How did it, uh— how did it land?”
“Good. You and I are going to present it to the board next month. We need a presentation, opening and closing speeches and stats. This is big, Y/N.” Harry said. Y/N’s eyes widened slightly, “Me? I’m going to be presenting to the board?”
“Don’t look so shocked. I’ll be there with you.”
It took a few seconds for the gravity of the situation set in—Harry watched as she went through about five different emotions—confused, scared, worried, happy and then finally, excited. A big smile stretched across her pretty face. “This is huge, Mr Styles. Thank you so much! I won’t let you down,” She exclaimed, akin to a puppy he just told could go for a walk in the park. Her joy was so contagious, Harry almost forgot the inner turmoil eating him alive. Almost.
Instead, he hummed, trying to look nonchalant; like he didn’t want to just grab her and kiss her again, tell her to break up with her boyfriend and become his spoiled plaything. “Mitch should be back next week from Taiwan so he’ll be helping us prepare for this.”
“Thank you,” She said, one more time. Harry felt his heart race as he drank her in—her hands were crossed sincerely behind her back, face tinged slightly pink from adrenaline. Her lips were still graced with a grin and her eyes were sparkling.
She looked beautiful.
“And I’m sorry. About Sam. And… earlier.” Y/N broke him from his trance, taking a step closer to his table. Harry didn’t let his face falter—he didn’t want her to think the kiss meant anything more to him than it did her—call him immature, but it was his first time dealing with emotions like these and he didn’t really know how to navigate them.
“It’s fine. Just keep your personal life and your work life separate. What happened was obviously a mistake.”
The words tasted sour on his tongue as he uttered them out loud; each one stabbing his heart separately. He didn’t believe anything he was saying, yet he said it anway, all thanks to his big fucking ego he couldn’t get over. The impact of them landed right before his eyes, as he noticed Y/N look almost hurt, but she was a smart girl, so she immediately wiped the look off her face. She set her lips in a straight line, “Yes, Mr. Styles.” She said, understandingly.
When Harry murmured, “Good. I’ll send you an email with all the details for this presentation,” And diverted his attention back to his screen, Y/N took that as her que to nod and leave. And just then, with the weight of her presence finally leaving his space, did Harry release a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His heart pounded in his chest—a feeling so unfamiliar to him.
He cursed the moment he let his feelings get in the way of this otherwise very professional relationship and forced his fingers to type a real response to this email he was staring at uselessly for the past twenty minutes.
-
From the eight billion souls that graced this place that Y/N was able to call earth, there were about five people in total whose opinions she truly cared about. Who she knew that if they were ever to say anything critical to her, it would never be from hatred or animosity. These five or so people, Y/N fully believed, were the sole people she could trust with her life. Two of them being her mum and dad, one, her baby sister (who had the most brutal opinions, which hit so close to home sometimes, Y/N has to actively remind herself they’re coming with good intentions), her childhood best friend Zita who she only saw every two or three years since she lived on another continent, and Niall.
Y/N wants to say she’s known Niall for years, and they bumped into each other in high school and have been inseparable since—or they were sandpit besties, having grown up together in diapers—but none of that was true.
Even though they might act that way with each other, given they were incredibly close, both emotionally and lowkey physically (because Y/N was just a touch starved thing and Niall was a massive cuddler), anyone who was introduced to both of them could never believe they only met about fourteen months ago when Niall first started working at Bluebird.
He was very reserved when he first started—he barely spoke to anyone, kept to himself, always came on time and he was exceptional at his job. Unlike Y/N, he was actually happy working at Bluebird and he was saving up to get into a good culinary school. This information, of course, Y/N only sucked out of him after about three weeks of quiet, awkward shifts where neither of them talked much and just robotically did their closing tasks like the other didn’t exist.
Well, Y/N did try to talk to him in the beginning—she asked him about uni, his previous work place, tried to make conversation about the weather and how bad traffic was that morning but he would give her half-assed replies, humming here and there, maybe mumbling some words of approval or disapproval but she never got a good conversation.
That was, until one night all the girls from the cafe decided to go get drinks after a crazy closing shift. They were having a crazy week anyway, and Mina was constantly talking about how she finally wanted to get completely fucked out of her mind because she was so tired; so that night, they threw all reason out the window, got in Mina’s little van and drove downtown to a nifty rooftop bar that was all the rage.
About three drinks in, Y/N realised Niall was a fucking lightweight.
That was the first time she saw him utter more than seven words in a row to a single person that was not a customer, and Y/N was completely taken aback. Niall was a different person entirely when he was drunk—when she brings up that pivotal night now, he says it was his alter ego that came out that night and just never left ‘cos it loved sweet Y/N too much.’
He was talkative, flirty, very touchy and very emotional. Y/N went out to let off some steam and have some fun dancing with her girls that night, but she ended up glued to Niall’s side, because apparently she was the only one he trusted when he was ‘vulnerable and broken’ (his words, not hers) listening to him talk about his ex work mates who always made fun of his accent behind his back and made him feel insecure about talking to customers.
Things got out of hand, and Y/N was a very confrontational drunk, so when he told her this, she was right ready to go to his old restaurant and give them all a hiding. And this did wonders for sensitive, touched Niall, who teared up like she pepper sprayed him and held both of her hands to his chest, telling her how she was so special to him, how he always liked her but was too shy to say anything because he didn’t want to be bullied again.
The night took an emotional turn, so they both ended up getting in the same uber and going home and the next Tuesday when they saw each other for the opening shift, things were very much the same. Niall was chatty, witty, funny, touchy and sweet, and after a few weeks of convincing him the others were not going to talk bad about him behind his back, he opened up to the rest of the girls too.
That was precisely how the two of them became best friends, and how Niall wormed his way into Y/N’s heart. He was one of the most treasured people in her life, and he felt the same way too.
Which was why when he found out Sam was in town, he basically spammed Y/N’s phone with texts in all caps yelling at her to bring him ‘round to the cafe so they could “casually” meet and Niall could give his opinion on him—which is currently not that great, if Y/N was being honest.
The first problem was that Sam didn’t really know Y/N was friends with Niall like that… he always got jealous when she had male friends, and if he knew how close the two were, he would literally throw the biggest fit known to mankind. The other problem was that Niall disliked Sam to a great great degree. Y/N told him everything about her relationship—Sam’s conservative nature, his possessiveness, his desire to wait till marriage… and sadly none of that sat right with Niall. From the getgo he’d been telling Y/N she could do so much better than him but Y/N just never had the balls to do anything.
But maybe seeing him in person would change what Niall thought about him…or surely it would make his opinion just a tad bit sweeter.
Niall
im literally dying to see u
Y/N hearted the text and rumpled her lips, tucking her phone into her back pocket as Sam squeezed her hand in his. She was oddly very, very nervous about this—she wasn’t a very good actor either, so she was worried she won’t be able to hide her friendship from Sam that well, but she had to give it her best. He must have sensed the nerves coming off of her like radio signals because he leaned down to kiss the top of her head, “You okay? Who texted you?”
Trying to appear nonchalant, Y/N gave him a reassuring smile, “Just my mum. Hey, this is where I used to work!” She tried to segway into the bit, slowing her step hen she reached the familiar path that lead down to the cafe. Sam raised his brows, “Charming,” he mumbled, eyeing the shop from the outside. His tone was weird and it was giving back-handed, but at this point Y/N was so used to his little gestures she didn’t say anything. “Let’s get a coffee, yeah? I need to use the toilet anyway.”
“Can’t we just go down to the mall? There’s this game you can only get at PopMart and they only have one—”
“Sam. Please,” Y/N tried to reason with him. She gave him her best ‘bored and over-it look’ and didn’t bother hearing his dumb protests before she tugged his arm into the cafe. The familiar scent of cinnamon chai and fresh croissants invaded her senses, the comforting blue and white stripped wallpaper and oak seating making her feel right at home. She spent so many hours holed up in here just dreading to leave, she never really got the chance to have a good look and admire it for what it was.
From behind the counter she noticed Niall’s familiar frame—his back was turned to them while he whisked a drink, and Y/N had to use the little bell by the tip jar to get his attention. When she did, he gave her a small, knowing smile.
So far, so good.
“Y/N! We haven’t seen you for ages!” He exclaimed, recognition glinting in his eyes. Y/N gave him a grin, “Niall, hey, how are you?” Her tone was slightly rehearsed, but she hoped Sam wouldn’t notice how robotic she sounded to herself.
“Great, thanks, how are you? Is this your boyfriend?”
Of course that’s what he says.
Niall wasted no time—getting right down into the dirty business. This is what he was pining after her for, so he had to get his money’s worth. Y/N gave him a pinched look—one that said “I’m going to kill you the second I get the chance too” and turned to Sam, who was standing there silently like he didn’t realise there was a conversation happening.
“Oh, yeah, this is Sam. Sam, this is Niall. We used to work together.” She was anxious as she introduced them, looking between the two with worried eyes. Niall gave her a quick look, his eyebrows dipping just for a fraction of a second. “I can tell, Y/N,” Sam started, holding his hand out for Niall to shake, “Nice to see ya, man.”
Niall gave him a polite smile and shook his hand over the counter. Y/N was watching him closely, trying to pick up on any more hints about what he thought but he was doing a good job at schooling his expressions. “You too. So, are you just visiting?”
“Yup.” Sam nodded.
He didn’t say anything further, apparently ending the interaction right then and there. Just like Y/N expected (but hoped didn’t actually happen), the air turned awkward as her and Niall had a silent conversation with their eyes. Right off the bat, it wasn’t hard to decipher he wasn’t vibing with whatever was going on with Sam. “Can I… get you guys anything?” He spoke up, lips pressed in a thin line. Sam narrowed his eyes as he read the menu behind the counter, “Uhh… I’ll have a flat white, please. Y/N?”
“Hot chocolate?”
“Skim milk for her.”
Great. This was going just swimmingly.
Y/N was used to Sam’s rude comments but obviously Niall wasn’t, and he didn’t take this one well when his eyebrows dipped angrily. He looked right about to pop off at Sam when Y/N suddenly spoke up, “Yes! Skim milk for me. You know me, Niall.”
She gave him a look, her pupils wide and mouth agape. Niall appeared moments from jumping over the counter and pouncing on Sam, but hopefully Y/N’s pleading gaze would hold him back.
“Coming right up.”
His tone was dry and to the point. Y/N ended up paying and Sam took a seat down the far end of the store, and Y/N took the opportunity to pretend to slip away to the bathroom when she actually just wanted to talk to Niall. He didn’t waste any time seeking her out—right as Y/N turned the corner past the kitchen door, Niall wrapped his hand around her arm and pulled her inside the small, quiet toilet.
“Who the fuck is this fucking guy, Y/N?” He whisper-yelled. He looked genuinely disturbed—concern overcoming his features as he searchd her face frantically, “Like I knew your boyfriend was fucked but this is something else. This is some Jake Gyllenhal from All Too Well type shit.”
Y/N sighed. Deep down, she knew he was right, and she knew he was coming from a good place. Maybe this is exactly what she needed to take that step she’d been wanting to take for so long. Maybe this will finally push her over the edge and she will break up with Sam like she’s been wanting to for the longest time now.
“I know. I know, he’s terrible.”
“Terrible? He’s like, the worst!”
“I’m going to break up with him.” She said, finally.
Niall looked relieved.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Because I happen to know of a hot CEO who’s pining after you—who you’ve kissed, by the way—who would jump at the opp—”
“This isn’t about Harry,” Y/N replied. This was a lie. Even if it wasn’t completely about him, it had a lot to do with him, anyway. A huge part of the reason she doesn’t feel the same way about Sam is because of that kiss with Harry… and the dinner… she hadn’t felt so cared for and so heard in such a long time.
“You keep telling yourself that.”
After that, Y/N’s phone began buzzing, and when she looked it was Sam wondering what was taking her so long, followed by him cursing her ex-workplace because they took ages to get their drinks. Y/N and Niall scurried away and apart. He busied himself with brewing coffee while Y/N took a seat across an angry Sam. Every now and then her and Niall would lock eyes and she could only read the disappointment in his expression.
When they get their drinks and she bid a quiet goodbye to Niall, Sam leaned down and attempted to whisper in hear, but she’s sure at least four people (including Niall) heard what he had to say.
“What a fucking weirdo. You sure he isn’t gay or something?”
Something told Y/N this breakup was going to take a lot out of her.
-
Being back at the office gave Y/N the reprieve she desperately needed, after being attached to the hip with Sam the entire weekend. Having her head down and fingers busy typing away on her monitors was her favorite way to drown out reality and enter into workmode, where she could exist on another plane entirely. Her days were always packed—starting off with grabbing Harry’s coffee and muffin, going over his day and moving things around if needed, replying to his emails, taking his calls, scheduling flights, meetings, appointments—the lot.
When Y/N came in the following Monday, she thought things would be exactly like that. Business as usual. But when she greeted Harry with a smile on her face and a styrofoam cup with no lid wrapped between her fingers, she could immediately sense the vibe was off.
She noticed it in the way he avoided making eye contact with her, which usually was something he used to his advantage, knowing it made people bend and twist to his every command. Y/N tried to talk to him about swapping a meeting he had with someone for a dentist appointment which he was putting off for the past two weeks but even then his replies were minimal, and he basically told her to do whatever she thought fit as long as she kept him in the loop.
Which was so unlike Harry. He was a control-freak through and through—Y/N wasn’t allowed to move a single thing on his calendar without having at least a ten minute conversation with him but he was being weird so Y/N just didn’t say anything. And maybe she was being oversensitive and reading into the situation too much, but it hurt when he didn’t even tell her he was leaving when he went to get his lunch (which he didn’t tell Y/N to do for him like he normally did, by the way—another one of his weird antics of the day where he did whatever he pleased like she didn’t exist solely for his convenience).
Despite everything she busied herself with working on the board presentation due next month. The opportunity was a once in a lifetime one, and Y/N, when she first started at Grapejuice never thought she would be doing this. She was exchanging countless messages and emails with both Mitch and Harry, passing around drafts of the presentation and speeches she was responsible for, but nothing was sitting right. Maybe it was because of Harry’s limited input—he resorted to mainly reacting to all the texts with thumbs up or thumbs down and Y/N was going nuts tying to decipher his intentions.
Things only got worse when during a quiet moment on Wednesday while Harry was in a meeting, Y/N went down to the communal kitchen to make herself a hot drink. The day was bringing on a headache, and Y/N’s thoughts bounced from work, to Harry’s behaviour, to having to go back home to Sam, and to Niall’s constant texts asking if she’d broken up with him yet and if not, when she was planning to do it. So it was safe to say that Y/N was in severe need of a quick break.
She walked in to find Logan waiting by the microwave, scrolling mindlessly on his phone, though he shut it and put it in his pocket when he saw her coming, “Y/N, hey.”
Y/N gave him a tired smile and grabbed her favorite yellow mug and settled it under the Nespresso, “Hey Logan, how are you?”
“Yeah, I’m good. Hey, I’ve been meaning to talk to you but you’re always so busy…”
He paused, interrupted by the microwave beeping. Y/N waited curiously to hear what he had to say as he turned to open the door and carefully pulled out a bowl of what looked and smelled like cottage-cheese pasta. He set it down on the counter to cool, “You were saying?” Y/N reminded him.
“Are you alright?”
Her brows dipped. Why would he ask her this? Did she look not alright?
“It’s just… Sarah told Becca who told Mika who told me that apparently your boyfriend came to surprise you at your desk and Mr. Styles called security on him and was like… jealous?”
“What?”
“No, it’s like…it’s not like that, like I don’t mean to worry you or like be a tattletale—I’m genuinely concerned, like are you alright? You…you seem a bit stressed and I don’t know if Mr. Styles is maybe taking something out on you, he’s been on edge all we—”
“Please stop talking.”
Her heart was near racing out of her chest.
If there was one thing Y/N hated the most in the world, it was being talked about behind her back—be it good or bad, she just hated the thought of being discussed while she wasn’t there to know how she was being perceived… and now knowing that technically the whole office knew of Sam and Y/N and Harry’s little performance last week… Y/N couldn’t do this right now.
“I’m sorry, hey, I don’t mean this in like a bad way, I’m only concerned.”
“I’m a grown woman, Logan, I can look after myself. Thanks for your concern, but I don’t need it right now,” With that, she left her cup, forgotten on the Nespresso and briskly made her way back to her desk. Maybe her tone was slightly rude, but she couldn’t find it in herself in that moment to care—there were a million things racing through her mind and neither of them were reasonable. She knew she wasn’t thinking straight enough to have a proper talk with Harry, but she felt like if she didn’t do it now, she’d never find the right time again. She didn’t want to loose her momentum.
Thankfully, the client he was meeting with was stepping out of his office the same time Y/N stormed in. She gave him what she thought was a polite smile but she probably just looked crazy as she whizzed past him and entered Harry’s office. Clicking the lock shut, she attempted to gather the newfound courage she discovered to say the words she was memorizing the whole way up here.
“Y/N? What’s wrong?”
He was standing this time, rummaging through his file drawer probably because he had too much of an ego to call for Y/N and have her locate what he was looking for. Concern overcame his features as he turned to face her fully.
Y/N cut right to the chase. “Why are you punishing me?”
“What?”
She took a step closer. It was a challenge, keeping her emotions and thoughts in check but Y/N was a professional—she could maintain herself, especially when it came down to her self-respect. “You’re—you’re ignoring me, you’re not replying to me in full sentences, I’m trying to get this presentation sorted and you’re literally blowing me off. You won’t look me in the eye and you won’t treat me like I exist so I’m just wondering, Harry—Mr.Styles, why are you punishing me?”
Harry sighed. Y/N noticed as regret and confusion clouded his eyes. She would give anything just to glimpse into his mind and know even a drop of what he was truly thinking instead of trying to pick apart his facial cues.
“That’s not… that’s not true.”
“It fucking is! You’re being so weird it’s thrown me completely! I don’t kno—”
“That’s not what’s happening. I’m not punishing you, Y/N. At least, I don’t mean to.”
He set down the file he was holding and went to lean against his massive oak desk. She noticed how he fidgeted—cracked a knuckle and ran his thumb against the side of his nose like he did when he was nervous (which he seldom was, but Y/N observed him a lot and kept track of all his little quirks, and this was one she thought was particularly adorable but she would never admit that).
“Well it sure as hell doesn’t feel like that.” Y/N scoffed, crossing her arms across her chest, “Listen, I don’t know what personal vendetta you’ve got against me—I can handle a moody boss, but when people start noticing and gossiping about it—that’s when it becomes a real problem.”
“Gossiping? Who’s gossiping?”
“That doesn’t matter! Just…just tell me what I did so I can apologise and we can go back to normal. Was it the kiss? Was it Sam? Are you mad I did—”
“Stop that.”
“---Then what is it, Mr. Styles!?”
“I’m sorry.” The words were quiet—Y/N barely heard them over the sound of her racing heart.
“What?”
“I’m sorry, Y/N,” He started, running a hand through his hair, “I’m sorry for being weird and I’m sorry for not replying to you properly when you ask about the presentation. I’m sorry people have been talking and I…I’m sorry for kissing you. That was a boundary I should never have crossed. This isn’t your fault. None of it is.”
Pretending like his words didn’t impale her like a steel plated sword, Y/N swallowed the knot in her throat. She could feel her own face get red hot with anger and adrenaline. She knew herself the kiss was a mistake but hearing him say it somehow hurt even more than she thought it would. Nevertheless, at least his apology soothed her nerves a little bit. At least know she knew he wasn’t mad at her per se… he seemed only frustrated with the situation, but Y/N didn’t blame him for that. She was sort of in the same boat.
“I crossed that line with you. I’m not completely innocent, Mr. Styles, but you can’t punish me for a crime we both commited.”
“Yeah. I was being unfair to you, and I’m sorry for that.” Y/N could tell the words were tough for him to say. He looked like he was actually in pain—a pinched expression on his face and a big furrow in his brows. She could only imagine what it was like for him; a wealthy CEO having to apologise to his very broke PA for his behaviour. The power dynamics were clearly imbalanced but Y/N admired how he didn’t pay it any mind and apologised to her with what she could only call sincerity.
There were a few seconds of silence as they both watched each other—the slight rise and fall of Y/N’s chest falling in sync with Harry’s own breathing. There were so many words left unsaid; sheathed in the heavy air of his office, never to see the light of day. If only either of them had the slightest bit of courage, and the storm in both their hearts could be tamed.
Alas, they remained standing quietly, both too afraid to say how they truly felt.
“We’ll go over your presentation at four. I can help you however you need.” Harry finally spoke up.
Y/N tried to smile, but it didn’t fully reach her eyes. She knew there was more she wanted to say but she just couldn’t figure out what and how to do it. It was like her heart was in staccato—unable to form a single, coherent thought.
“Right. Thanks.”
With that, Harry gave Y/N a curt nod which she took as her cue to leave the heated room. As much as she was glad the conversation was over and out in the open, she couldn’t help but replay both his and Logan’s words in her head over and over again. The bit about Harry being jealous, him admitting to acting weird and saying the kiss was a mistake… God, she felt like such an idiot. This is why the number one rule when having a corporate job was to never mix business and pleasure. Her life was a whirlwind of bad choices and endless drama due to one fucking mistake she made.
Sighing, she settled at her desk to find her forgotten yellow mug sitting by her laptop. The cup was still warm, so whoever left it there must have just missed her—and next to it was a note on a pink post-it.
sorry
- L
She crumpled up the piece of paper and got back to work.
-
The next morning, Y/N was up earlier than usual.
She wasn’t in much of a hurry to get to work anyway, considering Harry had a conference to attend at 9AM with Mitch where despite her asking a million times if they needed her to come, Mitch insisted he could sub her just fine. They didn’t need a third person to tag along, seeing as they were only gone for about two hours before arriving back at Grapejuice for the monthly Senior Leadership Meeting. All this meant she could take her time getting ready in the morning, maybe even have a better breakfast that a banana and a granola bar and even go for a jog if she could manage it.
Thankfully, Sam was still fast asleep when she crept out of the house at six in the morning with her running gear on and her headphones tucked into her shorts. Dealing with him was something she just couldn’t do at the moment—there was so much stuff on her plate—so much shit she needed to sort through before she could think about her current relationship and what would become of it.
She started off her jog while on the phone with Niall, who yapped her ear off and begged her to get the breakup over and done with. Y/N filled him in on the events from yesterday and everything that went on between her and Logan and then her and Harry. Of course, the only thing Niall deduced from the whole conversation was that Y/N and Harry were fated soulmates and this was the universes’ way of bringing them together—create tension between her and Sam, add a sprinkle of jealousy rumors and then—bam, you’ve got yourself a perfect love story.
What was funny was that Niall sincerely believed everything he was saying was true, and somehow he even got poor Y/N thinking he might have a point. But then she would hold that thought right where she caught it and reel herself back in—she was living a real life. This wasn’t a book or a movie… no one sat writing her plot and making sure everything fell into place perfectly. If that were true, surely things wouldn’t be as hard as they were for her.
The rest of her jog was uneventful apart from her stopping to admire a pair of swans and then take a picture of the sunrise. By the time she was home it was only forty past, so she still had ages to go before she had to get ready for work.
However, her steps slowed outside her door when she noticed a large parcel laying on her welcome mat. It was wrapped up with white twine and the paper was that satisfying material she only saw in expensive gift stores.
Confused, she picked it up, only to realise it was surprisingly lighter than she expected. There was no note or anything—no sort of ID with her address on it, or hint where it came from which puzzled her even further. She silently snuck into the house and noticed that Sam was still asleep—at least she wouldn’t have to deal with his thousand questions about the mysterious parcel, the answers to which even she did not have.
She couldn’t remember having ordered anything online in the past few weeks… and she hadn’t signed up to any of those monthly subscriptions which delivered food or makeup or whatnot to her doorstep every couple of weeks, so she was truly befuddled as to what was inside it.
Carefully she took a small knife and made a cut along the seams of the parcel. She didn’t know what was inside and she didn’t want to risk breaking it or tearing it just in case she would have to return it to the post office, since she was 99% sure this was probably just like a mistaken delivery or something. Slowly, she undid the intricate folds of the paper.
Under the wrapping was a white card, which was tucked into the middle of a pool of silky, red fabric. Y/N’s eyes nearly buldged out of her eyeballs. The garment was smooth beneath her fingers—like water from the stillest river. Merely feeling it beneath her skin told her it probably cost more than her whole month’s worth of wages, and then some.
She turned the note over first to try and get a hint about what it was and where it came from.
I hope you can forgive me.
H.
Y/N didn’t have to read it twice to understand what exactly was going on here. Within seconds, everything was clear as day to her—this parcel was from Harry and the dress was some sort of token of apology… which shouldn’t make Y/N feel the way it was currently making her feel.
This was almost like a bribe.
He was buying an apology from her… but it just didn’t feel like that. She knew that was how she should feel… but she didn’t. She liked this. It made her feel wanted—like Niall was right and Harry truly was pining after her. Maybe she was getting ahead of herself but this had to be way out of PA and boss relationship bounds, right? Surely this was rule number two in the PA and boss relationship handbook—Don’t buy your PA expensive gifts to try and win her over after an argument.
Her heart and brain were entangled in a web of chaos and bewilderment—Like most things in her life as of recently, this made no sense to Y/N. Yet, she still set the card down and lifted the garment out of the box.
An audible gasp escaped her parted lips.
It was a long, floor-length dress with a slit that went all the way up her right leg to mid-thigh. The fabric was just as she felt it—silky and dreamy; something which could only be produced in the bestest of factories using the richest of materials. It had a drapey, heart-shaped neckline and thin spaghetti straps that would sit delicately on her collarbones. Y/N could already picture herself wearing it, with her hair done up and jewellery to go with it… the dress looked so out of place at her small little flat she was almost embarrassed just to be holding it up.
She was snapped out of her daydreams when she heard shuffling coming from inside her bedroom, followed by a call of her name. “Y/N! Are y’still home? Can you bring me a coffee, cupcake?” Sam was awake. Y/N tried not to roll her eyes to herself as she responded, telling him she would be right there with him.
She was unable to hide her glee, though, having to bite her lip to prevent her mouth from spreading into the biggest smile ever. This was the nicest thing anyone had ever gotten her—she should want to give it back to him—want to tell him it wasn’t necessary; but the thought surprisingly never occurred to her. Somehow she believed she really earned this, after what the man had put her through the past week and a half.
Silently, she put the dress and note back under the wrapping paper and slid it in the cabinet over her fridge where she knew Sam would never look. This would have to be her little secret—if Sam found out, he would literally flip his shit, and Y/N couldn’t afford another one of his mental breakdowns. So, she kept her excitement carefully tucked away behind a giddy grin and put a pot of coffee on.
Somehow, work had just become the most exciting part of her day.
-
When Harry was picking out what dress to buy for Y/N from the YSL website, even he wasn’t quite sure what he was thinking.
Harry was a grown, experienced man—he had seen his fair share of the world, so he knew exactly what the whole ordeal looked like—like he was trying to bribe her into forgiving him. Like he was trying to buy his way out of the situation he found himself in. This should have rubbed him in the wrong way…it should have stopped him from entering his card details on the website and paying an extra forty dollars for gift wrapping and an extra two hundred dollars for overnight delivery.
But it didn’t. It was like his fingers moved on their own accord when he purchased the item and wrote out the small note he wanted her to have. The man could only hope Y/N didn’t take his gesture the wrong way, though he was unsure if there was any other way to take it. He hoped she saw where he was coming from; hoped she didn’t get offended and send the parcel right back to the post shop.
His doubts were eased when he came into work that same afternoon after the conference him and Mitch had attended and Y/N seemed painfully normal. Maybe even a bit happy, if Harry’s own eyes weren’t betraying him. She was chippier than usual—she looked nicer today as well, sporting one of Harry’s favorite items on her which was the matching pink skirt and blazer set she wore very rarely. Her hair was down and her cheeks matched the shade of her lapels…
She was always very beautiful, but today she was pretty.
Most of the day today comprised of her, Mitch and Harry locked up in his office brainstorming ideas, and fuck, he was finding it hard to cocentrate on anything apart from her scent which quite literally invaded all of his senses. She was driving him nuts and he was sure she had no idea of it. The only time either her or Harry acknowledged the present he sent her that morning was when Mitch excused himself to take a call, and they were both left alone in Harry’s office.
There were a few moments of just the tapping of their keyboards—no words exchanged between the two. Harry could practically hear her thoughts racing as she occasionally looked at him over her screen, biting her lip like she was contemplating when to say something and how to say it. He saw her resolve snap right before him as she gently folded her laptop slightly and spoke quietly, “Thank you. For the dress.”
Having not prepared for a situation akin to this at all, for a moment, Harry was at a loss for words. It took him a second to recollect himself, but when he did, he cleared his throat and met her eyes.
“T’was my pleasure.”
As if on cue, Mitch walked in right after and the moment was gone, both Harry and Y/N staring intently at their computers like the answer to the universe was just sent to them and they were the last humans left to decipher it.
“What’d I miss?” Mitch asked, clapping his hands together.
Both Harry and Y/N replied in unison: “Nothing.”
The rest of the week was spent exactly like that—Harry, Mitch and Y/N working closely together and spending majority of the day just rewriting speeches, researching and looking at different variations of bar graphs, pie charts and flow charts. As much as he loved drowning himself in his work (and being trapped in a room with Y/N (and Mitch, he guesses)), the presentation was taking a lot from him—sure he’d presented to the board heaps of times before, but this time was different—this time, the change was massive. Switching to internal suppliers like Y/N suggested would flip the whole corporation upside down, so it was very important that everything they said had a purpose and contributed meaningfully.
At the end of the day, Harry was human, though, and humans needed breaks. He had to convince his mind and body that there was a life outside the four walls of his office and he was capable of thinking about other things apart from how many charts was too many charts and what color coding looked serious enough to be in a presentation this big.
So, Harry and Mitch, after one drawn out, draining Friday spent fretting over the closing speech which he was responsible to deliver, decided to go out and get some drinks to ease their nerves. The bar they went to was one which was quite popular in the city—often he would see students gathered there in bunches on the weekends, making noise and dancing on the makeshift dancefloor, but the drinks were good and the music was nice so Harry didn’t pay them much mind.
They went after work so they dressed down by ridding their blazers and untucking their shirts so they didn’t look out of place. Harry rolled his sleeves up to his forearm, which he now rested on the table casually as he nursed a drink between his ringed fingers. Conversation with Mitch was always easy—he’d known the guy for most of his life, having basically grown up with him. They went to the same high school and the same college—they were roommates back then, and living in such proximity really tells you a lot about the other person even if you didn’t ask for it.
He liked Mitch, though. He was smart in all his classes and a little bit quiet but Harry wasn’t bothered by that. He liked a bit of peace and silence, and besides, if he ever did want to get Mitch chatty, all he had to do was light a blunt and the rest was history. Of course, they haven’t smoked in ages now but they frequented the occasional drink or two.
The night was going just as they had planned. Harry got to think about something else since Mitch went on a spiel about this girl he was seeing who he wasn’t sure if she was as into him as he was her. Harry thought he gave pretty good relationship advice so he spewed out some wise words for Mitch—some bull that he didn’t even lowkey believe but people dug whatever he said so it was fine. Harry wouldn’t know if any of his relationship advice was any good himself, since he never had to use it for his own advantage.
But maybe he could put it to good use now, Harry thinks, when he noticed a special someone walking into the same fucking bar he was in.
It genuinely felt like he couldn’t escape her. She was always on his mind, constantly, even when he didn’t think she needed to be; she was always around at work with her sweet fucking voice and tantalizing perfume; she was in his dreams, for God’s sake, and now she was here. On the arm of that fucking cunt she called her boyfriend.
Harry hated that guy. He hated the way he waltzed in with a big smile on his face, like he was rubbing it in every guys face that he had the prettiest girl in the world by his side. He hated the way he held on to her, so possessively that his knuckles were basically white from his grip. And he hated the way he could do things Harry couldn’t, like kiss her on top of her head when she wasn’t noticing as they seated at a small booth on the far end of the bar.
Mitch must have noticed too because he pointed her out, “Isn’t that Y/N? Who’s she with?” He muttered the last bit to himself mostly as he looked at Harry with question. Harry didn’t meet his eyes, finding the ice swimming in his glass eons more interesting than what was going on, “Her boyfriend.”
“How do you know that?”
“He came in last week.”
Mitch made a long sound, like he just realised something, “Oooh. That’s the boyfriend.”
Harry cleared his throat, “Yeah. Now what’s this about Sarah being in a band? How’d you even meet her?”
He changed the topic swiftly, not wanting to think about or look at Y/N and Sam sitting all cute and cuddly in the bar right in his eyeline. The universe must be testing him or some shit, because Harry’s blood was quite literally boiling in his veins. He cursed himself for his fucking luck—the one time he tried to come out and get his mind off things and the one girl he couldn’t stop thinking about walked right in like she owned the place.
About half an hour passed of Harry and Mitch discussing Sarah and then Harry’s whole situation with Sophie when he saw Y/N get up out of her booth and walk towards the restrooms. She had to go past him for that, and as she did, not only did Harry get a whiff of her scent (which made him feel like a fucking dog, the way he was ready to roll over for her just to get another one) but she made eye contact with him. She was stunned at first, but then quickly masked her emotions with a small smile as she acknowledged both Harry and Mitch.
The moment stole the breath from Harry’s lungs, and he felt like he was living in a telenovella with how he was romanticising every interaction with her. He had to get out and get some air—the bar was beginning to get suffocating and he felt like he was trapped in a room and was being tortured by being forced to watch Y/N and Sam act like they were all in love and shit.
So, he softly excused himself from Mitch and made his way outside. Mitch thankfully didn’t suspect anything, since he himself could see how Harry’s face was a bit red. He probably thought it was the drinks and warm atmosphere that drove him outside but that worked perfectly fine in Harry’s favor. Even though apparently people were talking about him and Y/N in the office, he didn’t need Mitch butting in as well, and querying Harry about whether the gossip had any substance to it.
The night air had a chill that nipped at his already rosey cheeks. To his far right stood a bouncer who leaned against the wall and smoked a cigarette. Harry pulled his phone out to see if he could distract his mind but it was full of work emails he had to reply to and reminders he set for all his deadlines. He scrolled mindlessly through Instagram and liked a story his sister posted of a bagel spot she was trying and it actually looked really good—he swiped up to reply and ask where she got i—
“You fucking pervert.”
Harry heard the words first and then saw the fist flying in his direction but he didn’t react fast enough to miss it. A loud, nasty thwack sound erupted from his nose as Sam’s fist collided with it, making Harry’s head go back and hit the brick wall he was up against. For a second he was completely disorientated. His phone slipped from his hand and his fingers came up to swipe beneath his nostrils where they came back with blood.
The fucker just punched him right in the fucking face.
Harry was going to loose his shit. He practically saw red clouding his vision as Sam geared up for another hit, “You wanna stare at my girlfriend’s ass you fuckface?” All reason flew out of the window and Harry was now blinded by anger and his ego which wouldn’t let him go down without a fight. He didn’t waste another second in delivering a strike to his jaw which resulted in a gnarly crack sound.
Sam fell back on his butt and looked at Harry with wide eyes. The sight was one he would have laughed at if blood wasn’t streaming down his nose. He resembed a spanish fighter bull the way he charged towards Harry, probably to try and tackle him to the ground but the burly bouncer who stood a few metres away ran over and grabbed Sam before he could do anything.
At the same time, he could hear Y/N calling Sam’s name until she eventually stepped out as well. Her mouth fell open in shock as she took in the morbid sight before her. She couldn’t settle on who she wanted to look at—Harry, with blood covering the bottom half of his face, or Sam, who was thrashing in the arms of the bouncer and yelling profanities at the man. The bouncer had to drag him away and Y/N looked like she was at a loss for words.
“What the fuck did you do?” She asked Harry, voice cold. There were tears in her waterline as she traced his features with her soft gaze.
“He punched me.”
Harry sounded unrecognizable to himself. It felt like his voice was coming from somewhere outside of his body and he couldn’t locate from where. He called after her when she stormed off in the same direction as the bouncer and Sam. Harry wanted to go after her and explain what happened because he couldn’t bear the thought that she might be angry with him, but he was stopped in his tracks when he heard Mitch call his name.
He turned to face his concerned friend. “What the fuck happened to you?”
Harry sniffled. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”
–
When Y/N and Sam decided to go out, she didn’t think her night would end up like this.
Her feet were pounding against the pavement as she ran after where the bouncer was hauling Sam out of the bar and on the sidewalk. Her boyfriend (embarrasing, she knows) was screaming and cussing, some directed towards the bouncer and most directed towards Harry (she has no idea why). Although Harry looked really hurt with the blood dripping down his nose, Sam looked worse; he had a massive bruise already forming on his jaw and his mouth was bleeding—when he parted his lips to talk, she saw how the blood smeared across his teeth.
The bouncer ended up dropping him on the footpath a ways from the bar, warning him that he wasn’t allowed back inside under any circumstances. Y/N finally caught up to them and stood towering over Sam, who was sprawled out on the ground like an upside down insect. “Y/N, baby…” He coughed.
“What was that?” Y/N asked, trying to keep her voice cool and collected even though she was anything but. She was fucking angry but she didn’t say anything just in case Sam tried to bend the truth into something he thought she wanted to hear.
“T’was your boss… he’s a fucking pervert,” He paused to spit out a glob of blood and saliva, “He kept looking at you like you were a piece of meat.”
“So you hit him? You assaulted my boss because he smiled at me?”
When he spoke, his words were slurring together, signalling he was not in the right state of mind at all. He was drinking a lot inside as well, so to some extent Y/N should have anticipated this. “Why are you getting mad at me!?” He yelled, trying to get up on his feet, “D’you wanna fuck him too, is that what this is about?”
Y/N scoffed in disbelief, “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Sam, and I suggest you stop before you say something you can’t take back.” The wind whipped her hair around her face and Y/N looked up to see clouds forming, foreshadowing the rain she clocked when she checked the weather app earlier today.
Sam laughed dryly, “I fucking knew it. You want to fuck your rich boss. That’s why you’re always begging me to have sex like the horny bitch you a—”
Before he could finish the end of that horrific sentence, Y/N slapped him across the face. The impact was hard enough that he fell back against the pavement again and cussed her out. In that moment, Y/N felt no love or remorse or regret or anything towards the piece of shit lying at her feet before him. He was an awful man and she knew it from the start—it only hurt that it took her so long to do something about it.
“You’re disgusting. Don’t come back to my house and don’t fucking call me again. We are done.”
With that, she turned and began to walk away. Behind her, she could still hear him yelling, “At least get me a fucking Uber you dumb bitch!”
But she ignored him and crossed her arms across her chest. The bar wasn’t far from the train station which she could take home so she headed in that direction. She would have called herself a ride but her phone was dead and besides, her head was a fucking mess of thoughts and emotions and her vision was blurry with tears which pooled in her waterline. Y/N was a smart and capable girl; she knew his derogatory words had no real meaning or anything, but she still let them get to her. He hit her right where it hurts; targeting her self worth and her self respect because he knew she treasured both those things the most.
To dramatise the moment even further, droplets of rain began falling from the sky and drenching her clothes. It was already cold out and the rain had no reason to hold back—it hit her with full force, each tiny drop felt like pinpricks on her heated skin. Her teeth began chattering as the rain and her tears mixed and trailed down her face.
She was just about to let it all out and ugly cry when a familiar sleek, black car rolled up right next to where she was walking. She slowed her step as it began following her gait and stopped when the window rolled down on the passenger side. “Let me drop you home, please.” It was Harry, and his tone was soft and his car was probably nice and warm and soft too. Y/N didn’t have it in her to put up any more of a fight—the night had taken too much out of the poor girl.
Wordlessly, she pulled the door open and sat inside. Harry already had the seat warmers on and the heater was on blast, granting her comfort and solace. His car smelled nice and there was low music crooning through the speakers. “I’m sorry about what happened,” He started, putting the car into gear as he began to drive. ‘I’m sorry’ seemed to be the only thing people were saying to her as of recent and it was kind of making her go crazy. She just wanted things to be normal again. When her life became such a mess, Y/N had no idea.
“I’m the one who needs to be apologising. My boyfriend was the one who assaulted you. Well, ex-boyfriend now,” She muttered, running her hands over her face. Harry looked like his ears chirped up, eyebrows raised as he turned to glance at her, “You broke up?”
“Five minutes ago, yes.”
Harry hummed, turning his blinker on to change lanes, “I would say I’m sorry about that too but I don’t think I am.”
Y/N had to giggle at that, swiping a thumb beneath her eye as she wiped a tear, “Yeah, don’t be. It was a long time coming.” She took in his side profile—he was beautiful, like he always was—the moon casting light over half of his face as he stared intently at the road ahead. He was toying with his bottom lip with his left hand and driving with his other, and she noticed the spot beneath his nose was clear—he wasn’t bleeding anymore.
“How’s your face?”
“He didn’t do much damage,” Harry said, biting back a grin. He looked at her to find her gaze already set on him and the gesture made Y/N blush and look away. “That’s good.”
The rest of the ride was full of silence and stolen glances. Having been to Y/N’s house before, Harry drove without any assistance which was impressive since he’d only ever been there once. Though no words were said aloud, her mind was still racing. Every now and then a tear would fall from her eye and Y/N would try to mask it though she didn’t think she was doing a very good job. She wasn’t upset about loosing Sam, if she was being honest… It was his words that kept stabbing her in the heart over and over again.
She kept thinking about what he said and wondered if any of it was true—she knew deep down she was worth so much more than what he thought, but he’d planted an annoying seed of doubt in her heart and she was unable to dig it up and chuck it away.
They stopped after the fifth song ended, like it was waiting for the car to match its tempo. Y/N didn’t want to leave the confines of his car. She knew the thought was weird and borderline pathetic, but she’d just been through a messy breakup and she just wanted someone to talk to and lean her shoulder on, and the rational part told her that Harry was 100% the worst person for this (he was her boss, lest she forget) but the irrational side (the one she preferred) wanted to ask him up to her house for a slumber party of some sorts where he could comfort her all night long.
Sadly the former part of her won this particular argument and Y/N turned towards Harry with a sad expression, “Thank you for the ride. You didn’t have to do this.”
Harry had his lip between his teeth and he watched her earnestly. She probably looked a mess with her red-rimmed eyes and mascara streaking down her cheeks so she got a little insecure when he looked too long and turned her own gaze away.
“I’d do it a hundred times over if I had to.”
His words brought on a fresh wave of tears—why did he have to be so thoughtful and perfect and say exactly the right thing at the right time, Y/N didn’t understand. He was so exceptional, Y/N often reminded herself how lucky she was to be working with him in such close proximity everyday. However, she didn’t let those tears fall, setting up an imaginary dam to hold them back. Instead, she gave in to her irrational side and leaned over the console to give him a hug.
Her clothes were drenched and she was very cold, so the hug couldn’t have been as nice as she wanted it to be but she paid that thought no mind, because Harry was hugging her back. His massive arms came up around her shoulders which he pressed to himself, tucking her cold nose into the warmth of his neck. His scent was intoxicating—some cologne that she had to somehow find so she could spray it on her pillows because the comfort it was bringing her right now was out of this world.
When they broke apart she gave him another smile and muttered a small thanks before finally leaving his car. Harry stayed parked by her house until she was safe inside and her lock clicked shut and when she heard him drive off, the dam broke and all her feelings came gushing out like a fucking tsunami.
–
The coming Sunday, Y/N was swaddled beneath her duvet with Niall consoling her on facetime.
The night of the breakup, he was the first person she called when she got home and gathered herself enough to charge her phone and dial someone. Within twenty minutes, he was at her house with a tub of ice cream and two sets of clothes, already anticipating that he might have to stay a while to get the girl on the right track. They spent the next thirty-six hours watching comfort films, then Y/N would vent about her feelings, then Niall would try to come up with a solution to her problems (which always resulted in ‘fuck Harry’) then she would nap her tiredness away.
Turns out crying all the time really tuckered someone out, especially when the reason to cry was so fucking brutal. When Y/N told Niall about the shit Sam was saying, he was ready to find his ass and kick him to the curb a second time. Even repeating them to her best friend had her choking up, and it took a lot of reassurance from him to convince her even a little bit that what he was saying had no semblance of truth to it—it all came from a place of anger and hatred.
Those hours spent tucked into Niall’s side were what finally got Y/N out of bed and doing shit like cleaning her house and doing her laundry which she’d been putting off for the longest time now. Today, she planned on going to get some groceries when he called her just to check in but Y/N was doing heaps better so he didn’t seem too worried. Though he did offer to come over again, Y/N politely declined because she didn’t want him to get in trouble at work by calling out so much—that too at her expense.
So, she bid him goodbye and let him get back to his shift when the sound of her doorbell ringing forced her to drag herself out of bed. She checked through the peephole but no one stood outside, so she swung open the door. On her welcome mat was another parcel similar to the one she received a while ago with the dress sent from Harry.
Something told her he had something to do with this one as well as she bent down to pick it up. Excitement flooded her nerves. Y/N shut the door behind her and set the parcel down on her counter. This one was slightly smaller in size than the last, but Y/N had no complaints—she knew whatever was inside would most definitely take her breath away, if it was anything like the last present (?).
Carefully, she took a small knife and undid the seams. A velvet, rectangular jewelery box was sealed inside this time, making Y/N’s eyes go wide. If it was jewellery, Y/N couldn’t even imagine just how much it probably cost the man. Her hands trembled slightly as she clicked open the small golden latch and opened the box.
Within it revealed the prettiest necklace Y/N had ever seen in her life; it was gold, with a delicate chain in the middle of which was nestled a small, teardrop pendant. She didn’t have to deduce much to come to the conclusion that the pendant was a diamond—she could tell by the distinct twinkle and shine which erupted from it. Her fingers traced the piece in awe.
She couldn’t believe he would do something like this. The dress was a shock for sure, but a diamond necklace? That was just absurd. Did Harry really have money to burn like this or was there a bigger conversation that needed to be had between the two? This time, Y/N was worried about whether she should be accepting such a divine gift at all.
When she found the familiar card hidden beneath the box, all apprehension left her body as butterflies began fluttering in her stomach.
The only teardrops that belong on your neck are made of diamonds.
AN: BEHEHHEHEHEH YAYYYYYY I HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOY THIS ONE!!! if you did please please do let me know leave replies reblogs send asks because IT MOTIVATES ME TO WRITE MORE!!! ALSO ARE U GUYS SEEING HOW FAST I WROTE THIS OMFG I LOCKED TF IN BECAUSE ur girl wants to see if she can keep up a posting schedule if she ever decides to get on patreon TEEHEEE HEHE EJOY MY LOVES!!!! I LOOK FORWARD TO KNOWING WHAT U THINK!!
CW: harry is a hot shot ceo, and y/n is his shy, new PA! minors please dni!!! enjoy!! longer an at the end!
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He made the familiar walk to his office, hand stuffed into his pocket and phone secure between his fingers. The lights were on, from what he could see from the outside, and the blurred glass made way for a figure standing right by his desk. Confusion lurked in Harry’s head as he wondered who could possibly be in his office without his permission. Without a second thought, he threw the door open and walked right in, “who are you?”
His voice was gruff and cold, a complete opposite to the sugary sight before him. Stood by his desk was a girl— a very pretty one, in fact. Big, round eyes looked at him, resembling a deer, and a plush mouth was left agape as she eyed him up and down. She was wearing a sweet ensemble; a pretty pastel blue dress that fell just past mid-thigh and had a tiny slit on it. Her hair was swept back over her neck, tamed and neat.
He lingered his gaze on her as she straightened up from where she was bent over his desk and cleared her throat, “hi, Mr. Styles, it’s nice to finally meet you,” she extended a hand for him to shake, “I’m Y/N. Your new assistant.” The slight rise and fall of her chest gave her nerves away but her eye-contact never faltered. Her hand was warm and soft when he took it, and only then did the last-minute text from Mitch come back to him.
By the way, you’ve got a new assistant starting this week. Be nice to her.
This was her. Of course. He gave her a firm handshake, “Harry.”
Y/N never thought life after university would be like this. When she first pursued her bachelors in business degree, she had dreamt of a future where right after graduation, she’d be offered all these hot-shot jobs and she’d go on to become a big, powerful business woman. Some might think this dream of hers was far-fetched and unrealistic, but when you graduate from a highly prestigious university, first class with honours, well, it’s at least a little bit fair to have such expectations.
She worked her ass off when she was still in school— nailing every exam and assignment, doing summer internships and for a moment she thought about applying for a masters degree, but that was quickly shot down when Y/N checked in on her accruing student debt. She might pursue it some time down the road, but for now, her main goal was to get out of this shit-hole of a cafe where she worked and get her ass to a big firm, just like she was promised by all the career counsellors at university.
She was applying consistently to a million different firms, and at this point, she’d be happy if she could even be a receptionist at one of them. She had exhausted all of her connections made in university in hopes of anyone linking her to a decent job, but she turned up with no luck as of yet.
She had been working at Bluebird cafe all throughout her degree and she was working there even now, seven months post graduating. Disappointment welled deep in her guts every time she saw herself in that same old uniform and cap, greeting the same customers and making do with the same lousy cheque.
It was another dreadful morning at said cafe when Y/N was preparing a humongous order for at least twenty six people. She assumed it was for an office or corporation, judging by the jittery young man who placed the order at the counter. He read carefully off a piece of paper every single order and made Y/N recite it back to him to ensure the drinks were perfect. He ended up handing the paper to Y/N so she could once again make sure everything was according to the requests, and it was on the paper Y/N recognised the prestigious navy logo stamped on the top right.
Grapejuice Inc.
One of the biggest textile corporations in the world, run by the famous Styles’ family. Y/N could only dream of a job there. It was suddenly understandable why the young man was nervous before her. The drinks must probably be for a big, senior meeting or something.
Y/N took her time perfecting them, writing the details of each order on the cups to make it easier for the man to allocate them. She slowly placed them in six separate paper cartons, stacking them on top of each other carefully. The man sighed graciously and took the bag from her hand ever so slowly before walking out of the cafe. She sighed, wiping her hands on her black apron. Behind her, Niall enthused out loud, “how much d’ya think they pay the poor boy to get ‘em their morning drinks?”
Y/N turned to face him, watching him rinse out the alternate milk blender, “probably thousands. It’s a huge company.” Niall hummed, “maybe. But usually such prissies have a hard time paying their employees well.”
Y/N was distracted by an order that pinged on their little UberEats tablet, and started prepping the two drinks and almond croissant. She hummed at his response. “Prissies or not, they’re one of the most influential corporations in the world.”
Niall nudged her shoulder and smirked, “don’t go around licking their asses already. They haven’t hired ya yet.”
”Ha. Let’s all make fun of my inability to find a proper job, now,” she mumbled sarcastically. She took her anger out on the oven door, slamming it shut after she put the croissant in there to warm up. Niall wiped his hands on a towel and rubbed them up and down her arms, comforting her, “hey c’mon, babe,” he said gently, noticing her frustrated frown. Seeing that man working for such an amazing corporation made her slightly jealous. It was a sour, unpleasant feeling which Y/N hated. Niall pulled her into his chest in the empty cafe, save for another employee, Mina, who wiped down the tables.
”They’re missing out on the biggest brain in the city,” he flicked her cap playfully, “the right job will come along, I know it. Don’t worry your pretty head over it.”
Y/N appreciated the comfort, leaning into him. She was grateful for his presence, and for his reassuring touch that grounded her. He pulled back and pinched her cheek playfully, “cheer up, buttercup. We’ve got lattes to make for abusive boomers!”
Y/N sighed. She only prayed that Niall's previous words had some truth to them.
-
That night when she got home, Y/N followed her usual routine of feeding her cat Pebble and then turning the shower on, waiting for it to warm up. In the meantime she prepped for dinner and picked out her pyjamas. Once she was all showered and fed, she climbed into bed and pulled out her laptop to do her nightly job search. Numerous sites were searched, Linkedin was scowered and her CV was passed around like a blunt at a party.
She might have applied for a position at Grapejuice Inc, in her sleep-driven haze. It might have been an assistant position for one of their senior management… could have been the Secretary… or the CEO. She doesn’t remember, as she passed out in front of her computer screen, the light glowing and illuminating her peaceful features.
-
When Y/N was in high school many years ago, she met a boy named Landon. They were both in the same Art History class, and the teacher paired them up for a project where they had to analyse and present on a popular period piece. She ended up spending long hours with him during the week, and Y/N being the hormonal teenage girl she was, fell for Landon’s shaggy blonde hair and toothy grin. He was sweet and caring, taller than her and called Y/N ‘sweets’ and four months after they first met, he asked her to be his girlfriend and took her out on her first date.
Landon had taken most of her firsts. He was the only boyfriend she ever had and the only person she ever kissed, but that was it. They never did anything beyond that. The most they ever dabbled in was maybe a hand on her ass or slipping under her shirt to touch her tummy while they made out, but it was never anything more. Y/N blamed the distance for that.
After high school, both Y/N and Landon had big dreams for university. They both wanted to go to one of the big schools, but the problem was that the one Y/N wanted to go to was ten hours away from the one Landon got into. Education was something that was important to both of them, so compromising it for the sake of their relationship was out of the question. They decided to make do with the distance and promised to each other they would remain loyal despite the land that separated them.
It was hard at times, especially in university when all of Y/N’s friends were able to go out and bring whoever they wanted home, date different people and have new experiences while she sat feeling lame because she missed her boyfriend. They still made an effort to try and see each other— oftentimes during semester breaks Y/N would visit Landon and Landon would try to visit Y/N. It was those fleeting days that kept Y/N sane during the course of their relationship.
She spoke to him everyday still, texting him little updates of her day, and he’d text her his. They called every couple of days, though they were pretty short since they were out of words to say thanks to their texts.
Y/N knew that Landon was currently working at his new job as a junior editor after he graduated with his English degree. She was happy for him, of course, but his new commitment meant she was hearing less and less from him. Although there were the daily ‘good morning’ and ‘good night’ texts, these days she was seldom seeing those as well.
It was her day off today, a quiet Tuesday afternoon where Y/N decided to go to the farmers market a little ways from her apartment. She was sitting down at a small restaurant, a cold drink battling the summer heat resting in her hand, but her attention was somewhere else. Her lip was abused under her teeth as she typed up a message to Landon. She missed talking to him, and was penning all her frustrations and thoughts in a long paragraph when she was interrupted by her phone ringing.
The phone number was unfamiliar, making Y/N’s eyebrows furrow. She answered it cautiously. “Hello?”
”Good morning, am I speaking with Miss Y/N L/N?”
Confusion crept upon her. “Yes, this is her.”
”Hi, Miss L/N. This is Mitch Rowland calling from Grapejuice Inc, how are you today?”
Now that rendered Y/N speechless. Her heart dropped and her mouth fell open in surprise. The sound of a child shouting nearby shook her from her thoughts as she regained her consciousness and straightened up, “I’m well, how are you?”
”Pretty alright. Listen, we saw your application for senior assistant to the Chief Executive Officer and loved your CV. How are you placed for an interview sometime this week? Say, Thursday at nine?”
Y/N could not believe the words she was hearing through the phone. She wanted to scream and dance and hug this Mitch guy all at the same time. Her cheeks heated up and a big smile spread across her face, “yes! Thank you for calling me, of course, Thursday at nine is perfect.”
”Great! I’ll text you the address. You can come straight to the reception. Sheila will have your name and will let you through to the interview room. I look forward to meeting you.”
Y/N wished him a confident ‘me too’ and said goodbye, her heart still racing. She took a moment to bask in the reality of the situation. It felt so surreal— Y/N only ever dreamed of getting to work in such an amazing corporation, that too at such an amazing position.
Suddenly, the sun wasn’t harsh like before and her drink was sweeter. The chatter of children nearby made her feel peaceful instead of irritated. She didn’t even find it in herself to care about Landon’s lack of communication as she excitedly dialled Niall’s phone and screamed the news into his unsuspecting ear. An unfamiliar sense of hope filled her heart. Maybe things would finally start to look up for Y/N.
-
The two days leading up to Thursday were the longest ever. Y/N was nervous and excited at the same time, jittery while she was at the cafe serving customers. Niall hyped Y/N up, mumbled a million ‘I told you so’s and tried to ease her nerves when she went on and on about what she should say at the interview.
She asked Mina to cover her Thursday morning shift and ran to the mall the night before to browse for a new blazer, wanting to dress professional but also cute. It was also a million degrees out, so she would probably only wear the blazer indoors for an hour or two, depending on how long the interview was.
She still hadn’t texted Landon about it. Maybe once the job was secured she would, but she didn’t want to get his hopes up just to shatter them if things somehow did not work out.
The morning of, Y/N was too nauseous to eat anything. She usually got that way when she was nervous or anticipating something, so her lack of appetite didn’t come as a shock. The top she wore clung to her body nicely, a light pink colour which matched the kitten heels she had on. The blazer and skirt were of the same dark grey colour, complementing each other nicely. She felt pretty with her hair done neatly and makeup light. Hopefully she made a good impression on Mitch and whoever she met.
Driving to the office was somewhat of a dream. Y/N never thought she would be in this position, especially with how things were looking the past few months. Constant disappointment almost rendered her hopeless, but she was proud of herself for sticking through it. Now, she prayed that she got the job and could finally stand on her own feet, with a job she rightfully earned. She felt giddy thinking about what it would be like if she got the job. She would hand in her notice to the cafe immediately. Then she’d call her mum and Landon. They would be so happy for her, she just knew it.
The place was gigantic— an intimidating building that loomed over her jittery body. Y/N stared up at it. It had to be at least forty storeys. She took a deep breath and mustered up the courage to walk in, a smile gracing her features. Following Mitch’s instructions, Y/N went straight up to the lavish reception and caught Sheila’s attention. Sheila, who was gorgeous; long brown hair cascading down her back, and adorned in a baby blue dress. She flashed Y/N a friendly smile. “Hi! How can I help?”
”Hi, my name’s Y/N. I’m here for an interview. Mitch called me,” Y/N said. a look of recognition came across Sheila’s face as she grinned, “of course. It’s nice to meet you, Y/N. Just follow me through here.” Grapejuice Inc was just as grand on the inside as it was on the outside— immaculate architecture and wide, open spaces. There were large windows on all walls allowing sunlight to filter into the space, brightening up the area. Y/N followed Sheila to the elevator, “it’s the twenty second floor, fourth door to your right,” she informed Y/N easily.
Doing as she was told, Y/N soon found herself outside of a large room with double doors. The hallway she was standing in was mostly empty, littered with artwork on both sides. It felt like no one was even on the floor, silence flooding the area. As soon she thought about knocking on the doors, they swung open and she was met with a tall, brunette man.
He had long hair which was tied back neatly, and he smiled warmly at Y/N, “you must be Y/N,” he said, “my name’s Mitch. We spoke on the phone a couple of days ago.”
Y/N grinned and held out her hand, “right. Nice to meet you in person.” His handshake was solid— professional and perfected as he guided her into the room. It was a large room with a long conference table in the middle. On one side a bunch of papers were scattered. That was probably where Mitch was sitting. He motioned for her to take a seat across from him. A jug of water rested on the table along with a paper and pen. Y/N bit her nails into her palm to ground herself.
“Sorry about the mess. I’ve been doing these interviews all morning,” he started sheepishly. Y/N waved him away, “that’s okay. Don’t have to apologise.” Mitch cleared his throat, “let’s get started then…”
-
The interview ran for about an hour and a half. Y/N felt like Mitch was eating away at her brain, throwing a million questions at her at such a fast rate. She tried her best to answer diligently, taking her time to really think through what he was saying to give the best possible response. Y/N knew such opportunities were hard to come by, and she wanted to make the best of it.
The job he was describing was mostly administration stuff; keeping track of the CEO, Mr. Styles’, meetings, planning his trips, scheduling, filing, invoicing, organising. All the things she had mastered at school and during her internships. Mitch wanted Y/N to meet Mr. Styles in person, but he was away for a business conference in Japan.
“Well, all I can say right now is that I’m really glad I called you, Miss L/N,” he said, resting his hands on the table, “this has been great.”
Y/N felt her face heating and smiled gingerly, “thank you.”
“I know we spoke about this plenty, but keep this job description,” Mitch slid a piece of paper her way across the table, “feel free to familiarise yourself with it. I’ll have a chat with the team and let you know about the outcome of this interview latest by Monday.” He got up and held the door open for her, “thanks for coming in.”
Y/N shook his hand again and bid him goodbye, giddy as she walked out of the interview room and into the elevator. The sheet of paper was clutched between her fingers and she let out a deep breath. Although the interview was tiring, she was feeling hopeful about the job. Mitch was great and helpful, answering all of her questions easily and explaining the role to her in depth. She waved goodbye to Sheila and made her way out of the building, and when she was finally in the confines of her car, she squealed to herself; everything was slowly falling into place, and she couldn’t be more grateful.
-
Friday at three PM Y/N was at the cafe, mindlessly wiping down the counter. A startled Niall walked in from the back, “Y/N your phone was ringing. T’was an unknown number but I think they left an email or something.”
Y/N turned around in confusion. She saw as Niall stared down at her illuminating screen and tried to take her phone from him, “what? Who is it?” He furrowed his eyebrows, “it’s from someone called Mitch Rowland. I think… I think you got the job.” Her eyes widened, “you’re joking. Show me.”
He passed her the phone, and there it was. An email from Mitch. She read it over and over and over. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she realised she wasn’t dreaming. Y/N was going to be working at Grapejuice Inc. They wanted her as soon as possible.
Niall saw her dazed face and squeezed her tightly, his arms near suffocating her, “I told you! I knew you could do it, so fucking smart you are,” he kissed her hair, “I’m so happy for you, pet. They’re gonna love you.” She peeled back from his chest and looked at him with her tear-soaked face, “I can’t believe this is actually happening,” she laughed in disbelief, “this whole thing feels like a dream.”
-
If Harry didn’t know any better, he could probably be convinced that this was what heaven felt like.
The way he jabbed into the back of the pretty girl’s throat had him throwing his head back and moaning uncontrollably, and he felt like an angel was personally taking his hand and leading him to eden. His palm came down on the kitchen counter in front of him, the other hand weaving into her hair to pull her further on his cock, “oh, fuck me.” The girl beneath him, Sophie, gagged around him loudly and then popped off of him, strings of her saliva connecting her to him. She smirked up at him, twisting her hand over his length as she gave her mouth a break.
“Yeah? You like the way I suck your di—”
He didn’t bother to hear the end of her poorly executed attempt at dirty talk and groaned, shoving her back on his cock. The action took her by surprise, and a wet filthy sound came from her throat as she swallowed around him desperately. Harry whimpered a little, head falling back on his shoulders. He held her there for about twenty seconds, throbbing in her mouth and letting his hair tickle her nose. When he saw tears prickle in her eyes, he decided to let her off for a bit. He loosened his grip on her hair and opted to softly scratch his nails against her scalp as she returned to bobbing her head.
It didn’t take much longer after that to make him come, a train of curses falling from his mouth as he held onto the counter tightly and whined, “fuck, fuck— Sophie, fu—” Hot, white ropes of his come spilled into her mouth which she took in willingly, eyes screwed shut and tongue out. He came for a while, and he came a lot; some of it dripping down the side of her mouth and on her chin. When he was finally done, his hand in her hair slipped to her jaw which he held tightly, prying her lips open.
Harry let a glob of his spit fall into her mouth, mixing in with his come on the well of her tongue. Sophie whined highly as he did, and moaned when Harry slapped her right cheek, soft enough that it didn’t seriously hurt her but hard enough that the zap went straight to her clit. He pushed her cheeks together and closed her mouth, “swallow.”
She did so obediently, before Harry backed up and let her stand to her full height. His eyes raked shamelessly over her figure, adorned in nothing but his office button up, legs bare and chin spit-slicked. Her blonde locks were a mess as she put her hands on his chest and giggled, “did you like that?”
Harry pulled her wrists off and thumbed at her cheek, “mhmm. I have to go to work,” he told her. Sophie pouted, “can’t you take one day off? You must be so tired after such a long flight…,” she ran her clean hand through his curls, “don’t go today? For me?”
He could have laughed in her face for that. If she thought she was anything more than an easy fuck for him, she was sorely mistaken. It didn’t matter that he had known her for over a year now— Harry didn’t date or commit. He hadn’t for a couple of years now. One night stands and fuck-buddies were more than enough to satiate his needs.
Sophie frowned when he stepped away from her and pulled his pyjama pants back up over his hips. He sighed, “I can’t stay, Sophie, I’ve a company to run.” She huffed and stomped her foot like a child, “but I missed you so much, H.” Her voice was nasally, suddenly annoying him to no end, especially when she tried to wrap her arms around him again. Harry dodged her and picked up his phone instead. “This was nice, Soph, but you have to go. I’ll call you a car and have Jared drop you off,” he patted her hip, “talk soon.”
He didn’t wait to hear her response and slipped upstairs to his large bedroom, shutting and locking the door in case she tried to follow him up. He really was tired and jet-lagged after the twelve hour flight. A couple of days off might do him some good, but as much as he hated to admit it, he was a workaholic who would choose a productive day at the office over a day off ninety percent of the time. He took a quick shower and got dressed, tugging on a crisp, dry-cleaned navy blue suit. His eyes flitted about his room as he sprayed on some cologne.
The sheets were awry and there were silk ties hanging off his headboard. Memories of the past night flooded his mind as he put on his cuff-links and gelled his hair. The way she felt around him, wet and soft, gushing on his cock. The way she tasted and writhed beneath him, coming over and over until Harry had to tie her down and force her to take what he gave her. Fucking her over and over again, bruise marks on her round ass, a warm mouth wrapped around his cock. It really was a lot of fun.
After making sure he had his phone and wallet, Harry rushed down the stairs and was glad to see that Sophie had left. At least he was safe from another awkward goodbye where she would whine about her feelings for him and he would have to let her down gently. She kept saying Harry was leading her on, but he didn’t see how.
He told Sophie from the beginning that he only wanted sex and she was fine with it. The first time she alluded to any sort of feelings, Harry told her he wasn’t interested in that way. She was hurt and she cried a bit, (which was Harry’s worst nightmare because he really had no idea how to react in situations like that), but she still showed up the next time he called her. He just assumed she was over him. Harry was a huge perfectionist, and if he wanted a relationship, he would have to put a lot of time and effort into it for it to be the sort he was looking for; time that he unfortunately did not have, since he was so busy making sure Grapejuice Inc ran smoothly.
As he left, he made sure to leave a note on his fridge for his cleaner letting her know that his sheets needed changing and the clothes on the floor needed to be dry cleaned. He put down what he wanted the chef to meal-prep for and called the elevator to go down to his car. He lived in the top floor penthouse apartment of a luxury accommodation in the middle of the city— a location which was convenient for him in more ways than one. It was close to where he worked, and he enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the city below him. The large windows in his place were his favourite since he could people-watch all he wanted (and he enjoyed the occasional fuck against it when it was dark enough).
He greeted Tomas, his driver, as he pulled the door open and let Harry into the car. They made small talk and Harry asked Tomas about his son who just started high school and his wife who was battling an illness. Tomas was Harry’s father’s driver as well, and he watched Harry grow up in front of him. He would drive Harry to daycare when he was a baby, soccer practice when he was a schoolboy, concerts when he was a teenager and now here he was, driving him to the same office he used to drive his father to. Harry felt oddly connected to Tomas, and couldn’t let him go no matter how much his age persisted.
They reached the building pretty quick and Harry thanked Tomas as he stepped out. Sheila smiled and greeted him as he walked in, and every cubicle he passed on his way to the elevator mumbled a ‘good morning, Sir.’
He made the familiar walk to his office, hand stuffed into his pocket and phone secure between his fingers. The lights were on, from what he could see from the outside, and the blurred glass made way for a figure standing right by his desk. Confusion lurked in Harry’s head as he wondered who could possibly be in his office without his permission. Without a second thought, he threw the door open and walked right in, “who are you?”
His voice was gruff and cold, a complete opposite to the sugary sight before him. Stood by his desk was a girl— a very pretty one, in fact. Big, round eyes looked at him, resembling a deer, and a plush mouth was left agape as she eyed him up and down. She was wearing a sweet ensemble; a pretty pastel blue dress that fell just past mid-thigh and had a tiny slit on it. Her hair was swept back over her neck, tamed and neat, perfect for an office atmosphere.
He lingered his gaze on her as she straightened up from where she was bent over his desk and cleared her throat, “hi, Mr. Styles, it’s nice to finally meet you,” she extended a hand for him to shake, “I’m Y/N. Your new assistant.” The slight rise and fall of her chest gave her nerves away but her eye-contact never faltered. Her hand was warm and soft when he took it, and only then did the last-minute text from Mitch come back to him.
By the way, you’ve got a new assistant starting this week. Be nice to her.
This was her. Of course. He gave her a firm handshake, “Harry.”
She smiled at him softly, a strand of her hair falling over her eye. Harry itched to tuck it behind her ear, maybe feel how soft her skin might be under her jaw, but he refrained. “I was just sorting out some of your files. I know you’ve been away so I—”
“What did you touch?”
He spoke sharply, eyebrows furrowed as he set his phone down on his desk and sat on his chair. “Just the documents in the filing drawers. I didn’t touch your desk, don’t worry.” Harry hummed. He watched as she stood in the middle of the room, twiddling her hands behind her back, “I… I colour coded and arranged them alphabetically. Cleaned up your schedule and added the reminders feature to your Teams as well,” she trailed off. She took his silence as her queue to continue. “I also re-recorded your voicemail for the phone and—”
“You can clean whatever you want, just don’t touch my desk. I take my coffee at nine, black, no milk and no sugar. Nine-fifteen, you’ll be in my office with my schedule. You will take orders from me and me only, and I should not have to buzz you twice if I need to see you. You’re off when I say you’re off, and don’t worry about lunch breaks, I tend to have them outside.”
He explained all this sternly, eyes sturdy and fixated on her. She let out a quiet breath and nodded, firm, “Noted. I’ll…” she glanced at the clock above his head. 8:47AM. “I’ll go and get your coffee, sir.”
With that, she smiled once again and scurried out of the room. Harry could tell she was a sweet little thing, just eager to please. Maybe it would be nice to have a pretty face in the office. His days might become less dull. He knew she was getting paid a lot for this job as his assistant, so he had a lot of expectations from her too. Hopefully she could bring a little warmth to his frigid reputation.
-
As the days passed with Y/N acting as Harry’s senior assistant, he had come to realise she executed the role much better than most of his previous assistants. The instructions he gave to her on the first day she seemed to have tattooed on her heart, and she stuck to them diligently. His coffee was at his desk everyday at nine sharp, she had a printed schedule she would read to him and then leave with him once she was done, she would organise some new cabinet of his or folder in his emails everyday and she was on top of his meetings and notes. Harry thought he might have to take Mitch out for a drink or something for managing to hire such an efficient assistant for him.
On top of all that, she had a pretty face which Harry occasionally enjoyed to ogle at. Though he wasn’t one to mix business and pleasure, he figured a little eye-candy never hurt anyone. It was not like he would ever act upon it, no matter how badly he wanted to bend her over his desk and fuck the life out of her.
Today was one such day as she came in wearing a tiny little red dress and matching heels. It was like she walked right out of a hot office fantasy, pencil in her hair and glasses on her nose. She was wearing a blazer on top earlier, but she took it off soon after arriving at work.
When she was reading out his schedule and setting his coffee on his desk, Harry struggled to not stare shamelessly at her figure which filled out the dress just perfectly. A few minutes in, she dropped a pencil on the floor and Harry felt like a teenage boy seeing boobs for the first time as she bent to pick it up.
Unsurprisingly, her pretty face didn’t go unnoticed by many. He realised that when they went into the monthly Senior Leadership Team meeting today, and most of the managers and team directors said hello to her tits first and then her face. It wasn’t even like the dress was provocative in any way— it was summer and a gazillion degrees out, Harry didn’t expect her to walk in wearing a wool jumper and sweats. Plus, the dress did cover most of her skin, it was just her legs that were bare, and that was only a little before her knees. Although Harry did think she was gorgeous (particularly today) he didn’t stare so blatantly and deliberately make her uncomfortable.
Once they said their greetings to everyone, Y/N settled in next to Harry with her notebook and pen on the table before her. He could smell her since she was right beside him, warm vanilla and caramel, a sweet scent that could put him to sleep. She was really testing him today, and the worst part was that Harry didn’t think she knew she even had that effect on him and almost everyone she met.
She asked him if he was okay when he didn’t move for a bit, to which Harry clenched his jaw and nodded tightly. Willing away his scandalous thoughts, Harry cleared his throat and pulled open the meeting notes Y/N prepared for him beforehand, “I hope you’re all having a good morning,” he looked around the room, “we’ve got a couple of important things to go over today, so make sure you’ve got your ears open. I need fresh ideas on the table…”
He listed off the BAU for the week and they went around the table to hear monthly updates from each of the department heads. Y/N penned every important detail vigorously with her lip between her teeth, but one particular discussion had her ears perking up. “I think it’s better if we stick to our suppliers in China and Bangladesh. It’s cost efficient and we’re meeting all of our KPIs,” one of the team members spoke up. Harry watched as another retorted, “I understand that it’s cost efficient, but we have to draft our yearly financial report in two months where we have to talk about our suppliers and sustainability. Large shipments of textiles every year is anything but.”
Next to him, he could feel Y/N’s nervousness wafting off in waves as she sat up straight and cleared her throat. Her soft voice quietly followed, “I… I think we can try switching to internal suppliers instead of external,” she glanced around the room looking for reassurance and settled her eyes on Harry who nodded at her. Although it wasn’t in her exact line of work to advise on this matter, she was still a valued member of the team who brought new input to the company. She continued, “it would be good for our brand image and we won’t have to fabricate our annual report. It’ll be ethical and sustainable, and that’s what consumers are looking for nowadays. We can even market it a—”
“Who are you?” Jerry, one of the team heads, suddenly cut her off. His eyes dug daggers into hers as he raised his brows. Y/N stuttered, “Y/N…I—I’m Mr. Styles’ senior assistant. I just had a few ide—”
“Save it,” he raised his palm, dismissing her thought, “I was thin—”
Harry’s loud voice cut Jerry off, “I believe Miss L/N was saying something before you so rudely interrupted her, Jerry. I do not permit anyone but me to give orders to any of my personal staff. Next time, I suggest you learn how to respect your peers in a meeting before walking into an esteemed room such as this.”
Y/N’s chest rose and fell nervously as she watched the exchange with wide eyes. Jerry immediately dropped his shoulders and darted his eyes away from both Harry and Y/N, now looking down at his notebook, “apologies, Mr. Styles.”
“Don’t apologise to me. Apologise to her.”
Now it was Jerry’s turn to have wide eyes as he looked at Y/N, “but she’s a—”
“We don’t have a lot of time here.”
A few moments passed as Y/N twiddled with her hands and looked at Harry before looking back at Jerry who didn’t meet her eyes as he quietly mumbled, “sorry.” She smiled softly. “It’s okay.” Harry could feel the heat radiating off of her; her face had gone pink and she was squirmy under the attention of the whole meeting room. He decided to close the chapter, “good. Keep these etiquettes in mind next time you walk into another meeting. Y/N, draft your initiative and send it to Analytics. I want to see the pros and cons of switching to internal suppliers by next week. You’re all dismissed.”
-
The whole exchange at the meeting had Y/N’s heart beating like crazy as they left the conference room. “Are you okay?” Harry checked in on her as they walked to his office. “Yep.”
She didn’t want to bother Harry with her anxious thoughts and worry him more than he already was as a CEO of such a big company. Her heart was still racing, “I’m gonna go for a quick walk,” she told Harry before grabbing her phone and heading to the elevators. Hopefully a little fresh air would do her some good. As she stepped outside into the bustling city, she took a deep breath and began walking to the courtyard where there was a big water fountain. She liked sitting by it and hearing the pitter-patter of the water. Her phone pinged when she sat down. It was Landon. The notification made her heart drop just slightly. Ever since she told him about her new job, he had been very distant. There was an initial excitement, but then he asked her how much she was getting paid. That’s when things went downhill. Grapejuice Inc was a big firm, and she had an important position. Her bank account was going to fatten up a little, but his reaction just had her a little disappointed.
Plus he kept asking her all these questions about the people she worked with, and not in a cool, interesting way. It was very stalker-ish and accusatory. She didn’t like it one bit. With a sigh, she ignored the message and shut her eyes, feeling the breeze against her face and trying to forget what happened in the meeting today.
-
About a week later, Y/N finally began feeling more comfortable in her role. She was getting to know Harry’s needs better and better as the days passed, and she tried her best to exceed his expectations as much as she could. Ever since he stood up for her in the meeting, she felt like she owed him that at least. It had been a long week at the office, with Harry slipping in and out of meetings which Y/N had to join him for, so she was particularly happy today as the week ended and the weekend approached.
She set her stuff down on her desk when they walked out of the last meeting of the week, “I’m just gonna get a coffee really quick. Did you want anything?” Harry was distracted by his phone, his eyes never straying as he walked past her.
“I’m alright, thanks,” he replied. Once he was in the confines in his office, Y/N let out a deep breath. Her hands slid down her skirt as she made her way to the office kitchen on the third floor, walking in to see a handful of people heating up lunches and waiting for the coffee machine. She reached up to get a cup and was startled when she suddenly felt a presence behind her.
A very unladylike yelp left her mouth as she turned to see the same guy she saw at Bluebird cafe a couple of weeks ago. “I’m so sorry, I didn't mean to startle you!”
She held a hand to her chest and closed her eyes, a long breath escaping her lips, “you scared the living daylights out of me.” The man chuckled and backed up giving her space to lean back against the counter. “Sorry… though the sound you made was quite funny.” Y/N rolled her eyes and faked a dry laugh.
He grinned as he looked at her, before she saw his eyes narrowing, “wait, you’re the girl from the cafe a while ago. You made those twenty six drinks for the annual conference.” Y/N watched as realisation dawned upon him and he examined her like she was a bug under a microscope, “yeah. I remember you, mister so-nervous-I’m-shaking.” She watched as his cheeks turned pink. He looked down, making his dark hair flop over his forehead, “yeah. It was a big meeting, but they all really liked the drinks, so thank you for that.” It was then Y/N noticed how tall he was, towering over her with his brown eyes peering down at her.
“No problem. It was kind of my job at the time so…” Y/N turned to use the coffee machine, leaving him still blushing and staring at his shoes. She followed the prompts on the machine until her desired coffee poured out of the snout. “You’re Mr. Styles’ new assistant aren’t you?” He asked from behind her. Y/N hummed and nodded. “What’s your name?”
He giggled again, “oh right. I totally forgot to introduce myself. I’m Logan, I’m an administration coordinator.” Logan held out a hand for her to shake which she took, smiling, “nice to meet you, Logan. I’m Y/N.”
“I heard about what happened in the meeting last week,” this had Y/N turning around fully to look at him, an eyebrow raised, “word travels surprisingly fast in an office like this.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know what he expected her to say after making that statement. She kind of hated that the first thing he associated her job title to was the speck of drama that went down in the meeting. Her heart hurt a little— she wanted to be recognised for more than just some petty spectacle.
Next to Y/N, another girl stood by the second coffee machine. She must have been listening to their conversation because she spoke up first, “we all heard what happened. Not gonna lie, it was a little bit shocking to hear that Mr. Styles told Jerry off for talking down to an assistant. He usually loves Jerry.”
Y/N’s lips parted, “he didn’t tell anyone off, he just… told him to somtimes let other people have the floor in meetings. It’s common manners.”
The girl smirked, “Mr. Styles doesn’t do that for just anyone. He’s very… cold.” Y/N furrowed her brows, “I don’t understand what you’re trying to say to me.” The blonde only scoffed and flicked her hair over her shoulder, “oh, I think it’s very clear what I’m trying to say. One doesn’t just score a job like yours and become Mr. Styles’ favourite little pet,” she raked her eyes up and down Y/N’s body, “compensation has to be… paid, somehow.”
What she was implying had Y/N’s stomach churning. Not only did she feel utterly disgusted at such an accusation, but she was hurt beyond belief. The words were disrespectful and not true. Y/N did not work her ass off to get into Grapejuice Inc just for it to be reduced to nothing by some employee.
Just as she was going to retort back with something fiery, a deep voice beat her to it, “I hope this little party is about the new marketing strategy your team is implementing, Becca.” Y/N turned to see Harry standing in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest. The blonde girl— Becca’s eyes widened, “Mr. Styles! Yes, I was just asking Logan ab—”
“I hate a fibber.”
Becca stammered over her words. “Sorry, Mr. Styles. I was just getting back to my desk.”
“Good,” Harry said, stopping her in her tracks, “I also hate petty gossip, especially in my office. If I hear another word of false accusations about anyone from anyone’s mouth, you’ll be hearing from HR.”
Y/N raised her brows at his comment and saw how Logan passed her a look of surprise as well. Becca mumbled a ‘sorry’ and left the kitchen soon after, scurrying past Harry. He didn’t even spare a glance her way as he looked at Y/N. “Get back to work.”
“Yes, Mr. Styles.” She told Logan goodbye before leaving the kitchen. Her coffee was clutched tightly in her hands the whole way to her desk as she wondered what the fuck her day had been.
-
It was later on the same day as Y/N sat at her desk with her head in her hands. She had a long tiring day running around in meetings and scheduling appointments for next week. Plus, Becca’s earlier comments still weighed heavy in her mind. The words affected her more than she would like to admit. On top of all of that, Landon was still being cold over text. He gave her one-word answers after leaving her on delivered for ages. She was wracking her brain trying to figure out why he was acting this way— was it jealousy? Or did he just miss her? She hoped it was the latter.
Her head was pounding and she glanced at the clock to see it was six PM. Way past her home time. She just had so much to do. The pressure got to her head as she dug her fingers into her scalp, trying to relieve some pain. Things only got worse when she felt tears prickle her eyes and spill past her waterline. She just felt so stupid.
She felt pathetic crying at her workplace and letting her tears stain her to-do list which was littered with a bunch of little tasks. Taking a few breaths to contain herself, she didn’t even notice when Harry stepped out of his office for a breather. Her sniffling caught his attention. “Miss L/N? What are you still doing here?”
She quickly wiped her tears and straightened up, “I was just finishing a few things up,” she mumbled. She kept her head low but Harry saw right through her. The whole building was dark and quiet as everyone had gone home. The only light on her desk was from her lamp. Harry leaned against it and looked down at Y/N. “Y/N,” he called her by her first name, “what’s wrong? Are you… are you crying?”
A dry chuckle left her mouth. Her wet eyes met his and his shoulders deflated. This was his nightmare situation. He was the worst at comforting people. His hips shifted nervously. “A—are you alright?”
“Clearly no.” She shook her head and looked down into her lap, cheeks heating up. Harry didn’t want to overstep any boundaries but he also couldn’t just leave her sobbing at her desk. “Do… you wanna talk about it?”
She shot him an incredulous look. Even if she did want to talk about it, her boss was not the ideal person. Y/N tried to dismiss him without hurting his feelings. “I’m fine, really,” she sniffled and wiped one more tear. Although Harry was terrible with emotions, he wasn’t an idiot. Clearly something was bothering her to the extent that she had to cry at her desk. He sighed, deciding to ask one more time, “are you sure?”
If it was him in her shoes, he’d probably tell the other person to fuck off and mind their own business, just because he was terrible at being vulnerable. But this was Y/N— sweet Y/N who brightened up his mornings with her pretty smile. He might not know her too well, but he knew she had a good heart.
A long breath escaped her nose as she shut her eyes and held a hand on her forehead, “I just… it’s just been a lot recently.”
Harry’s eyes widen, “is it the workload? You can tell m—”
“No! No, it’s not that. Things have been shaky in my personal life and I… I can’t stop thinking about this morning with Becca a—”
“Did she say something again?” He cut her off, stern. Y/N’s head snapped up, “not after you warned her, no. But before you came she said some nasty things which obviously weren’t true and I can’t get them out of my head. It’s stupid.”
She sniffled and Harry frowned. He heard the conversation just as he was approaching the kitchen. Becca’s words were sharp enough to hurt someone, especially someone as educated and well-performing as Y/N. Harry knew what it was like when people tried to blame your success on things like sex and connections, having been from a big family. Older CEOs and managers often under-estimated him, assuming he was where he was because of his family. That just wasn’t true. He worked really hard to be where he was. It wasn’t like his father made it easy on him.
He took a step closer and hesitantly put a hand on her shoulder. The touch was awkward but he wanted to offer her some form of comfort, “what she said was obviously not true,” he watched as she winced, realising he heard the conversation, “it shouldn’t matter what she says. Or what anyone says. You can’t get hung up on petty things like that if you want to go far in this line of work. People will always talk down and project their failures on you but you can’t let that get you. Unless you want to get walked all over.”
Y/N’s shoulder burned where he touched her, his palm almost electric. Physical touch was something she rarely got since Landon was so far away, and really, how clingy could she be with Niall before he got pissed? She took a deep breath and wiped her eyes, “yeah,” sniffle, “yeah. You’re right.”
Harry watched as she closed her eyes and composed herself. He slowly took his hand off of her, noticing how she deflated with… disappointment?
A few moments passed and he heard her tummy grumble loudly. The sound brought a small barely-there smile to his lips as she blushed furiously, “sorry, I—”
“Why are you apologising? For having normal human functions? Have you not eaten yet?”
Y/N shook her head, twiddling with her hands. Not only was she embarrassed that she cried in front of her boss, but her stomach’s loud protests had her all red. She didn’t have time to get lunch today since she was so busy, running on coffees all day. Harry sighed, “c’mon. We’ll go get something to eat.”
Her eyes widened, “wh–what?”
Harry raised his brows, “let’s go.”
She couldn’t say anything after that as Harry left to grab his coat and phone from his office. Y/N watched as he shrugged it on, admiring his biceps bulging against the button up. The soft, dim lighting of the area wasn’t making things any easier. He cleared his throat, snapping her out of her thoughts, “I’ve called for Tomas, my driver.”
Nodding, Y/N grabbed her purse and phone. They took the lift together. There was an odd tension as they stood silently, stealing glances at each other occasionally. Y/N played with her fingers in the oddly long ride, filling the silence by humming quietly. Harry smiled to himself upon hearing her.
When they reached, he led her out and towards the car Tomas brought out front. Tomas smiled at both of them and Y/N shook his hand. His stare lingered on her puffy eyes but he didn’t say anything. “I hope you like Italian,” Harry murmured. He opened the door and let her sit first and then followed. There was a whole seat empty between them where Y/N settled her purse. She still couldn’t process what was happening as she nodded at his words.
“La Vita Vino, please, Tomas.”
“Yes, sir.”
A couple of beats of silence passed. Harry’s face was illuminated by his phone as he scrolled. In the meantime, Y/N’s lip faced the wrath of her anxiety. She decided to speak up, “you really don’t have to do this, Mr. Styles. I—I’m very grateful but I hate putting you through so much troubl—”
“It’s no trouble.”
He shut his phone and glanced at her. Just the look had her skin burning. Y/N blamed the nerves.
“Okay.”
A car honked.
“Thanks though,” Y/N said.
“You’re welcome.”
The rest of the drive was silent. Y/N saw how Tomas spared glances at the two of them, eyes lingering on the empty seat between them. She might have seen him smile, but that could be her imagination. She was feeling quite out of it, especially after that cry.
They soon arrived at a beautiful restaurant. It had soft, yellow lighting and an outdoor patio. It was oddly romantic for a CEO-personal assistant dinner, but Y/N bit her tongue. Just the fact that he bothered to take her out meant so much to her. She didn’t want to ruin the moment with anything. She said thanks to Tomas as he held the door open for her.
When they walked in, Y/N couldn’t help but look around in awe. It had a gorgeous interior with intimate seating. She watched as Harry walked up to the hostess and requested his ‘regular’ table. The hostess smiled, “of course, Mr. Styles.”
Y/N saw as Harry followed the waitress, looking back at her, “c’mon.”
She was snapped out of her daze, allowing the hostess to lead them to a small table around the back. Thankfully it wasn’t candle-lit. That would make the dinner look like something it most definitely was not. The hostess pulled out a seat for Y/N and then Harry. “Can I get you started with some wine, sir?”
Harry glanced at Y/N, “any preferences?’
“Oh, I don’t drink,” she bit her lip. His brows dipped just slightly but he didn’t say anything. “I’ll have a serving of Masseto, please.”
“Of course, sir. Perhaps water for the missus?”
Y/N’s eyes almost shot out of her skull when she heard the hostess. She stammered over her words, “Oh, we—I’m not—”
“Yes, please.”
The hostess smiled and left, promising to come back with their drinks. As she left, Y/N turned to Harry, still flustered, ‘“sorry! I don’t know why she said that.” He looked at her like she was crazy, “why are you apologising?” He repeated for the second time that night, “it’s not like you told her to say that.”
Her mouth shut at that. She relaxed into the seat, still unable to meet his eyes, “yeah… I guess you’re right.”
Harry hummed approvingly. He slid a menu towards her to have a look at. Wordlessly, she picked it up and scanned the items. They were all crazy expensive— almost a week's worth of her wages for one dish. Plus, she could barely even read some of these names. Nervously she glanced at Harry, “what do you usually get?”
“I like their Agnolotti del Plin,” he said, not looking up from the menu. She put hers down and sighed. His eyebrows furrowed as he met her eyes, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’ll get what you’re having. The agnal thing.”
“Agnolotti del Plin?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.”
The waitress came back to their table and asked them if they were ready to order. Y/N let Harry do the talking, afraid to mispronounce anything. She watched in awe as the Italian rolled off his tongue so easily. The waitress nodded and told them she’d be back with their dishes soon. When Harry turned back to her, his brows were still furrowed.
“Have you… ever had Agnolotti del Plin?”
“... yes,” she lied.
“Oh. Right.”
It was silent again. Their dynamic was so odd that Y/N didn’t know how to make conversation with him. What would they even talk about?
“Do you feel better?” He referred to her earlier breakdown. A breath escaped her mouth, “yes. Thank you Mr. Styles.”
“I don’t want to pry, but if there’s anything you want to talk about…” Harry said. Getting the sentence out was a feat. He was smart enough to know that talking about your feelings helped you feel better but he didn’t know what he would do once she started talking. Should he be touching her shoulder again? Rubbing her arm for comfort?
“I don’t want to bother you with my problems.”
“It’s no bother, otherwise I wouldn’t have asked. But I understand if you don’t want to talk.”
“Thanks,” she said for the millionth time that night. She wasn’t quite ready to spill her guts in front of her boss yet, no matter how vulnerable the crying made her seem. They remained quiet until the food was placed before them.
The dish was amazing— ravioli packed with smoked pigeon and covered in truffle sauce. It was when she smelled it that she realised how truly hungry she was. Once it was presented to her, she had her head down, engrossed in the food. Harry could understand completely. He himself was starving when he walked out of his office earlier. The only reason he really left was to go see if there was anything in the office fridge he could snack on.
About midway through their meal, her phone pinged. She ignored it when it went off once. But then it pinged again and again and again. Ignoring it for the sake of having good manners, Y/N turned it over and tried to continue with the meal, except it began pinging even more. “I’m sorry,” she sighed, putting her fork down and picking up her phone. It was Landon.
Her eyebrows furrowed as she stared down at the texts. He demanded to know where she was since she hadn’t texted him in a couple of hours. She couldn’t believe the audacity of the man; he didn’t respond to any of her texts all day and still expected her to continue texting him even after he made it clear he didn’t want to speak to her. Her irritated expression didn’t go unnoticed by Harry.
“Is everything alright?”
“Yeah… yeah, it’s just my boyfriend.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You have a boyfriend?” He blurted out.
Y/N met his rounded eyes. “Yes. We’re long distance.”
“Oh.”
“He’s been weird ever since I started working at Grapejuice Inc,” Y/N continued. “I don’t know. It’s just stressing me out, I guess.”
Harry hummed. It wasn’t his place to say, but he knew that if a relationship was stressing someone out, then it probably wasn’t healthy. He bit his tongue when he saw her furrowed brows. She huffed and put her phone on silent, not bothering to respond as she went back to her food.
They finished eating soon after. Y/N insisted on splitting the bill but Harry looked at her like she had grown a second head, snatching the bill from her hands. He slid his platinum card inside and gave it to the waitress who found their exchange amusing. After she brought them the receipt, Harry called Tomas to come up front. “Where do you live?” He looked at her expectantly and held the door open for her.
“Oh, just down nine and fifth avenue. It’s the house with the purple mailbox.”
Tomas nodded at her words and began driving. This time, Y/N had her purse in her lap. Her hand was resting on the middle seat. Harry was looking out of the window as they sat in silence. She admired him for a little while, appreciating the cut of his jaw and his plump lips. It was almost aggravating how pretty he was. His hand, ringed and tattooed with a cross by his thumb, rested on the middle seat as well.
His eyes never wavered from where they looked outside at the passing lights. Y/N shut her eyes and rested her head back against the seat. It had been an insane day and she couldn’t wait to go home and get under her covers. She must have relaxed a little too much, though, because a few moments later she felt her pinky collide with his. Surprisingly, neither of them jumped at the feeling. His hand was warm and her heart was racing.
They grazed each other again. For a second, Y/N felt his pinky rest completely on top of hers, though he didn’t stop gazing out the window. They both jumped as Tomas suddenly sneezed, pulling their hands away. Harry cleared his throat and Y/N told Tomas ‘bless you.’ The whole interaction had her breathing erratic and lip worried.
She finally recognised her street when they turned around the familiar corner. A grateful smile graced her features. She thanked Tomas first and then turned to Harry. She was immensely thankful for his comfort and for providing her with a full belly by treating her to such a luxurious meal. “Thank you, Mr. Styles. I had a great time and I feel so much better.”
He met her smile with a small one. “It was my pleasure. Have a good night, Miss L/N.”
“Night.”
-
Y/N relayed the night's details to Niall the next morning over coffee. He gasped dramatically and went on and on about how this was Y/N’s ‘romcom’ moment and that she was the main character who had a hot CEO boss obsessed with her. Y/N only laughed at how ridiculous he was, smacking his head when he wouldn't shut up and began narrating detailed, graphic, office fantasies that he most probably saw in some cheap porno.
“It doesn’t matter, Ni. I have a boyfriend,” was what she told him, trying to brush him off. “A boyfriend who lives a million miles away and doesn’t care if you live or die.” Those words did make her frown a little bit. Maybe Landon was a little bit weird and possessive, but surely he would care if Y/N dropped dead out of nowhere. She tried to give no weight to Niall’s words. She had enough on her plate to worry about.
When she finally decided to confront Landon, he demanded she tell him where she was last night. Y/N lied and said she was having dinner with Niall, but Landon didn’t even like that response. Any friend of Y/N that was a male was automatically disliked by Landon. It was a stupid habit of his, but then Y/N put herself in his shoes and thought about how she would feel if he began hanging out with a bunch of girls. It would leave a sour taste in her mouth but would she really react like he did? So dramatic and accusatory?
She tried her best to ignore the pestering thoughts as she walked into work the following Monday. She wondered if the air between her and Harry would be any different now that he had seen her in such a vulnerable state. But then again, he was known for his cold exterior, so maybe not. She took a deep breath as she walked in with his coffee in hand at exactly nine AM. He was busy on the phone and typing something on his computer at the same time, sparing her a glance and a small nod.
Whispering a small ‘good morning’, Y/N set the coffee down on his table. It was then she realised how dark and stuffy it was in his office. He probably forgot to open up the windows again on Friday before leaving. Deciding to open them up to encourage some air circulation, she walked behind Harry’s desk. The blinds were behind his chair and Y/N tried to squeeze herself between the small gap to open them up. Harry was too preoccupied on the phone to notice her.
The space was quite narrow so she had to really get in there to get the blinds open, stretching slightly and getting on her tippy-toes. Behind her, she heard Harry put the phone down. Suddenly, she felt as she lost her footing, a yelp escaping her mouth as she prepared to collapse face-first on the floor.
Except she didn’t collapse.
A firm, warm pair of hands settled on her waist, preventing her from face-planting into the floor. She was standing in between Harry’s legs, leaning over him so his breath washed over her face. Her hands were planted on his broad shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle there and he held her waist tightly. Her breath was stolen from her lungs.
“You okay?”
For some reason, she struggled to tear her gaze away from his mouth as he spoke, mesmerised by the way his lips moved. She almost relaxed into his hold. “Y–yeah. Thanks.” Now it was Harry’s turn to stare at her mouth. He met her eyes, then her lips, then her eyes, then her lips. They were painted pink and parted, practically begging Harry to kiss them. It was like he couldn’t help it as he leaned in closer— like her lips personally called to him to be tasted.
His thumbs dug into her ribs. She made a small sound which sounded awfully close to a whimper. That was ultimately what pushed him over the edge as he threw all resolve out of the door and caved in to the taste of her mouth. He had been thinking about what she might taste like for the longest time now, the night at the restaurant not making things any easier as her mouth plumped up in constant pouts.
Now, though, Harry was in heaven. She was sweet, like mango juice as he kissed her more firmly, letting her relax in his hold. His grip on her waist was all that was holding her up now as she suckled on his bottom lip and grabbed his shoulders harder.
This was so, so wrong. It was so inappropriate for him to be making out with his assistant in his office, lost in the taste of her and the sight of her in that little floral sundress. He groaned against her when she slid her tongue into his mouth. Her movements were bolder than he expected as she bit his lip softly.
The shrill sound of his phone ringing was what made them part, a filthy sound resounding when they pulled away, and strings of spit connected their mouth. He looked into her eyes as she wiped his mouth with her thumb and finally stood up. She looked flustered and fucked out— cheeks flushed and lips spit-slicked. Her dress had ridden up but she quickly pulled it down. Harry tried desperately to will his hard-on away, eyes never leaving hers despite the sound of his phone ringing in the office.
She was a little out of breath, “you… you should probably get that.”
He nodded, snapped out of his daze. “Yes. Yep. I’ll, uh… I’ll get that.”
“Cool.” Cool?
Turning on her heel, she left his office. When the door shut behind her, Y/N slid a hand through her hair and bit her thumb. She just made out with her hot CEO boss. In his office.
Although the kiss was amazing and her heart was racing, she couldn’t help but feel a little guilty. She had a whole boyfriend who trusted her to remain loyal and this was what she decided to do? Her heart sank a little in her chest, but she realised it didn’t outweigh the giddiness in her body and wetness between her thighs, all because of a little kiss. She groaned.
Y/N was fucked.
-
It was nearing lunch-time and Harry was still hung up on that fucking kiss. He felt so stupid for letting himself slip like that. How could he have made such a big mistake? Getting hot with your employees was one of the biggest no-nos of being in-charge of running a whole company.
But he just couldn’t deny how good it felt.
How nice she tasted, how she felt under his hands. The sounds she made and her confidence as she slipped her tongue into his mouth. She was exactly how he thought she would be— addicting. He couldn’t stop thinking about her; not as he went about his day to numerous meetings, attended a morning tea and interviewed an important client.
His every thought started and ended with her ever since she cursed him with that fucking mouth. Soft, warm, wet… he could only imagine how she felt in other places. Running a hand down his face, Harry sighed heavily. This wasn’t healthy. He had to either stop thinking about her or figure out a way to deal with this situation head on. Somehow the latter seemed easier.
He thought back to a couple nights ago when she was stressed and crying right in front of him. He knew the poor girl had a lot going on in her life, and with her boyfriend being long distance, he assumed she didn’t have a lot of means to release some of her frustrations. Plus, from what she told him, her boyfriend sounded like an absolute shit-bag so Harry automatically assumed he wouldn’t be able to give Y/N the satisfaction she needed anyway.
Pacing in his office, a crazy idea popped into Harry’s head.
Since just buying her dinner made her so happy and stress-free, Harry wondered what else he could do for her to make her feel good again. He wasn’t just thinking about pleasuring her anymore. He wanted to spoil her. He wanted to make her feel special. Not only would it help with her frustrations, but it would be a good outlet for him as well. It was not like he had plans to marry and start a family soon and he had heaps of money just sitting in his bank accounts. Money that had no use apart from paying for his bills and groceries.
Money he was willing to spend and that would probably be appreciated more elsewhere.
He wanted to propose an arrangement to Y/N, like the business-man he was. He’ll spoil her to the ends of the world, till her heart’s content— till he pleases. In return he would request her time and affections. In the way he craves, like a starved man. It was crazy to think that just the touch of her lips was driving him to take such steps— he felt like a spell had been cast on him. He had to see her. He had to tell her.
Finally deciding to grow a pair, Harry threw his door open and strutted out of his office, hair messy thanks to his fingers and eyes wide. However, his stomach sank when he turned to see if Y/N was at her desk.
The good part was that she was there like he hoped, looking all pretty in her sundress and hair left down. The bad part was that there was a blonde man standing before her, handing her a bouquet of flowers and pulling her in for a kiss.
The same lips he kissed mere hours ago.
The same waist he caressed was being hugged tightly as the boy lifted her off her feet and she smiled into his mouth, blinded to the shattering of Harry’s heart as he stood there by the door, disappointment overcoming his hard features.
-
Kissing Landon was very different to kissing Harry.
Whereas Harry met Y/N gently, like she was made of glass, puckered his lips tenderly and pressed sweet little pecks against her pouty mouth, Landon was quite… harsh. His arm slithered around her waist the same time he kissed her; rough, oddly possessive and a little painful, if she was being honest. He smashed his mouth into her teeth too hard, and paired with the grip he had on her waist, Y/N almost felt like she was being punished for some horrific crime.
And well, now that she pondered over it, maybe she deserved a distasteful kiss. She wasn’t really the ideal girlfriend these past couple of days which she spent daydreaming about her hot CEO boss, wondering what his soft words and lingering touches meant. Then when he kissed her mere hours before Landon surprised her, for those couple of minutes, the fact that Y/N even had a boyfriend slipped her mind completely. All she could think about was the strong, caring man in front of her, kissing her with so much passion and his hands on her sides, which pressed into the warm skin, bunching up her dress, and maybe if the phone didn’t ring and they didn’t have to stop, he would have pulled her onto his lap and slipped his fingers beneath her dress—
She was truly a terrible person.
She was a horrible, nasty, disgusting person for cheating on her poor unsuspecting boyfriend and kissing another man behind his back. The moment she stepped outside of his office, breathless with swollen lips, guilt swarmed her belly and made her insides turn black. Like she was rotten. And she felt rotten, but that wasn’t the worst part. Something else dug into her whirlwind of a brain, rattled her bones and made her breath tremble.
Despite the guilt that ate away at her heart, Y/N couldn’t deny that she liked it.
She liked the way he latched onto her bottom lip, and she liked the way he held her like she was going to slip away if he loosened for even a second. She liked the sounds he made and she liked the look in his eyes when she pulled away— hazy, like he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her spit-slicked lips. And perhaps she liked all of these things a little too much… perhaps they outweighed the guilt in her tummy.
God, she was just an awful human. She spent the next three hours following the kiss internally fighting herself over this dilemma, going back and forth feeling guilty and then feeling horny. Her panties were uncomfortably soaked and she had to make an embarrassing trip to the mall by the office just to grab a new pair of underwear— over a fucking kiss.
A kiss. That was literally it. They didn’t do anything further, he didn’t slide his hands between her legs, didn’t kiss down her neck— just showered her in honeyed purses of his lips and she was such a fucking mess. In her defence, she hadn’t been touched in any way in a long, long time. With Landon living ages away, Y/N often had to go months upon months without any physical affection. Even when they did get to spend time together, he didn’t let their kisses get too frisky. Didn’t let it progress to anything further, no matter how much she wanted.
She asked him about it too, but he would always go on some long spiel about how he was saving it for marriage and how amazing their first night together would be once they were husband and wife and they could finally have sex. Outwardly, she’d agree. Landon was always sort of sentimental— someone who was sensitive and wanted everything to have some deep meaning they could uncover together.
But Y/N was only just a girl. She had needs. Needs which her boyfriend was not meeting and needs for which her vibrator was just not enough anymore! That was why she was so ready to take things further with Harry. She wouldn’t have minded if he yanked her on his lap and grinded her against his bulge. She wouldn’t have minded if he touched her ass and pushed her dress up, tucked his fingers into her panties an—
This was becoming a problem. Her fucking boyfriend was standing right in front of her yet all she could think about was what Harry’s palms would feel like on her thighs.
Her fucking boyfriend was standing right in front of her and— wait. Why was he standing right in front of her?
Her jaw dropped when he stepped out of the elevators and came into her view; tall, beaming, blonde hair pushed back and a bouquet of roses in his hands. Her jaw stayed dropped when he sauntered towards her, one arm stretched wide like he was presenting himself, “surprise!”
And then:
“Oh my god! Landon!”
She stopped lagging and forced herself to a stand, watching as he jogged towards her and engulfed her into his chest. Landon felt familiar. He was warm, sturdy, built with strong muscles and broad shoulders which she wrapped her arms around. Citrus and musk invaded her senses; a scent which usually brought her comfort. Usually reminded her of home and date nights, cuddles and walks in the park.
Now it made her sick. Nauseous. Her stomach had been churning ever since she left Harry’s office that morning and his harsh cologne was not helping. Her nose was squished into his neck and his arms were wrapped around her like cling-film, nearly smothering her. She felt like she was suffocating, and she would have, had she not put her hands on his chest and gently shoved him off of her. Then came the initial shock, “wh–what are you doing here? How did y—”
“I wanted to surprise you, sweets. I missed you and I barely heard from you. Are you not happy to see me?”
Now, how could Y/N ever tell him she was anything but?
AN: BHHEHE GUYS SORRY I COULDNT HELP MYSELF WITH ALL THE TOUR CONTENT AND THE BUSINESS CASUAL VIBE IT WAS DRIVING ME NUTSSS!!! I HAD TO PULL TIS ONE OUT OF THE BAG!!! I THINK IMMA CONTINUE THIS SERIES I HAD SM PLANNED AND IT IS ONE OF MY FAVS!!!! HOPE U ENJOY!!! LET ME KNOW UR THOUGHTS!! also i know my fic plans are ALL OVER THE PLACE just trust im waiting to be done with uni and IM LOCKING INNNNN
i've read over hundereds of h.s fanfictions. started five years ago and i'm still at that restaurant lol, i'll keep updating these as i dive deeper into my archive, these are the best fics i've read. they're all x oc. they are LONG! almost ninety huge chapters per book
if you have fics for me to read! please send them my way!
✶ spotlight
enemies to lovers + fake dating + actor! h.s + actress! oc
ps: there is a book two but it hasn't been updated in a while!
✶ cherry
friends to lovers + soft romance + song writer! oc + singer! h.s
there is a book two it's completed!
✶ kiwi
fwb + freak show lowk
✶ hidden
enemies to lovers + corporate gangs
please read these are your own risk. there are mature themes and lot's of violence but the writing is flawless
✶ stall
one of my favourites! it's so so beautiful
there is a book two! and a prologue both completed!
✶ malignant
the character development is genuinely magical. zero plot holes!
there is a book two and book three and a one-shot series! all completed!
✶ duplicity
rockstar! h.s
there is a book two which is still updating!
Scrub in Masterlist | Masterlist | WC: 5.2K | Angsty
a/n: The epilogue mentions Y/N being there for harry when his mom had surgery. Thought I’d show that :)
Y/N stands in front of her closet, clothes strewn across her bed in a state of disarray that perfectly matches her internal panic. She's been dating Harry for a year and while it's been a wonderful, challenging, sometimes frustrating, but always passionate year, today is the day she's finally meeting his mother. Under normal circumstances, this would already be a nerve-wracking experience. But Anne isn't coming for a casual visit. She's flying in because she's been experiencing concerning cardiac symptoms, and Harry after weeks of long-distance worry and medical consultations over the phone has finally convinced her to come get properly evaluated. Which means Y/N isn't just meeting her boyfriend's mother, she's meeting her boyfriend's potentially ill mother. Who also happens to be the mother of her boss. Who also happens to be the Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery. No pressure at all. Her phone buzzes with a text from Harry:
Just picked Mum up from the airport. Heading to my place now. Meet us there in an hour? x
Y/N stares at the message, her heart rate accelerating. "An hour?!" she exclaims to her empty apartment. "I thought I had at least two!" She frantically dials Niall, putting the phone on speaker as she continues ransacking her closet. "What's the emergency this time?" Niall answers, sounding amused.
"Harry's mother is here. Now. An hour early!" Y/N pulls out a navy blue dress, examines it, then tosses it aside. "I'm meeting her in an hour and I have nothing to wear and I haven't practiced what to say and—"
"Whoa, slow down," Niall interrupts. "Take a breath before you hyperventilate.” Y/N inhales deeply, then exhales slowly.
"Better?"
"No." She sinks onto her bed, pushing aside a pile of rejected outfits. "Niall, what if she hates me?"
"Why would she hate you? You're amazing. And Harry adores you."
"Because I'm his subordinate? Because I'm too young for him? Because I challenged her son's diagnosis in front of an entire team my first week as an intern?"
"To be fair, you were right about that diagnosis."
"Not the point!" Y/N jumps up, pacing the room. "This is Anne Styles we're talking about. Harry talks about her like she's a combination of Mother Teresa and Michelle Obama."
"With a touch of Gordon Ramsay, from what I've heard," Niall adds unhelpfully.
"Not helping!"
Niall sighs. "Honey, listen to me. You're overthinking this. Just be yourself. The brilliant, kind, occasionally stubborn woman her son is crazy about," Niall says. "The one who makes her son happier than anyone's seen him in years."
She glances at the disaster zone that is her bedroom. "That's the problem. I've tried everything I own. Nothing feels right."
"What about that emerald sweater? Harry always says it brings out your eyes."
Y/N rummages through the pile, finding the cashmere sweater in question. "Maybe...with those black pants?"
"Perfect. Professional but not too formal. You look like you're meeting your boyfriend's mom, not performing a coronary bypass."
She laughs despite herself. "Okay. Sweater, black pants. What about jewelry?"
"The simple gold necklace your dad gave you. It's elegant without being showy."
Y/N nods, already feeling more centered. "Right. Good call."
"Oh and bring flowers. Not a big bouquet though. Those are too formal. Just something small and thoughtful."
"Flowers. Okay." She checks the time. "I've got forty minutes. I can do this."
"You can absolutely do this. You cut people open for a living. Meeting a boyfriend's mother is nothing."
"She's not just any mother, though," Y/N says, voice softening with concern. "She might be really sick, Niall. Harry's trying to play it cool, but I can tell he's worried."
"All the more reason for her to meet the amazing doctor her son is in love with. Because you're not just Harry's girlfriend. You're a damn good physician. If she is sick, having you there will be a comfort to both of them."
Y/N takes another deep breath, feeling her panic subside into something more manageable. "You're right. You're absolutely right."
"I usually am. It's my curse."
"Thank you, Niall. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Probably show up in scrubs with a stethoscope around your neck. Now go get dressed. And text me later. I want all the details."
After hanging up, Y/N dresses carefully in the emerald sweater and black pants, adds the gold necklace, and applies minimal makeup. Her hair she leaves down, knowing Harry prefers it that way. On the way to Harry's apartment, she stops at a small florist and selects a modest arrangement of peonies. Standing outside Harry's door, flowers in one hand, she takes a final steadying breath before knocking.
The door swings open almost immediately, revealing Harry in jeans and a soft gray sweater. His face lights up at the sight of her.
"You're here," he says, relief evident in his voice. He leans in, pressing a quick kiss to her lips. "Thank you for coming."
"Of course I came," she says, suddenly shy. "How is she?"
Harry's expression clouds slightly. "Tired from the flight, but putting on a brave face. You know how mothers are." He steps back, allowing her to enter.
"Mum's in the living room. She's been asking about you non-stop since she landed."
Y/N's eyes widen. "She has?"
"Don't look so terrified," Harry says with a soft laugh, taking her hand. "It's all good things, I promise."
As they walk toward the living room, he leans in close, whispering: "Just be warned, she brought photo albums. Apparently, you're going to see every embarrassing stage of my childhood."
Despite her nerves, Y/N smiles. "Now that I'm looking forward to."
They enter the living room, where Anne Styles sits on the couch, looking through her phone. She's an elegant woman with striking blue eyes and dark hair. She looks up as they enter, and Y/N is relieved to see genuine warmth in her smile.
"Mum," Harry says, his voice gentle in a way Y/N rarely hears at the hospital, "this is Y/N."
Y/N steps forward, offering the flowers and her hand. "It's so nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Styles. Harry talks about you all the time." Anne takes the flowers with a pleased expression, but ignores Y/N's extended hand. Instead, she stands and pulls her into a warm hug.
"It's Anne, dear. And the pleasure is all mine." She pulls back, keeping her hands on Y/N's shoulders as she studies her face. "Well, my son certainly wasn't exaggerating about how beautiful you are."
Y/N blushes, casting a glance at Harry, who looks both embarrassed and pleased.
"Mum," he protests half-heartedly.
"Oh, hush," Anne says, guiding Y/N to sit beside her on the couch. "If you didn't want me to embarrass you, you shouldn't have waited a year to introduce me to the woman you're always going on about."
She turns back to Y/N. "He calls me every Sunday, you know. And for the past year, it's been 'Y/N this' and 'Y/N that.' I feel like I know you already."
Y/N's nervousness begins to fade, replaced by genuine curiosity.
"Really? What exactly has he been saying?"
Anne's eyes twinkle mischievously. "Well, first it was complaints. 'This new intern questioned my diagnosis, Mum. Can you believe the nerve?' Then it was reluctant admiration. 'She was right, though. Brilliant, actually.' And then..."
She pats Y/N's hand. "Well, then it became obvious he was falling for you, even if he was too stubborn to admit it."
"Mum," Harry interrupts, his cheeks flushed. "Maybe we could save the detailed analysis of my emotional journey for another time?"
Anne laughs, a warm sound that immediately reminds Y/N of Harry.
"Fine, fine. I'll behave." She turns back to Y/N. "But I did bring photos, and he can't stop me from showing you those."
Harry groans, but there's no real displeasure in it. He moves to sit in the armchair across from them, watching the interaction with obvious relief.
"Now," Anne says, her tone shifting slightly, "Harry tells me you're a cardiothoracic resident. In your third year?"
"That's right," Y/N confirms, automatically straightening her posture. "I'm specializing in minimally invasive valve repair."
"Fascinating field." Anne nods approvingly. "My late husband, Harry's father, had mitral valve issues. If the techniques had been more advanced then..." She trails off, a shadow crossing her face. Y/N reaches out, gently touching Anne's hand.
"I'm so sorry about your husband. Harry's told me what an amazing man he was."
Anne smiles sadly. "He was. And I see so much of him in Harry. The dedication and the brilliance." She glances at her son with unmistakable pride. "The stubbornness."
Harry clears his throat, clearly emotional but trying to hide it. "Speaking of stubbornness," he says, his professional tone slipping back into place, "we should talk about your appointment tomorrow, Mum."
Anne waves a dismissive hand. "Plenty of time for that later. Right now, I want to get to know Y/N properly." She turns back to Y/N with a conspiratorial smile. "Without my son hovering like I'm one of his patients."
Y/N can't help but smile in return, feeling a genuine connection forming.
"I'd like that too," she says honestly.
Harry looks between them, a mix of concern and happiness on his face. "Fine," he says, standing. "I'll go put these flowers in water and start dinner. But Mum, no stories about my awkward teenage years."
"I make no promises," Anne calls after him as he disappears into the kitchen.
Once he's gone, Anne's expression grows more serious. "He's worried about me," she says quietly. "More than he's letting on."
Y/N nods, deciding honesty is the best approach. "He is. He cares about you very much."
"And you? What do you think? Off the record, doctor to patient."
Y/N considers her words carefully. "I think getting thoroughly checked out is the right move. Cardiac symptoms should never be ignored, especially with your family history."
Anne studies her face. "You're not sugar-coating it. I appreciate that."
"I've found that sugar-coating rarely helps anyone in medicine," Y/N says. "Especially the people you care about."
A slow smile spreads across Anne's face. "No wonder my son fell for you," she says softly. "You're exactly what he needs. Someone who won't let him hide behind that brilliant mind of his."
Before Y/N can respond, Harry calls from the kitchen: "If you two are done analyzing me, dinner's almost ready!"
Anne laughs, patting Y/N's hand once more. "We should join him before he burns down the kitchen. But Y/N?" Her voice grows serious again. "I'm glad he has you."
Y/N feels a lump form in her throat, touched by the acceptance in Anne's words. "I'm glad I have him too," she says simply.
As they rise to join Harry in the kitchen, Y/N realizes her earlier panic has completely vanished.
The day had started with routine post-op rounds and a stack of charts. It ended with Anne Styles coding in the middle of a cardiology consultation.
The call came through the hospital intercom with clinical detachment. "Code Blue, Cardiology Suite 3" and Y/N had felt her blood run cold before she even knew it was Anne. Harry had been in the middle of a department meeting. She'd heard later that he'd knocked his chair back so hard it hit the wall.
The stabilization team had bought them time. Not much, but enough. The echocardiogram showed what they'd feared: a dissecting aortic aneurysm and it was progressing fast. The kind that didn't wait for anyone to be ready. The kind that needed immediate surgery.
Twenty minutes later, Y/N stands outside the scrub room, having confirmed everything is in order. The surgical team is assembling, the OR is prepared and Anne's latest vitals reviewed. Only one thing is missing. The surgeon himself. Frowning, she pushes open the door to the scrub room. Harry stands at the sink, hands submerged in soapy water up to his elbows. But he isn't moving. He's just standing there, staring at the wall, completely still. His eyes are fixed on nothing. The water keeps running, the soap keeps lathering but his hands aren't scrubbing anymore. They're just...suspended.
"Harry."
He doesn't respond, doesn't even blink. Y/N approaches slowly, concern mounting. "Harry, they're almost ready for you in there." She steps closer, lowering her voice. "Hey. Look at me."
He then blinks slowly like someone surfacing from deep water. "I need to scrub in," he says. His voice is mechanical and all too wrong. "She's in pre-op. They're prepping the OR. I need to—"
"Harry." Y/N steps directly in front of him, blocking his eyeline. "Stop."
His jaw tightens. "I'm fine."
"You haven't moved in ten minutes. Dr. Patel’s looking for you. I told him I'd get you." She searches his face noting the pallor beneath his complexion and the slight tremor in his jaw he's trying to control. "You're not fine."
The mask holds for another three seconds until it suddenly doesn't and his breath comes out in a shudder. One sharp, involuntary exhale that breaks something open. He turns away from her, bracing both soapy hands on the edge of the sink, head dropping.
"I can't do it." he says in a quit, defeated tone. "I—" He stops then tries again. "I got in there. I looked at her chart, I reviewed the imaging, I started to scrub in and I—" His voice fractures. "I can't see the anatomy. I look at the scans and all I see is her. I close my eyes and I'm trying to visualize the field and I just see her face."
Y/N doesn't say anything, just steps closer.
"I can't... operate on her." His voice breaks on the last word. "My hands...they won't stop shaking."
Y/N glances down and sure enough, beneath the soap suds, his normally rock-steady surgeon's hands are trembling visibly.
"Harry," she says gently, moving closer. "This is normal. The emotional connection—"
"It's not normal for me!" he snaps, then immediately looks contrite. "I'm sorry. I just...I've never...not once in my entire career..." He stared at his hands as if they've betrayed him.
"Fifteen years," he says, his voice dropping to something raw and ugly. "Ten years of training. Chief of surgery at thirty-one. I have a waiting list of patients from four different countries." He laughs, and it's terrible, hollow and self-lacerating. "I have performed three hundred and forty-seven aortic procedures. Three hundred and forty-seven. And I am standing here—" his voice breaks completely "—I am standing here like a first-year medical student who's never held a scalpel, because it's her." His shoulders are shaking now, barely perceptibly, but Y/N sees it.
"What is the point?" he asks, and the question sounds like it's been festering for years. "What is the point of any of it—the training, the hours, the sacrifices—if I can't operate on my own mother? If I'm completely useless when it actually matters?"
He slams one palm on the sink, hard enough that the soap dispenser rattles. "She needs the best surgeon in this hospital and I—" He can't finish it.
Y/N reaches out and puts her hand on his back. "Harry, " but he doesn't turn around. "Harry, look at me. Please."
Slowly, he straightens and turns. The expression on his face…Y/N has seen Harry Styles frustrated, exhausted, coldly furious, professionally devastated but she has never seen him look like this. Like something has been gutted out of him. She keeps her voice steady and calm. The way he sounds when he talks patients down from panic.
"Loving someone doesn't make you useless," she says. "It makes you human. And it disqualifies you from operating on them. Those are two entirely different things and you know it."
"Don't." His voice is sharp. "Don't give me the textbook answer. I know the textbook answer. I have the textbook memorized."
"I know you do." She doesn't flinch. "So you also know that the most dangerous surgeon in that room would be one who is emotionally compromised. You know that. You know it better than anyone in this hospital."
He stares at her. His jaw works. "She's my mother, Y/N."
"I know." Her voice softens. "I know she is." A single tear escapes, trailing down his cheek. Y/N reaches up to brush it away. A long silence stretches between them. The water is still running. Somewhere down the corridor, a monitor beeps steadily.
"So." Y/N takes a breath. "Tell me who you trust."
Harry frowns slightly.
"In this hospital," she continues carefully. "Right now, for this procedure. Who do you trust to go in there and bring her out?"
He's quiet for a moment. She watches him move through the grief of the situation, the pride of not being able to do it, and the clinical mind that never fully shuts off regardless of what's happening to the rest of him. Then, she sees him look at her.
"You."
The word comes out without hesitation. Without a single beat of uncertainty. Y/N stares at him.
"Harry—"
"You." He says it again, quieter but no less certain. "No hesitation. You."
"I'm a third-year resident." The words come out before she can stop them, her voice pitching slightly higher than she intends. "Harry, I'm a resident. You want me to—your mother is on that table and you want me to—"
"You've scrubbed in on forty-three aortic procedures," he says, and his voice has shifted, the surgeon in him is surfacing despite the fractured voice. "Eleven as primary operator under supervision. Your spatial reasoning is the best I've seen in a trainee in my entire career. Your hands don't shake. Your decision-making under pressure is—"
"Stop." She holds up a hand, her own heart hammering. "Stop evaluating me like I'm a candidate. This is your mother, Harry."
"I know who it is." His eyes don't leave hers. "That's why I'm telling you. Because I know who you are. Please, Y/N. I'm asking you not as your boss, not as your boyfriend, but as a son who needs someone he trusts completely to save his mother."
Y/N takes a deep breath, centering herself. She thinks of Anne. Warm, kind, Anne who welcomed her with open arms. She thinks of Harry, who has taught her everything she knows about cardiothoracic surgery. Who believes in her more than she sometimes believes in herself. She exhales shakily. "You'd be there," she says. It's not quite a question.
"Every second. I'll be in that room. I'll talk you through anything you need. But my hands—" He looks down at them, still lathered, still trembling almost imperceptibly. "My hands can't be the ones today."
Y/N looks at him for a long moment. At this man who has never once, not in the two years of working beside him, admitted to a limitation. Who has built his entire identity around being the person others defer to in a crisis. Who is standing in front of her, asking her to carry the most important thing in his world.
She takes a slow breath. "Okay," she says quietly, her voice steady despite the fear coursing through her. "I'll do it. But you get Morrison to agree, and I want Peters as my first assist."
Relief floods Harry's face. "Thank you," he whispers, pulling her into a tight embrace. "Thank you." Harry's eyes close briefly.
"Okay," she says again, steadier this time. "Then go be with her in pre-op. Talk to her. Let her see your face before she goes under." She steps toward the sink beside him and turns on the water. "I'll scrub in."
He watches her for a moment. Watches woman he loves as she reached for the surgical brush with steady hands.
"Y/N."
She looks up. He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't have to. Everything he can't articulate right now is written plainly across his face.
"Go," she says softly. "Go see your mom."
He holds her gaze for one more second before turning and walking toward pre-op. Left alone, Y/N turns to the sink, plunging her hands into the warm soapy water. She focuses on the familiar ritual. The methodical cleaning of each finger, each nail, up to the elbows. With each motion, she feels her surgical mindset settling into place. By the time Morrison appears at the door, his expression a mix of concern and reluctant acceptance, she is ready.
"Dr. Styles has requested that you lead this procedure," he says without preamble. "With me supervising and Peters assisting."
"Yes, Ma’am," Y/N replies, her voice calm and professional.
Morrison studies her face. "Are you certain you're prepared for this, Dr. Y/L/N? This isn't just any patient."
Y/N meets her gaze steadily. "I'm aware of that, Ma’am. But with all due respect, that's precisely why I need to do this. Because she isn't just any patient to me either."
A hint of approval flickers across Morrison's face.
"Very well. OR 1 is ready. Let's not keep Mrs. Styles waiting any longer."
As Y/N follows her toward the operating room, she catches sight of Harry in the hallway. Their eyes meet across the corridor. In his gaze, she finds not just trust, but absolute faith in her skills, in her judgment, and most definitely in her. It steadies her more than anything else could have. With a small nod to him, she turns and walks through the doors, ready to hold Anne Styles' heart in her hands, and by extension, Harry's as well. At this moment, she is not Harry's girlfriend or his resident. She is simply a surgeon, about to do what she was trained to do. Save a life.
The surgery takes nearly six hours. Every moment is meticulously executed and every decision carefully weighed. Throughout it all, Harry stands in the corner of the OR silent and watchful, his eyes never leaving the table where his mother lies with her chest open to the world. Dr. Morrison supervises closely, but as the procedure progresses, her interventions become fewer and further between.
Y/N works with a focus that surprises even herself. Her hands remain steady, her voice clear as she directs Peters and the surgical team. The bypass grafts take beautifully. The heart, once restarted beats strong and regular.
"Closing now," Y/N announces, her voice betraying none of the emotional weight of the moment. As she places the final sutures, she allows herself a quick glance at Harry. He hasn't moved or spoken, but the tension in his shoulders has eased slightly.
"BP stable at 110/70. Rhythm regular. O2 sats at 98%," the anesthesiologist reports.
Y/N steps back from the table, letting out a long breath. "Surgery complete. Time, 11:47 AM."
Dr. Morrison nods approvingly. "Excellent work, Dr. Y/L/N. Let's get Mrs. Styles to recovery."
The team moves efficiently, transferring Anne from the operating table to a gurney. As they wheel her out, Y/N remains behind, removing her gown and gloves, disposing of them properly. Her body feels weightless with relief, yet somehow heavy with exhaustion. She doesn't notice Harry approaching until he's right beside her.
"She's stable," Y/N says softly, meeting his eyes. "The grafts look good. Her heart accepted them beautifully."
Harry doesn't respond with words, takes her by the elbow instead and guides her out of the OR, through the scrub room, and into the small private consultation room adjacent to the surgical floor. The moment the door closes behind them, he pulls her into his arms. The embrace is fierce, almost desperate. Harry's arms wrap around her completely, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other pressed firmly against her lower back. He holds her as if she might disappear if he loosens his grip even slightly.
"Thank you," he whispers against her hair, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you."
Y/N feels the dampness against her neck before she realizes he's crying. Silent tears of relief and gratitude, his body trembling slightly with the release of hours of pent-up fear. She says nothing, just holds him tighter, one hand moving in slow, soothing circles between his shoulder blades. Her other hand threads through his hair, cradling his head as he buries his face deeper into the curve of her neck.
"She's going to be okay," Y/N murmurs, her voice soft but certain. "She's strong. Just like her son."
Harry pulls back just enough to look at her, his green eyes rimmed with red, cheeks damp with tears. The vulnerability in his expression steals her breath away. "I couldn't have done it," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not like you did. So calm, so sure."
Y/N reaches up to brush a tear from his cheek. "I wasn't calm inside. I was terrified the entire time."
"But your hands never shook," he says, taking her hands in his, studying them with a kind of reverence before bringing them to his lips for a kiss. "Not once."
"Because they were holding something precious to you," she replies simply. "And that made them steady."
Harry's expression crumbles slightly at her words. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against hers, eyes closed. "I love you," he says, the words coming out raw and unfiltered. "I love you so much it hurts"
Y/N feels her own eyes fill with tears, the emotional weight of the morning finally catching up to her. "I love you too," she whispers back. "And your mom is going to be just fine."
Harry nods against her forehead, then pulls back slightly to press a gentle kiss to her lips. It's brief but filled with everything he can't put into words.
"You should go see her," Y/N says softly when they part. "She'll be waking up soon, and your face should be the first thing she sees."
Harry hesitates, clearly torn between staying with Y/N and going to his mother.
"Go," she insists gently. "I'll be right behind you. I just need a minute."
He studies her face, then nods, pressing one more kiss to her forehead before reluctantly releasing her from his embrace. "Don't take too long," he says, his hand lingering on hers. "She'll want to thank you herself."
Y/N smiles tiredly. "I'll be there. Now go."
As Harry leaves the room, Y/N sinks down onto one of the chairs, finally allowing her legs the reprieve they've been silently begging for. The enormity of what just happened washes over her: she operated on her boyfriend's mother. She held Anne Styles' heart in her hands, and succeeded. She takes a deep breath, centering herself. In a few minutes, she'll join Harry in recovery, stand beside him as his mother wakes. But for now, she allows herself this brief moment of solitude, to process not just the surgery, but the profound trust Harry placed in her.
The recovery room is quiet except for the steady beep of the cardiac monitor. Harry sits beside his mother's bed, his hand gently holding hers. Y/N had stepped out to give them privacy, heading to the nurse's station to update Anne's chart and check on her post-op medications. Anne's eyelids flutter then slowly open. She blinks a few times, adjusting to the light before her gaze settles on her son.
"Harry," she whispers, her voice rough from the intubation.
Harry leans forward, relief washing over his features. "Hi, Mum. How are you feeling?"
"Like I've been hit by a truck," Anne manages a weak smile. "But I'm here."
"Yes, you are," Harry says softly, squeezing her hand. "You gave us quite a scare."
Anne's eyes drift to the bandages visible beneath her hospital gown. "Triple bypass, they said?"
Harry nods. "Three vessels. But the surgery went perfectly."
Anne reaches up with her free hand, weakly patting his cheek. "My brilliant boy. Always knew those hands of yours were meant to save lives."
Harry lets out a self-deprecating chuckle, looking down. "Actually, Mum...I didn't do your surgery."
Anne's brow furrows slightly in confusion. "You didn't?"
"I couldn't," he admits, his voice quiet but steady. "When it came down to it, I...my hands wouldn't stop shaking. I couldn't be your surgeon."
Anne's expression softens with understanding. "Oh, love."
"It was Y/N," Harry continues, his voice warming at the mention of her name. "She performed the entire procedure. Flawlessly, might I add"
"Your Y/N?" Anne asks, a small smile forming despite her weakened state.
Harry nods, a hint of color rising to his cheeks. "She was extraordinary, Mum. You should have seen her. Completely in control, never hesitated once."
"And where is she now?" Anne asks, trying to look around the room.
"She stepped out to give us some time together," Harry explains. "She'll be back soon. She wanted to check your post-op medications personally."
Anne studies her son's face, noting the soft expression that comes over him when he speaks of Y/N and the gentle pride in his voice.
"Well," Anne says with a knowing smile, "in that case, Harry Edward Styles, you'd better marry that girl."
Harry's eyes widen, and a deep flush immediately spreads across his cheeks. He ducks his head, running a hand through his hair as he stares at the hospital floor tiles. The confident surgeon is nowhere to be seen at this moment. He's just a flustered son being teased by his mother about a girl.
"Mum," he mumbles, the blush reaching the tips of his ears now. "We haven't even...I mean, we only just..."
Anne reaches out to pat his hand weakly. "The way you talk about her says everything, love."
Harry glances up, a sheepish smile playing on his lips. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to your mother," Anne says with a knowing look.
Harry fiddles with the edge of the blanket, still blushing. "I do...I mean, I think I..." He lets out a soft laugh. "Yeah. I agree with you. Wholeheartedly."
Anne's eyes begin to drift closed again, the medication and exhaustion pulling her back toward sleep. "Don't wait too long," she mumbles. "Life's too short...as I've recently been reminded..."
"Get some rest, Mum," Harry says gently, adjusting her blanket. "We'll be right here when you wake up."
As Anne slips back into sleep, the door to the recovery room opens quietly. Y/N steps in, clipboard in hand, her expression softening when she sees Harry sitting beside his sleeping mother.
"How is she?" Y/N asks in a hushed voice, moving to stand beside Harry, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Harry looks up, the blush still lingering on his cheeks as he takes her hand. For once, he's not Dr. Styles, the brilliant surgeon with an ego to match. He's just a son grateful for the woman who saved his mother
"She's going to be just fine," he says softly, his thumb tracing circles on her palm before pulling it in for another kiss. "Thanks to you.”
Welcome to my library! Here is where I keep all my Harry Styles stories, organized by genre and vibe. Grab a slice of it, get cozy, and enjoy the read.
🥝 One-Shots & Short Stories:
The Frisbee Fiasco {Fluff /Meet-Cute} (Harry Styles x Reader)
The Green Thumb in 4B {Domestic Fluff / Neighbors AU / Rom-Com} (Harry Styles x Reader)
Half Baked Flour Power {Rom-Com / Workplace Fluff / Meet-Cute} (Harry Styles x Reader)
Faceplant {Hurt/Comfort, Soft Harry, Idiots in Love} (Harry Styles x Reader)
The Pineapple Paradox {Enemies-to-Lovers (in 10 minutes) / Playful Banter / Cozy Romance} (Harry Styles x Reader)
The 11 PM Collison Of Comfort Food {Meet-Cute / Soft Realism / Healing Fluff} (Harry Styles x Reader)
The Center Of The Universe (And Her Name Is Blair) {Papa!Harry/ Domestic Fluff/ Parental Fluff} (Dad!Harry x Reader)
2AM Raid {Domestic Fluff/ Rom-Com} (Harry Styles x Reader)
After a spontaneous walk through Central Park, the very unofficial New York tour begins, and ends with a ferry, a book, and a very big question.
word count: 9.6k
You wake up slowly, the luxurious kind of slowly that only happens when you have nowhere to be and no alarm dragging you back into consciousness like a bitter ex boyfriend. Your room is still dim, washed in that soft gray morning light that makes everything look gentler than it is, and for a few seconds you just lie there, warm under the blankets, listening to the faint hum of the city outside your window.
Then it hits you.
Central Park.
Pizza.
The streetlight.
The kiss.
Your eyes fly open.
You stare at the ceiling, very still, like maybe if you do not move, you can keep the memory from embarrassing you in real time.
Because you kissed him.
You, a person with a rich and mortifying history of overthinking everything from emails to eye contact, turned around in the middle of the street and ran back to kiss Harry Styles like you were possessed by the ghost of every bold woman who has ever existed in a romantic comedy.
You turn your head toward your phone on the nightstand.
It is face down, silent, and somehow already smug.
You grab it anyway and unlock it too fast, opening your messages before your brain has a chance to remind you about pride, dignity, or the many cautionary tales that begin with a woman texting too soon after a good kiss.
His name is there now.
Not just a profile.
Not just a conversation living inside an app.
An actual contact in your actual phone.
Harry.
It should not feel intimate, and yet it does. More intimate, somehow, than the kiss. Like he has crossed over into the architecture of your real life.
You open the conversation and stare at the last few messages from the night before, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
You do not want to be the kind of person who plays games.
You also do not want to be the kind of person who wakes up glowing and immediately texts a man before brushing her teeth.
This, you think, is how women end up with complicated feelings and a group chat dedicated to analyzing punctuation.
You set the phone on your chest and stare at the ceiling again.
This is new territory.
Not because he is famous, though obviously that part remains deeply absurd.
It feels new because nothing about him feels hard in the exhausting way. There is no weird energy to decode. No stale, performative banter. No sense that you are being sized up or handled or filed into some category. It just feels easy.
Which, frankly, feels suspicious.
Your phone buzzes against your sweater.
You sit up so fast you nearly headbutt yourself with it.
Harry: Did you make it home safe?
The smile arrives before you can stop it.
You type back immediately.
You: I did. Did you?
The typing bubble appears right away.
Harry: Yeah. Short walk.
You can picture him instantly. Coat on. Hands in his pockets. Head down against the cold. The same mouth that kissed you under a streetlight, now saying something unfairly casual like short walk.
You hesitate, then type:
You: I am still thinking about that pizza.
His reply comes almost immediately.
Harry: I am still thinking about you running back down the street.
You drop your head back against the headboard and let out a soft laugh, pressing your lips together like there is anyone here to witness you grinning at your phone before nine in the morning.
You: That was very out of character for me.
Harry: I am glad you did.
You stare at that one for a second.
There it is again, that warm little pull in your chest. The one that feels annoyingly sincere.
So, naturally, you decide to pivot before you say something reckless.
You: So what is on the schedule for today, Mr. Tourist?
There is a beat before he replies.
Harry: I believe I was promised a tour.
You smile into your pillow.
You: That starts after coffee. I do not do anything before coffee.
Harry: That feels like important information.
You: It is. Some would say sacred.
You push the blankets back and stand, still texting as you make your way into the kitchen, hair a mess, heart a mess, life suddenly veering off in a direction that feels both cinematic and deeply inconvenient.
You: Meet me at eleven. I know a place.
Harry: I will be there.
You set your phone on the counter and start the coffee maker, leaning against the cabinets while it brews. The apartment is quiet, filled with that in between kind of morning where the world has started but has not fully committed yet. Light creeps across the floor. A truck rumbles somewhere below. A door slams in the building across the street.
Everything feels exactly the same.
Which is strange, because nothing is.
You wrap both hands around your mug and take one sip before grabbing your phone again and calling Camille, because some experiences are simply too unhinged to carry alone.
She answers on the third ring.
“Well,” she says, voice bright with the particular alertness of someone who loves drama when it is happening to other people. “You are calling before noon. Somebody died or you got kissed.”
You start laughing before you can answer.
“Okay,” you say. “You have to promise to be normal.”
“No,” she says instantly. “That is not our relationship. Start talking.”
You pace into the living room, one arm folded over your stomach like you are trying to physically contain the nervous energy threatening to escape through your rib cage.
“I saw him last night.”
There is one beat of silence.
Then Camille screams so loudly you yank the phone away from your ear.
“You what?”
“He got in early,” you say, already talking faster. “He asked if I wanted to go for a walk and I said yes and then we walked through Central Park and then I took him for pizza.”
“The pizza place?” she asks, scandalized. “Sal’s pizza place?”
“Yes.”
“The one where the guy behind the counter looks like he has been personally offended by every customer since 1987?”
“Yes, that one.”
She lets out a strangled sound that is half laughter, half disbelief.
“You took Harry Styles to stress pizza.”
“I panicked,” you say. “I needed somewhere casual and familiar and not weirdly fancy.”
“No, actually, that is kind of perfect,” she says. “That is unfortunately very you. Continue.”
You sit on the edge of the couch, coffee in hand, suddenly shy in the face of your own memory.
“We were saying goodbye,” you say slowly, “and I started walking home.”
“And?”
“And then I turned around.”
Camille goes silent.
You stare at the floor.
“And then I ran back and kissed him.”
This time the scream is louder.
“You did not.”
“I did.”
“You fully ran back to him?”
“Yes.”
“Like in a movie?”
“I do not know what came over me,” you say, horrified all over again. “I think I temporarily lost access to my frontal lobe.”
“Oh my God,” Camille says. “That is the most romantic thing you have ever done. I need you to understand that I am obsessed with this version of you.”
“I do not even recognize her,” you mutter.
“Did he kiss you back?”
You look down into your coffee even though it cannot help you.
“Yes.”
A beat.
“Was it a good kiss?”
You lean back against the couch and close your eyes for half a second, which is somehow enough to bring it all back. The streetlight. The cold air. The pause before he kissed you again like he had been hoping you would.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “It was.”
Camille exhales like she has just received life changing news.
“Oh my God,” she says again, quieter this time.
You sit in that for a second, both of you.
Then she says, “So what now?”
You drag a hand through your hair.
“I am seeing him today.”
There is immediate rustling on her end of the line.
“I am coming over.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No, you are not.”
“You are not dressing yourself for Day Two with Harry Styles. I refuse to let history judge me that harshly.”
“It is not Day Two,” you say. “It is coffee and a bookstore.”
“It is the daylight sequel to a street kiss. It counts.”
You laugh despite yourself.
“I told him eleven.”
“Perfect,” she says. “That gives me time.”
“For what?”
“To save you from whatever deeply practical sweater choice you are about to make.”
“Camille.”
But she has already hung up.
You stare at your phone for a second, then at your coffee, then toward your bedroom.
Honestly, she is not wrong.
By the time you are standing in front of your closet, Camille has let herself in with the level of confidence usually reserved for women in Nancy Meyers kitchens.
“Hello?” she calls.
“In my room,” you answer.
She appears a second later holding two coffees and a tote bag that suggests she has wildly misunderstood the assignment.
She takes one look at the clothes spread across your bed and sighs.
“Oh,” she says. “You are spiraling.”
“I am not spiraling.”
She sets the coffees down and squints at a cardigan like it personally insulted her.
“You are considering beige before noon. That is a spiral.”
You are still standing in front of your closet pretending this is a normal amount of pressure for a Tuesday morning when your front door opens.
Not knocks. Opens.
“Hello?” Camille calls, already inside in the tone of someone who has never once considered herself a guest in your home.
“In here,” you call back.
She appears in your doorway a second later holding two coffees and a giant tote bag that suggests she has mistaken this for either a sleepover or a medical emergency.
She stops when she sees the state of your room.
Clothes on the bed.
Shoes on the floor.
You standing in the middle of it all in leggings and a tank top, staring into your closet like the answer to your future might be hidden behind your winter coats.
Camille takes this in and nods once.
“Okay,” she says. “Good. You waited for me before making any irreversible mistakes.”
“I was not making mistakes.”
“You were standing three feet away from a striped button down.”
You glance at the shirt in question.
“It is a nice shirt.”
“It is a shirt for accidentally running into your ex at a farmers market and wanting him to think you own expensive olive oil.”
You stare at her.
“That is alarmingly specific.”
She hands you one of the coffees and walks fully into the room, already scanning the options laid out on your bed with the focus of someone diffusing a bomb.
“What is the plan?” she asks.
“I thought the bookstore on Bleecker, maybe the record store a few blocks down, and then the ferry. Order to be determined.”
She freezes.
Slowly, very slowly, she turns to look at you.
“The ferry?”
You take a sip of coffee like this is not a loaded subject.
“Yes.”
“The boat.”
“Yes.”
“The thing you specifically said would not be involved.”
You try not to smile into the cup. You fail.
“I may have adjusted the itinerary.”
Camille points at you like a prosecutor who has just been handed the final piece of evidence.
“You have to say it.”
“Say what.”
“The line. About how you said there would be no boats and yet, surprise, there is a boat. That is free material. People in movies would kill for dialogue that easy.”
“I am not crowd sourcing my flirting.”
“You are not crowd sourcing it,” she says. “You are being guided by a professional.”
She is already flipping through the hangers now, ruthless and efficient.
“You need to look like yourself,” she says. “But like the version of yourself who gets kissed on ferries.”
“I have never been kissed on a ferry.”
She pulls out a pair of jeans and tosses them onto the bed.
“You have now entered a new chapter of life.”
“I hate when you talk like that.”
“No you do not. It is one of my best qualities.”
She reaches farther into the closet and comes back with a sweater, soft and fitted in that way that feels effortless when it is very much not effortless.
“This,” she says.
You eye it suspiciously.
“That just looks like something I would wear anyway.”
“Exactly,” Camille says. “We are not trying to make you look hot in an unfamiliar way. We are trying to make you look hot in a way that feels emotionally devastating because it appears natural.”
You blink at her.
“I would like you to know that sentence made me tired.”
She ignores you.
“Go put it on.”
You set your coffee down and change while she keeps talking, because silence has never once been her brand.
“Hair down,” she says. “But not too done. Makeup light. Shoes comfortable because if you start limping halfway through lower Manhattan, the romance will die right there on the sidewalk.”
“That feels dramatic.”
“It is not dramatic. Men cannot recover from a woman making bad shoe choices on a date. They do not know what to do with visible suffering.”
You pull the sweater over your head and turn toward the mirror.
Camille steps up beside you, studying your reflection with an expression that is almost annoyingly thoughtful.
Then she nods.
“Yeah,” she says. “That is it.”
You smooth a hand down the front of the sweater.
“It is just jeans and a sweater.”
“Exactly. It looks like you.” She looks at you in the mirror. “Which is the point.”
Something in your chest softens a little at that.
Because underneath all the joking and the coffee and the light interrogation, that is the thing making your stomach feel tight. Not that he is Harry Styles, though obviously that remains absurd in a way your brain may never fully process. It is that today is daytime. Today is real light and real hours and the version of you that exists outside of app messages and nighttime chemistry and one very cinematic street corner.
“I am nervous,” you admit, quieter now.
Camille’s expression changes immediately. Softer. Less amused.
“I know.”
You look at yourself in the mirror again, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, then undoing it because now it looks like you tried.
“What if today is weird?” you ask. “What if last night was just one of those perfect little moments that only works because it is night and cold and everyone is a little bit romantic when they are hungry and under a streetlight.”
Camille leans back against the dresser, folding her arms.
“Then it is weird,” she says. “And you survive. But you do not get to skip the part where something might be good just because there is a chance it could also be disappointing.”
You glance at her.
She shrugs one shoulder.
“Also,” she adds, “if Harry Styles asked me to get on a ferry with him, I would be so unbearable about it that our friendship would not survive. So I need you to go on behalf of the group.”
You laugh, which is exactly what she was aiming for.
She smiles a little and pushes off the dresser.
“Okay,” she says. “Shoes.”
By the time you are fully dressed, the nerves have settled into something more manageable. Still there, still alive, but less like panic and more like energy. Like the feeling right before the first drop on a roller coaster, when your body cannot tell the difference between dread and excitement and decides, generously, to make it both.
You grab your bag and your phone and do a quick sweep of the apartment for the usual things.
Keys.
Wallet.
Lip balm.
Some remaining trace of sanity.
Camille is leaning against the kitchen counter watching you with the solemn expression of someone preparing to launch her only daughter into society.
“I am serious,” she says. “Act normal.”
“I am normal.”
She lets out one short laugh.
“No, you are not. You took him for pizza and then sprinted back down a street to kiss him. You have already left normal behind.”
You open your messages before she can say anything else and type before you can overthink it.
Meet me outside the bookstore on Bleecker at 11?
You stare at it for one second.
Then hit send.
Your stomach immediately drops and flips at the same time, which feels biologically unnecessary.
Camille watches your face.
“You sent it.”
“Yes.”
“You look like you just submitted a college application.”
“That is actually exactly what it feels like.”
Your phone stays stubbornly still for three full seconds, which is enough time for your brain to begin composing twelve separate rejection scenarios.
Then it buzzes.
On my way.
You look down at the screen and try to act like your pulse did not just spike for no reason at all.
Camille sees the smile anyway.
“Oh, you are gone,” she says.
“I am not gone.”
“You are a little gone.”
You slip your phone into your bag.
“I am just showing him around.”
She pushes off the counter and comes over to fix the collar of your coat, because apparently this is happening now.
“Okay,” she says. “Ground rules.”
“There are no ground rules.”
“There absolutely are. One, he is just a person.”
“I know.”
“Two, do not suddenly start talking about your job like it is boring.”
You make a face. “I do not do that.”
Camille gives you a look.
A very long look.
“You literally call your own work uninteresting every time a man with nice hair asks what you do.”
“I do not literally do that.”
“You metaphorically do it, then. Same problem.”
She smooths the front of your coat like she is finishing a sculpture.
“Three,” she says, “if he says something nice to you, do not make a joke or change the subject or act like he is confused. You say thank you like a stable adult woman.”
“That one feels pointed.”
“Because it is.”
You exhale, half laughing, half trying not to spiral again.
“It is just a day,” you say.
Camille opens your apartment door and gestures for you to walk through.
“You ran back and kissed him,” she says. “It has not been just a day for a while.”
You step into the hallway and she follows, pulling the door shut behind you. The two of you head down the stairs together, your footsteps echoing in the stairwell, your body suddenly too aware of itself in every possible way. Your hair. Your coat. Your face. The fact that you have hands.
Right before you reach the building’s front door, Camille catches your arm and turns you toward her.
“Hey.”
Her voice is gentler now.
“Just be yourself. That is clearly who he likes.”
The words land harder than you expect.
You look at her for a second, then down at the stairs.
“I do not really get why,” you admit.
Camille’s mouth softens.
“Yes, you do,” she says. “You just think there is supposed to be more to it.”
You swallow.
Then nod once.
“I will call you later.”
“You better,” she says, immediately back to herself. “I expect details. Specific details. Dialogue. Atmosphere. Emotional damage. Do not come home with a vague summary.”
You laugh and push open the front door.
The city meets you all at once.
Cool air. Car horns. A dog barking from half a block away. Someone dragging a cart over uneven pavement. People with coffees in hand and headphones in and places to be.
It looks like a completely ordinary morning.
Which would be comforting if your heart were not behaving like you are about to walk into an exam you forgot to study for.
You start toward Bleecker, shoving your hands into your coat pockets for warmth, and halfway down the block your phone buzzes again.
You pull it out.
Almost there.
That small smile is back before you can stop it.
Right. Fine.
Maybe you are a little gone.
You get to Bleecker a little early, which is both intentional and deeply uncool of you.
You tell yourself it is because you like being early. Because you are a calm, prepared person who respects time and enjoys a few quiet minutes to herself before meeting someone.
In reality, you just did not trust your legs to walk at a normal pace if you left any later.
So now you are here too soon, walking slower than necessary, pretending to look in store windows so you do not look like someone who arrived early to a date and is now killing time by examining a display of candles she cannot afford.
The street feels warm and awake in that late morning way where everything is moving but nothing feels rushed yet. A guy passes you carrying a tray of coffees like he is transporting something fragile and emotionally significant. Someone else is tying their dog to a bike rack while they run into a shop. Music spills out from an open doorway halfway down the block, something old and scratchy that makes the whole street feel like a movie set.
You slow down a little as you get closer to the bookstore, letting yourself take everything in instead of rushing straight to the door. You like this part of the city. You like that it still feels like itself, like it did not try too hard to become something shiny and new.
You spot him before he sees you.
He is walking toward you from the corner in sunglasses, hands in his jacket pockets, moving at an easy pace like he has nowhere urgent to be, which is probably the rarest luxury he has.
There is a strange, quiet moment where you just watch him for a second.
This is a very surreal thing, you think. To just casually recognize him from half a block away like this is normal. Like he is just a person you are meeting on a Tuesday and not someone whose face you have seen on billboards and magazine covers and the side of buses.
But then he gets closer, and he looks up, and he sees you, and he smiles a little.
And just like that, he is not a billboard anymore. He is just the guy who kissed you under a streetlight and texted you at nine in the morning to make sure you got home safe.
“Hi,” he says when he reaches you.
“Hi,” you say back.
There is no awkward hug. No weird pause where you both try to figure out what version of each other you are supposed to be in daylight. You just fall into step beside each other like you have done this before.
You gesture back toward the bookstore behind you.
“This is the first official stop,” you tell him. “Very important. Very historic. Very me.”
He looks up at the front of the building, at the old sign and the crowded window displays with little handwritten recommendation cards.
“What makes this one special?” he asks.
“It is old,” you say. “Like actually old. Writers used to hang out here. They still do readings in the back sometimes. And if you walk all the way to the rear there is a wall with signed books from people who came through years ago. It just feels like New York in there. Like the version that existed before everything got so expensive and shiny.”
He looks back at the storefront again, like he is seeing it differently now that you said that.
“Alright,” he says. “Lead the way, tour guide.”
You push the door open and the bell above it rings softly as you step inside. The smell hits you immediately. Paper and dust and something like coffee from somewhere in the back. That very specific bookstore smell that feels like quiet and time and stories all mixed together.
He steps in behind you and slows almost right away, looking around at the tall shelves and the narrow aisles and the little handwritten staff notes tucked under certain books.
“You were not kidding,” he says quietly.
You walk slowly, not rushing him, letting him look at everything instead of dragging him from section to section like this is a timed event.
“This place survived everything,” you say. “Rent going up, the internet, big chain bookstores. It just refuses to go away.”
He runs his fingers along the spines of a few books as you pass, reading titles, occasionally pulling one out just to look at the cover before sliding it back into place.
You lead him toward the back where the store opens up a little, a few chairs scattered around and a table stacked with new releases.
“There,” you say, pointing to a wall covered in framed photos and signed book covers. “That is what I was talking about.”
He walks over to it and studies it for a minute, hands in his pockets, leaning in slightly to read some of the names and messages.
“That is really cool,” he says. “It is like a little time capsule.”
“Exactly,” you say. “That is why I like bringing people here. It feels like the city keeps parts of itself hidden in places like this.”
He turns and looks at you then, like he knows you are not just talking about the bookstore anymore.
“You really love this place,” he says.
“Yeah,” you admit. “I do.”
He nods once, then gestures toward the shelves.
“Alright,” he says. “If this is part of the tour, you have to pick a book for me.”
You smile slightly.
“That is a lot of pressure.”
“You picked the pizza,” he says. “I trust your judgment now.”
You walk slowly along the fiction shelf, scanning titles like you have done a hundred times before, until you find one and pull it out. You turn back toward him and hand it over.
“If you want to understand the city,” you say, “start with this one.”
He takes the book from you, looking down at the cover, then back up at you.
“Homework again,” he says.
“Education,” you correct.
He nods like he accepts that and tucks the book under his arm like he is actually going to buy it.
You keep walking, trailing your fingers lightly along the shelves as you pass, occasionally pulling a book out just to look at the cover before putting it back. When you glance over at him again, he is doing the same thing, but more deliberately. He picks one up, reads the back, puts it under his arm with the one you gave him. Then another.
“You are getting a stack,” you say.
He glances down at the books in his arm like he forgot he was holding them.
“I like bookstores,” he says. “This feels dangerous.”
“Financially or emotionally,” you ask.
“Both,” he says.
You smile and turn down another aisle, not really paying attention to what he is picking up, just enjoying the quiet of the place, the way the city noise fades into the background in here.
At one point you double back toward the front and he slows near a table by the window.
“Give me one second,” he says. “I am going to grab one more.”
You nod, distracted by a display near the counter, flipping one of the books over to read the back without really paying attention.
By the time he joins you at the register, he has a small stack in his hands. The one you picked for him and a few others. You recognize one of the covers but not all of them.
“You are committing,” you say.
He shrugs slightly.
“I travel a lot,” he says. “Books make hotels feel less like hotels.”
There is something about that sentence that sticks with you for a second. Something a little lonely around the edges.
You pay for a small bookmark you absolutely did not need while he pays for his books, and you try very hard not to look like you are watching him do something as mundane as buying books like it is weirdly attractive.
When you step back outside onto the sidewalk, the street is busier now, the morning fully awake. Different people, different noise, the same steady hum of the city moving around you.
He steps up beside you again, tucking the bag of books securely in his hand.
“So,” he says, “where to next.”
You glance down the street, then back at him, a small smile starting.
“Now,” you say, “we are getting on a boat.”
He stops walking.
“We said there were no boats involved.”
You keep walking like this is not a big deal and he has no choice but to follow you.
“We might have said that,” you admit.
“You did say that.”
“But,” you continue, glancing over at him, “this one is important.”
“Oh, so now there is an important boat.”
“Yes,” you say. “This is not just any boat. This is a New York boat.”
“That does not explain anything.”
“You will see,” you say. “Have a little faith.”
He shakes his head, but he is smiling, hands in his jacket pockets as he walks beside you, the bag of books swinging lightly at his side.
“I should have known you were going to trick me into something.”
“You trusted the tour guide,” you remind him.
“I did,” he says. “This feels like a betrayal of that trust.”
“It is literally a ferry,” you say. “Relax.”
The two of you walk the rest of the way like that, talking about nothing and everything, the bag of books bumping lightly against his leg as you weave through the city together, and you do not know it yet, but somewhere in that bag is a book he picked out for you. He saw it, thought of you, and added it to the stack without saying a word.
The ferry is already there when you get to the terminal, people moving in a slow, patient line toward the entrance while the boat hums quietly against the dock like it is bored of waiting.
You buy two tickets from the machine and hand him one before he can argue about paying, and the two of you fall into line with everyone else. Tourists with cameras. A woman with a stroller. A man in a suit talking too loudly into a headset. Normal life, just with a skyline in the background.
“You are very calm about this for someone disgusted by men with boats on dating apps,” he says.
“It is just a ferry,” you reply, “I did not say no ferries. That is a completely different sentence.”
“That is the same sentence.”
“It is not,” you say. “It is technically a boat, but emotionally it is a ferry.”
He laughs under his breath and shakes his head as the line moves forward and you both step onto the boat with everyone else.
Instead of going inside, you lead him up the stairs to the open deck. The wind hits you immediately, pushing your hair back off your face, the air colder out here, sharper, cleaner. The city stretches out around you in a way that makes it feel both enormous and very far away at the same time.
You walk over to the railing and lean against it, looking out at the water as the ferry slowly pulls away from the dock. The engines rumble under your feet, low and steady, and the skyline starts to shift, buildings moving past each other, the whole city rearranging itself from this angle.
For a few minutes, neither of you says much. You just stand there next to each other, watching the water, the wind loud in your ears, the boat cutting a steady path across the river.
“It is different from out here,” he says after a while.
“Yeah,” you say. “That is why I wanted you to see it.”
You glance over at him.
“This is my favorite part of the city,” you add. “Out here it feels quiet even when it is not. Like the city finally stops talking for a minute.”
He nods, looking out at the skyline for another moment before he glances down at you. The wind immediately blows your hair straight across your face again and you try to push it back, half laughing.
“Okay,” you say. “The wind is ruining the mysterious tour guide image.”
He smiles and reaches out, his hand closing gently around your arm, pulling you a little closer to his side so you are tucked slightly into him, out of the worst of the wind.
It is such an easy movement, so natural, that you do not even react at first. You just let yourself stand there, close enough to feel the warmth of him through his coat, the fabric of his sleeve brushing yours every time the boat rocks slightly.
“Better,” he says.
“Much,” you reply.
You both look back out at the water again, the city stretching out behind you now, the sun reflecting off the river in bright, broken pieces.
After a minute, without really thinking about it, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.
It is not a big moment. Not dramatic. Not the kind of kiss that belongs under a streetlight or at the end of a movie.
It is small and warm and absentminded, like it is the most natural thing in the world to kiss you just because you are standing there.
And for some reason, that is the one that gets you.
You do not move away. You do not say anything. You just stand there, tucked slightly into his side, looking out at the water while something in your chest pulls tight in a way that feels a little like fear and a lot like something else you are not ready to name yet.
After a while, you look up at him.
He is looking out at the skyline, eyes focused somewhere far away, hair moving in the wind, his expression thoughtful in that quiet way people get when they forget to perform for a minute.
Up close like this, you notice things you did not the other night. The shape of his nose. The curve of his mouth when he is not talking. The way his eyes narrow slightly when he is looking at something far away.
He smells good. Clean and warm and a little like whatever detergent hotels use that always smells better than what you have at home.
And it hits you all at once, fast and a little terrifying.
You are in trouble.
Not the small kind. Not the casual kind where you go on a few dates and it fizzles out and you move on and it becomes a story you tell later like it was funny.
This feels like the kind where you look up one day and realize you fell without ever seeing the exact moment it started.
You are still looking at him when he turns his head and catches you staring.
For a second, neither of you says anything.
You probably should look away. A normal person would look away.
You do not.
“What?” he asks quietly.
You shake your head a little.
“Nothing,” you say, but you are still looking at him.
He studies your face for a second like he is trying to read something there, and then his hand shifts slightly on your arm, his thumb brushing once, absentmindedly, like he does not even realize he is doing it.
The boat rocks gently under your feet and the wind pushes your hair across your face again.
This time he reaches up and tucks it behind your ear, his fingers brushing your cheek for just a second longer than necessary.
Your heart is beating so loud you are almost sure he can hear it over the engine.
“This was a good idea,” he says quietly.
“The ferry?” you ask.
“The tour,” he says. “All of it.”
You swallow and glance out at the water for a second before looking back at him.
“I wanted to show you my version of the city,” you say. “Not the version everyone else sees.”
He nods slightly.
“I like your version better.”
There is a quiet moment that stretches between you then, the kind where something feels like it could be said, but neither of you quite says it yet.
Instead, he just looks at you for another second, then leans down and kisses you.
This kiss is different from the first one.
The streetlight kiss was all nerves and adrenaline and the sudden, reckless decision to run back toward someone instead of away.
This one is slower. Warmer. Certain in a way that makes your stomach flip.
Your hand comes up to the front of his coat without you thinking about it, holding onto the fabric lightly as you kiss him back, the wind and the water and the city all blurring into the background.
When he pulls back, he does not go far. His forehead rests lightly against yours for a second, both of you just standing there, breathing the same cold air, the boat moving steadily under your feet.
“Tour guide,” he says quietly.
“Tourist,” you reply softly.
And you both smile a little, still standing there with the entire city stretched out around you like something waiting to see what happens next.
The rest of the afternoon unfolds easily after the ferry, like the day has found its rhythm and neither of you feels the need to rush it.
You walk when you can, take the subway once, cut through side streets instead of avenues, and you make sure every place you take him feels like somewhere you would still go even if he were not there.
That feels important to you. That he sees your real places. Not the places you think he would be impressed by.
You point things out as you go, little facts and pieces of the city that most people walk past without noticing.
At one corner you point up at an old building and tell him it used to be a silent film theater before it became a pharmacy and then a bank and now it is a clothing store, and that New York buildings never really die, they just become something else.
On another block you show him a tiny park squeezed between two buildings and tell him it used to be where people kept actual horses a hundred years ago, and now it is where people eat lunch and pretend the city is not loud.
You take him into a record store where the floor creaks when you walk and the guy behind the counter does not look up when you come in, and you show him the section where they keep older records and tell him the store has been there since before either of you were born.
He flips through records for a while, occasionally pulling one out and showing it to you. At one point he hands you one and says, “This one,” and you buy it even though you do not own a record player, and when he gives you a look you just say, “I will figure that part out later.”
You walk across a small park where someone is playing saxophone near a fountain and you sit on a bench for a few minutes just listening, not talking, just existing in the same space while the music carries across the trees and people walk their dogs and kids run past with melting ice cream.
At some point you buy pretzels from a street cart and he burns his fingers because he does not believe you when you say they are hot, and you laugh at him and tear off a piece for him like that is a normal thing to do.
You tell him which subway lines are the worst and which ones are weirdly nice and which stations always smell bad no matter how many times they clean them.
You tell him which streets flood when it rains and which diners are open all night and which bridges have the best view if you walk across them at sunset.
By the time the afternoon starts to slip toward evening, you realize you have been talking and walking for hours without really thinking about it, the day stretching out in a way that feels both long and too short at the same time.
You end up down near the water again, leaning against a railing, the sun starting to drop lower so everything looks a little more golden and a little softer than it did that morning.
For a minute neither of you says anything. You just stand there next to each other, watching the water move slowly, boats cutting across in the distance, the skyline glowing faintly in the late afternoon light.
You turn your head and look at him.
“So,” you say. “What do you want to do now.”
He looks out at the water for another second before looking back at you, like he is thinking about the question more seriously than you expected.
“That depends,” he says.
“On what.”
He studies your face for a second before answering.
“On how much time you have left on this tour.”
You lean back against the railing slightly, crossing your arms.
“The tour is very flexible,” you say. “The tour can continue.”
He nods slowly, like he is deciding something, then he looks out at the water again for a second before speaking.
“Have you ever been to Los Angeles?” he asks.
The question catches you a little off guard.
“Once,” you say. “Very briefly. It felt like a place where everyone is either on their way to something important or pretending they are.”
He laughs softly.
“That is actually a very accurate description.”
You glance at him.
“Why.”
He taps his fingers once against the metal railing, like he is trying to decide how to say something.
“I spend a lot of time there,” he says. “When I am not in Manchester. Work mostly. Recording. Meetings. All of that. It is not really home, but I am there a lot.”
You nod slowly.
“I am going back in a few days,” he continues. “And I did not want to ask you this over the app. Or over text.”
There is that feeling again. The one where the air shifts a little and suddenly this does not feel like a casual end of the day conversation anymore.
“That is usually a sign that it is either very good or very bad,” you say.
He smiles a little at that but he still looks a little more serious than he has all day.
“I do not want this to just be New York,” he says.
Your heart does that annoying, painful, hopeful thing all at once.
You do not say anything right away, so he keeps going.
“I know this is a little insane,” he says. “And I know my life is not normal. And I know this started on an app and we have only known each other for a few weeks and most of that was messages and late night walks and pizza.”
You smile faintly at that.
“But,” he says, looking at you now, “I like you. I like talking to you. I like being around you. And I do not want to get on a plane and have this just become a story about a girl I met in New York.”
Your throat feels a little tight suddenly and you look down at your hands for a second before looking back at him.
“So what are you saying,” you ask quietly.
He takes a small breath like he is just going to say it and not overthink it anymore.
“I want you to come visit me,” he says. “In LA. I want to show you my version of the city like you showed me yours.”
For a second the world feels very quiet, like the city noise dropped a level and it is just the two of you standing there by the water with this very big, very simple question sitting between you.
“You are asking me to get on a plane,” you say.
“I am.”
“You are asking me to come to Los Angeles.”
“Yes.”
“You are asking me to enter your world.”
He nods once.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I am.”
You look out at the water again, your mind moving a hundred miles an hour while your body stays very still.
Like two months ago you were going on bad dates and complaining to Camille and writing articles about zoning meetings and now you are standing by the water while a man who splits his life between Manchester and Los Angeles is asking you to get on a plane and see what his world looks like when it is not late night walks and pizza and bookstores.
You let out a small breath and laugh a little, shaking your head.
“My life was so normal like five minutes ago,” you say.
He smiles slightly.
“I know.”
You look back at him.
“This is a big ask,” you say.
“I know,” he says again. “You do not have to answer right now. I just wanted you to know that I do not want this to stop when I leave.”
You study his face for a second, trying to figure out if he realizes how sincere he sounds right now.
“Harry,” you say softly, “this is a little crazy.”
“I know,” he says. “But I think some things are worth being a little crazy for.”
You do not answer right away.
You just stand there next to him by the water, the city moving behind you, the ferry from earlier crossing slowly in the distance, and the question sitting there between you, big and bright and a little terrifying.
And for the first time since this whole thing started, you realize this is not just a cute story anymore.
You look out at the water for a long moment before you answer, watching the way the light hits the surface and breaks apart every time a boat passes through it. Your mind is moving quickly, but the feeling in your chest is strangely calm, like some part of you already knows the answer and is just waiting for the rest of you to catch up.
When you finally look back at him, he is already looking at you, like he has been trying to read your face this whole time.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “I would love to.”
You watch his expression change, just slightly, like something in him relaxes that he was trying not to show was tense in the first place.
“And,” you add, “I appreciate you asking me. And letting me into that part of your life. Because if we are being honest, I am still kind of a stranger.”
He lets out a quiet laugh at that and looks down, shaking his head a little.
“You do not feel like a stranger,” he says.
“I kind of am,” you reply. “A few weeks ago I was just some girl whose friend gave her a Raya invite code and told her to get back out there.”
“Best friend,” he says. “Important distinction. She changed my life a little.”
You laugh.
“She will never recover if she hears you say that.”
“I will thank her personally,” he says.
“You absolutely will not,” you reply quickly. “She would make it her entire personality.”
He smiles at that, then leans back against the railing beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush lightly.
“I like how I feel when I am with you,” he says after a moment. “It is… normal. And I do not get a lot of normal.”
You do not interrupt. You just let him talk.
“I feel like I can relax,” he continues. “Like I do not have to be at a certain level all the time. I do not have to match energy or be interesting or on or anything. I can just be there. And I really like that.”
You look at him for a second, something in your chest pulling tight in that quiet, emotional way that sneaks up on you instead of announcing itself.
“I am glad,” you say. “I think everyone deserves a place where they get to just be a person.”
He nods slightly, then looks down at the bag of books he is still holding. He opens it and reaches inside.
“I got you something,” he says.
You blink.
“You did not have to get me something.”
“I know,” he says. “I wanted to.”
He pulls out one of the books from the bookstore, turning it over once in his hands before holding it out to you.
“This is my favorite,” he says. “Or one of them. I am not sure if you have read it.”
You take the book from him and look down at the cover, running your fingers lightly over the front.
“I have not,” you say, looking back up at him. “What is it about.”
He smiles a little, but it is not his usual easy smile. It is softer. A little more thoughtful.
“It is hard to explain,” he says. “It is one of those books that just kind of… stays with you. I read it the first time when I was younger and it made me feel less alone, I think. I have read it a few times since then, in a lot of different places. Tour buses, hotel rooms, planes. It always feels a little different every time.”
You look back down at the book again, then back at him.
“Why this one for me?” you ask.
He shrugs slightly, but he is still looking at you in that steady way.
“I do not know,” he says. “I saw it on the shelf and I thought of you. Which felt like a good enough reason.”
You swallow, your fingers tightening slightly around the book.
“That is a lot of pressure for me,” you say lightly.
He smiles a little.
“It is not pressure,” he says. “It is just… a piece of me. In paperback.”
That lands somewhere deep in your chest and stays there.
You look down at the book again, then tuck it carefully into your bag like it is something fragile.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
He nods once like that was the right response, then looks back out at the water, the sun lower now, the light warmer, the city starting to shift into evening.
You lean against the railing beside him, your shoulder brushing his again, and for a little while neither of you says anything.
You just stand there together, the city moving around you, the future suddenly this big, unknown thing sitting quietly in front of you.
It feels like the kind of moment you are going to remember later. Not because anything huge is happening, but because everything feels very still and very important all at the same time.
You glance over at him.
“So this is the part of the tour where I am supposed to say something profound about New York,” you say.
He smiles a little. “Do you have something profound prepared.”
“No,” you say. “But if I did, this would be the moment for it.”
He looks out at the skyline again, then back at you.
“I think I get it now,” he says.
“Get what.”
“Why you love it here so much,” he says. “It is loud and busy and a little chaotic, but then you find these quiet pockets. Bookstores and ferries and little parks and record shops. It is like the city is loud on purpose so the quiet parts feel more special.”
You look at him for a second.
“That was actually better than anything I was going to say,” you admit.
He shrugs a little. “I had a good tour guide.”
You smile and look back out at the water again, then let out a small breath.
“You know,” you say, “when Camille gave me that Raya code, I really did not think anything would come from it. I thought I would go on a few bad dates, get a few good stories, and then delete the app again.”
“Yeah?” he says.
“Yeah,” you say. “I did not think I would end up on a ferry with a man who lives in Manchester and spends half his time in Los Angeles asking me to get on a plane.”
He laughs quietly.
“When you say it like that, it does sound a bit ridiculous.”
“It is a bit ridiculous,” you say. “But not in a bad way.”
He turns slightly so he is facing you more.
“I am really glad I met you,” he says.
The way he says it is so simple and so honest that it catches you off guard a little.
“I am really glad I met you too,” you say.
For a second you both just stand there looking at each other, the kind of look that feels like a conversation all by itself.
Then you bump his shoulder lightly with yours.
“So,” you say, “logistically, how does this work now. Do I just get on a plane and hope you are not secretly a serial killer.”
He laughs.
“I guess there is a certain amount of trust involved.”
“Good,” you say. “I love making large life decisions based on vibes.”
“I will send you my address,” he says. “That usually helps with the serial killer concern.”
“Very comforting,” you reply.
He smiles, then reaches over and takes your hand like it is the most natural thing in the world. Like it has been there the whole day and you just did not notice until now.
You look down at your hands for a second, then back up at him.
“This is a little crazy,” you say again, but this time you are smiling when you say it.
“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”
You squeeze his hand once, lightly.
“Okay,” you say. “Then I guess I am going to Los Angeles.”
He smiles at that, a real one this time, the kind that reaches all the way to his eyes.
“Okay,” he says. “Then I guess you are.”
You stand there for a few more minutes, talking about small things again. Flights and how long he will be there and how you have never really seen Los Angeles properly and how he has never really gotten used to the traffic and how Manchester will always feel more like home than anywhere else.
Eventually the sun drops lower and the air gets colder and the light starts to fade out of the sky.
You push yourself off the railing.
“Alright,” you say. “The tour guide is getting cold and hungry, which means the tour is officially over.”
He looks at you.
“Best tour I have ever had,” he says.
“That is because I did not take you to Times Square,” you reply.
“Thank you for that,” he says seriously. “I do not think I would have recovered.”
You laugh and start walking, and he falls into step beside you like he has been doing it for years instead of one day.
As you walk, your shoulder brushes his, then again, and then his hand finds yours again without either of you really acknowledging it.
By the time you get to the subway entrance, you both slow down a little, like neither of you is in a huge rush to be the one who says goodbye first.
“This is me,” you say, gesturing toward the stairs.
He nods, but he does not let go of your hand yet.
“I will text you,” he says.
“You better,” you reply.
He smiles a little, then leans down and kisses you. Not like the ferry. Not like the streetlight. Just a soft, warm, quick kiss that feels like a promise instead of a question.
When he pulls back, he presses his forehead lightly against yours for a second.
“Thank you for today,” he says.
“You are welcome,” you say. “Thank you for the book.”
He smiles.
“Read it on the plane,” he says.
You look at him for a second.
“Okay,” you say.
You squeeze his hand once more, then let go and step back toward the subway entrance. You walk down a few steps, then turn back around because apparently that is just who you are now, a person who turns around.
He is still standing there, watching you.
You lift the book slightly out of your bag and hold it up.
“I will text you when I finish it,” you call.
“I will be waiting,” he says.
You smile, then turn and head down into the subway, the sound of the city fading into the underground hum, the book heavy in your bag, your heart beating a little too fast, your life feeling like it quietly split into a before and an after sometime between a bookstore, a ferry, and a boy who handed you a piece of himself in paperback.
After a brutal week alone with their newborn, one small broken rule leads to a fight that forces them to admit new parenthood is harder than they thought.
Word count: 7.2k
Content warning: talks of depression
By the time Harry gets home, the house looks like a place where someone has been surviving the day instead of living it.
There are clean bottles drying on a towel, but more soaking in the sink. A basket of tiny laundry sits on the couch, half folded, half just… there. A burp cloth is draped over the back of a chair like you dropped it and never came back for it.
Rosie is in her little bouncer on the floor in the living room, her legs kicking every few seconds, her attention completely locked on the television.
The TV is playing some soft baby show. Gentle music. Slow voices. Bright colors moving across the screen.
It is not something you ever thought you would have on.
But it has been a week.
A week of her not sleeping unless she is on you. A week of her crying every time you put her down. A week of you eating standing up, showering in three minute intervals, and feeling like the walls get a little quieter and a little louder at the same time.
Right now she is calm. Wide eyed. Quiet.
And for the first time today, you are not holding her.
You are in the kitchen, rinsing out a bottle, enjoying the most dangerous thing in the world to a new mother.
Silence.
You hear the front door open.
Then his voice, warm and familiar and so normal that it almost makes you want to cry.
“Hey,” he calls out. “Where are my girls?”
Your chest does a weird tight little squeeze. You didn’t realize how tired you were of doing this alone until the second you hear him.
“In here,” you call back, trying to sound normal, like everything is normal, like this week did not chew you up and spit you back out.
You hear his bag hit the floor. His shoes by the door. His footsteps getting closer, that familiar rhythm you could pick out of a crowd.
He walks into the living room first.
And he stops.
Not dramatically. Not angrily. He just stops when he sees Rosie in her bouncer.
Watching TV.
You can’t see his face from the kitchen, but you know that pause. You know that quiet.
He walks over to her anyway, because of course he does, and crouches down in front of the bouncer.
“Hi, Rosie Posie,” he says softly.
Her whole face lights up when she sees him. Her legs start kicking like crazy, her little arms waving, that huge gummy smile that makes both of you feel like the most important people in the world.
You hear him laugh quietly.
“There she is,” he murmurs. “There’s my girl.”
You lean against the counter for a second and just watch them from the kitchen doorway. Him talking to her in that soft voice he only uses for her. Her staring at him like the sun rose just because he walked into the room.
For a second, everything feels okay.
Then he glances up at the TV.
Then back at you.
He doesn’t yell. That would almost be easier.
He just says, very calm, very even,
“I thought we said no telly.”
And immediately, you feel something in your chest tighten.
Not guilt. Not exactly.
Something closer to exhaustion.
It had been one of those rare slow mornings a few months after Rosie was born. The kind where the house was quiet, the light was soft, and nobody was crying.
Rosie was asleep on Harry’s chest, her tiny body rising and falling with his breathing while he sat on the couch, too scared to move in case he woke her. You were sitting on the other end with a cup of coffee that had already gone cold, just watching them.
He looked down at her like he could not quite believe she was real.
“She’s so little,” he said quietly, like if he spoke too loud she might disappear.
“I know,” you said. “She makes me nervous.”
He smiled a little at that, still looking at her. “I just keep thinking about all the things that are going to get to her. Eventually.”
You frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”
“Everything,” he said. “Phones and the internet and people and cameras and all of it. I know we can’t stop all of it. But I just… I don’t know. I want her to be little for as long as she can.”
You pulled your legs up under you on the couch, listening.
He was quiet for a minute, then he said, “I don’t want her in front of screens all the time. I see it everywhere now. Kids at restaurants with iPads, kids on phones before they can even talk properly. I just don’t want that for her.”
You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”
“I want her to read and play and be outside and be bored sometimes,” he said. “I want her to talk to us. Not just stare at a screen, you know?”
You watched the way his hand rested so carefully on Rosie’s back, like he thought if he pressed too hard she might break.
“We can do no screens,” you said. “That’s fine. She’s a baby anyway. She doesn’t need it.”
He looked up at you then, like he was making sure you really meant it. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you said. “No telly. No iPad kid. We’ll be one of those annoying families.”
He laughed quietly. “We already are.”
You smiled a little. “It’ll be easier while you’re home anyway.”
The second you said it, you both felt it. That quiet understanding that his being home all the time was not permanent.
He looked back down at Rosie. “I know I won’t always be here like this,” he said. “But I want us to be on the same page. Even when I’m gone. Especially when I’m gone.”
That part had mattered to him. You could hear it in his voice.
“Okay,” you said softly. “We’ll be on the same page.”
He leaned over carefully so he would not wake her and kissed your temple.
“Thank you,” he said. “I know it’s more work for you when I’m not here. I know that.”
At the time, you believed that sentence would protect you later.
I know it’s more work for you when I’m not here.
You did not know that a few months later, you would be standing in the kitchen, exhausted, while your baby watched a baby show for ten minutes of quiet, and he would be standing in the living room saying,
“I thought we said no telly.”
And that sentence would feel very far away.
You stand there for a second after he says it.
You dry your hands on a towel, buying yourself a few seconds, then walk into the living room. Rosie is still kicking happily in her bouncer, completely unaware that her parents are about to have their first real fight since she was born.
“Uh, yeah,” you say. “Yeah. I know. It’s just been a rough week.”
He nods once, like he hears you, but he still reaches over and grabs the remote and turns the TV off. The room goes quiet except for Rosie’s little noises and the hum of the house.
“Well,” he says, not mean, not loud, just that calm voice he uses when he thinks he’s being reasonable, “maybe next time you could try something different.”
You look at him.
Not dramatic. Not angry. Just tired and confused.
“What?”
He looks at you like he doesn’t understand why you’re looking at him like that. “What?”
You let out a small breath that is almost a laugh but not really. “I did try something different. I tried everything.”
He crosses his arms lightly, not in a mean way, more like he’s settling into a conversation he thinks is logical. “Okay, I’m just saying we agreed no screens.”
“I know what we agreed,” you say, and you can hear your voice starting to get tight. “I was here when we agreed it.”
“I’m not saying you weren’t,” he says. “I’m just saying we said no telly.”
You stare at him for a second, and you can actually feel the week sitting on your shoulders. The no sleep. The crying. The being alone in the house for days. The same walls. The same routine. The same tiny person who needs you every second.
And he is standing there, after being gone for a week, telling you maybe you should try something different.
You let out a quiet, tired little laugh and shake your head.
“Right,” you say. “Sorry. Next time she screams for three hours straight and I haven’t eaten and I haven’t sat down all day, I’ll just try something different. Don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”
There it is.
The snide comment.
The second it leaves your mouth, the room feels different.
He looks at you, really looks at you now, and his jaw tightens just a little.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “You don’t have to be like that.”
And normally, maybe you wouldn’t be.
Normally you would take a breath. Normally you would explain it better. Normally you would not feel like you are being graded in your own house after a week of doing everything by yourself.
But you are so tired.
So tired that your eyes start burning before you even realize you are about to cry, which only makes you angrier because now it looks like you are crying over the TV when you are not crying about the TV at all.
You let out a short laugh, but there is nothing funny about it.
“Like what?” you ask. “Like I had a hard week?”
“I didn’t say you didn’t have a hard week,” he says, a little more defensive now. “I’m just saying we agreed on something and I come home and she’s sitting in front of the telly.”
“And I’m telling you it was a bad week,” you say, your voice tighter now. “A really really bad week, Harry.”
He runs a hand through his hair, already looking frustrated. “Okay, but you could have called me. We could have talked about it instead of just changing the plan.”
And that’s it. That’s the sentence that does it.
Because in your head you hear, you should have handled this better.
You stare at him and you can actually feel the moment your patience snaps.
“You weren’t here,” you say.
The room goes very quiet.
He blinks a little, like he’s not sure he heard you right. “What?”
“You weren’t here,” you repeat, louder now. “You don’t understand what it was like this week. You don’t. You get to come home and be the fun one and the calm one and make comments about the TV, but you weren’t here when she wouldn’t stop crying and I hadn’t slept and I was walking around the house at three in the morning trying not to lose my mind.”
His face changes. Not angry. Hurt.
“I know I wasn’t here,” he says quietly.
“No, you don’t,” you say, and now you are crying but you are too far in to stop. “You don’t know what it’s like to be alone with a baby that needs you every second and there’s no one to tap out with and no one to hand her to and no one to even talk to. So yeah. She watched a stupid show for ten minutes so I could wash bottles without someone crying in my ear or hanging off my breast. I’m sorry I broke the rule.”
He just looks at you for a second. Really looks at you. Like he does not recognize the conversation anymore.
Then he nods once.
“Right,” he says.
Just that. Right.
It is worse than if he yelled.
He walks past you into the living room and unbuckles Rosie from her bouncer. She immediately grabs onto his shirt, still smiling, still happy, because to her this is the best day ever. Dad is home.
He picks her up and rests her against his shoulder, gently patting her back.
“C’mon, Rosie,” he says softly. “Let’s give Mum a break, yeah? Since I’m never here and I don’t know anything.”
There it is.
The passive aggressive comment.
It lands exactly how he meant it to.
You turn around immediately. “That’s so unfair.”
And now you are both standing there, hurt and tired and defensive, with a baby between you who has no idea why the air in the room suddenly feels so heavy.
He’s still holding Rosie against his shoulder, gently swaying a little without even thinking about it. She’s playing with the collar of his shirt, perfectly content, like she can’t feel the tension stretched tight between the two of you.
He looks at you, tired and irritated and hurt all at the same time.
“Unfair?” he says. “You want to talk about unfair?”
You cross your arms, already defensive again. “Yes. Unfair. That was a cheap shot and you know it.”
He lets out a short breath through his nose and shifts Rosie a little higher on his shoulder when she starts to slide.
“Right,” he says. “Because what you said wasn’t?”
You blink at him. “What did I say?”
“You said I don’t understand and I’m not here,” he says. “You don’t think that’s a cheap shot?”
You open your mouth, then close it again, because you did say that. But it didn’t feel like a cheap shot when you said it. It felt like the truth.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, but even to your own ears it sounds weak.
“How did you mean it then?” he asks, not raising his voice, which somehow makes it worse. “Because it sounded like you were saying I just disappear and then come home and start criticizing you.”
You rub your forehead with your fingers, suddenly feeling exhausted down to your bones. “I am not criticizing you, Harry. I’m trying to tell you I had a horrible week and I needed ten minutes where no one was crying.”
“And I’m not criticizing you,” he says. “I’m reminding you we agreed on something for her.”
You look at him for a long second, and you can feel it. This conversation is not going to get better right now. You are too tired. He is too defensive. Every sentence is just making it worse.
So you do the only thing you can think of to keep from saying something really mean.
You step around him and grab your water off the counter.
“I’m going to take a shower,” you say quietly.
He doesn’t answer right away.
You walk toward the hallway, then stop and turn back around, because even though you’re mad, you’re still her mom and you still love him and you still run this house together.
“Call me if you need me,” you say. “Or if she’s hungry. There’s a bottle of breast milk in the fridge from earlier.”
He nods once. “Yeah. Okay.”
You stand there for a second like you want to say something else. Like maybe you want him to say sorry. Or ask if you’re okay. Or say he didn’t mean it like that.
But he just keeps gently patting Rosie’s back, looking down at her instead of at you.
So you nod once too, even though your throat feels tight again.
Then you walk down the hall, into the bathroom, and close the door.
The second the shower turns on, the house goes quiet again.
And in the kitchen, Harry stands there holding Rosie, listening to the sound of the shower running.
He knows that did not go how it was supposed to go.
He looks down at Rosie, who is now trying to chew on his shirt.
“Yeah,” he murmurs to her quietly. “I think I messed that up a bit, didn’t I?”
Rosie just smiles at him like he’s still the best person she’s ever seen.
The bathroom fills with steam faster than you expect, and you step under the water almost the second it gets warm, like you cannot get close enough to it.
For a few seconds, you just stand there and let the water hit the back of your neck. You do not move. You do not wash your hair. You do not reach for the soap. You just stand there and breathe.
And then, without any warning, you start crying.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just that quiet crying where your face scrunches up and you press the heel of your hand into your eye like that might stop it.
You are not crying about the TV.
You are crying because this week was horrible and it feels like Harry isn’t trying to understand.
Because Rosie would not sleep unless she was on your chest and every time you tried to put her down, she woke up screaming like you had abandoned her. Because you ate crackers over the sink twice and called it lunch. Because you tried to shower one day and she cried so hard in the other room you got out with shampoo still in your hair.
Because you love her so much it scares you, but sometimes you miss being a person who could finish a cup of coffee while it was still hot.
You lean your forehead against the cool tile and close your eyes.
You think about the conversation months ago. The soft morning light. Rosie asleep on his chest. Him saying he just wanted her to be little for as long as possible. No screens. More books. More outside. More talking.
You had meant it when you agreed. You still mean it. You tried to read to her, take her outside on a walk, and talk to her but nothing helped.
But he was there when you agreed.
He was there to hold her when she cried. There to say, “I’ve got her, go take a shower.” There to order dinner when neither of you had the energy to cook. There to sit on the couch with you at night and say, “We survived today.” before giving you a high-five.
This week, there was no one to say we survived today. No one to high-five.
It was just you, walking around the house in the dark with a crying baby, whispering, “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” even when you were not sure it was.
The water runs down your face, mixing with the tears, and you let out a shaky breath.
You feel guilty.
That’s the worst part.
Not just tired. Not just overwhelmed. Guilty.
Like you failed some test. Like he left for a week and came back and the one rule you had, the one thing he really cared about, you broke it.
Even if it was only for a few minutes.
Even if it was because you felt like you were going to lose your mind if you heard one more minute of crying.
You slide down a little so your back is against the tile and you bring your knees up slightly, just standing there under the water like you are trying to hold yourself together.
You keep hearing it in your head.
“Well maybe next time you could try something different.”
You whisper it out loud, not even realizing you are doing it.
“Try something different,” you mumble, your voice cracking a little. “I tried everything.”
And the worst part is you know he loves you.
You know he loves Rosie.
You know he did not mean to make you feel like this.
But that does not mean it did not hurt.
And out in the kitchen, he is holding your baby like he did something wrong.
And in here, you are crying in the shower because you are so tired and you miss your husband and he is in the next room.
You do not know how long you stay there.
Long enough that the mirror is completely fogged. Long enough that the water starts to run a little cooler but you do not reach to fix it. Long enough that the crying stops and you are just standing there feeling… quiet.
Too quiet.
You lean your head back against the tile and stare up at the ceiling, water running over your face, and you have this thought that you do not like.
I don’t feel like myself.
It kind of sneaks in, that thought. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just a quiet, uncomfortable realization.
You try to remember the last time you did something that was just for you. Not laundry. Not bottles. Not grocery shopping. Not trying to get a baby to sleep. Something that made you feel like you, not just like someone’s mom.
You cannot think of anything.
And then you think about the last week. How quiet the house felt at night. How you would finally get Rosie to sleep and then just sit on the couch and stare at nothing because you were too tired to watch anything, too tired to read, too tired to even text anyone back.
You think about how you did not tell Harry how bad this week actually was, because every time you talked to him he sounded so happy to be back in the studio, so excited about the music, and you did not want to be the person on the phone who sounded like she was drowning while he was finally coming up for air after his break.
So every time he asked, “Everything okay at home?” you said, “Yeah. We’re good. Just tired.”
Just tired.
You swallow hard and close your eyes.
“I think something’s wrong with me,” you whisper, so quiet the water almost swallows the words.
Not wrong with you like you do not love your baby.
You love Rosie so much it physically hurts sometimes.
Wrong like you feel sad and you do not have a good reason. Wrong like you feel overwhelmed by tiny things. Wrong like you feel lonely in a house that has everything you ever wanted in it.
You rub your face with both hands and take a shaky breath.
“Get it together,” you mumble to yourself. “You’re fine. You’re just tired.”
But the thought is there now, and you cannot really push it away again.
Maybe you are a little depressed.
Maybe this is harder than you thought it was going to be.
Maybe you needed help this week and you did not ask for it.
You stand there a few more minutes, then finally reach over and turn the water off. The silence after the shower is loud. You wrap a towel around yourself and just stand there for a second, staring at your reflection in the foggy mirror.
You look tired. Not just sleepy. Tired in your eyes. Tired in your face.
You wipe a small circle in the fog with your hand and look at yourself.
“I’m trying,” you say quietly to the girl in the mirror. “I am trying really hard.”
Out in the living room, Harry is sitting on the couch with Rosie lying on his chest again, her head tucked under his chin, his hand resting on her back.
The TV is off. The house is quiet except for the faint sound of the shower running down the hall.
He stares at nothing for a while, just absentmindedly rubbing small circles on Rosie’s back. She makes a little happy noise and grabs onto his shirt again, like she is making sure he is real and not going anywhere.
“I know,” he murmurs to her. “I know. I missed you too.”
He presses a kiss to the top of her head and closes his eyes for a second.
Then he hears it again in his head.
“You weren’t here. You don’t understand.”
He exhales slowly through his nose.
“I know I wasn’t here,” he says quietly, more to himself than to her. “I know.”
He looks around the house a little. At the laundry basket. The bottles. The burp cloth on the chair. The half folded baby clothes.
Things he did not really see when he walked in because all he saw was the TV.
He adjusts Rosie slightly when she squirms, and he says softly, “Was Mum having a hard week, huh?”
Rosie just blinks up at him.
He swallows a little and leans his head back against the couch.
“I think I came in a bit hot,” he admits quietly. “I just… I don’t want to miss everything, you know? I don’t want to be gone and then come back and things are different and I didn’t even notice when it changed.”
He looks down at Rosie again.
“But I think I made her feel like she was doing something wrong,” he says. “And I don’t think she’s doing anything wrong. I think she’s just tired.”
He sits there for a long time, just holding her, listening to the quiet house, and for the first time since he walked in, he is not thinking about the TV.
He is thinking about you standing in the kitchen, looking at him like you were too tired to even defend yourself properly.
And he starts to feel a little bit sick about the way he said it.
“I think I hurt her feelings,” he says softly to Rosie.
Rosie responds by spitting a little bit of drool on his shirt.
He huffs a small laugh. “Yeah. I probably deserved that.”
He looks toward the hallway, then back down at his daughter.
“Alright,” he says quietly. “Let’s see if we can fix this later, yeah? But maybe not right away. I think Mum’s really upset.”
He presses another kiss to Rosie’s head and just sits there.
After a while, Rosie starts doing that thing where her eyes get heavy but she is still fighting it, her little fists opening and closing against his shirt, her head getting heavier on his chest.
“Yeah,” he murmurs softly. “You’re knackered, aren’t you?”
He stands up slowly, careful not to wake her fully, and walks down the hall to her room. The door creaks a little when he pushes it open and he freezes for a second, waiting to see if her eyes pop open.
They don’t.
He walks over to the crib and lowers her down slowly, one hand under her head, one on her back, the way you showed him a hundred times. She squirms a little, makes a small noise, then settles, her tiny mouth falling open as she drifts off.
He stands there for a minute, just looking at her.
It still hits him sometimes out of nowhere.
That’s my kid.
He gently pulls the blanket up a little, then turns on the small monitor and sets it on the dresser. When he walks back out into the hallway, he can hear the shower is off now. The bathroom door is still closed.
He looks at it for a second like he’s thinking about knocking, then decides against it.
Instead, he walks back into the kitchen.
And this time, he really looks around.
Not the way you look at your house when you live in it. The way you look at a place when you’ve been gone and you’re trying to figure out what happened while you weren’t there.
There are bottles everywhere. Not dirty, just… everywhere. On the counter. On the drying rack. One on the coffee table. A burp cloth on the arm of the couch. Tiny socks that somehow ended up near the TV stand.
He opens the fridge to put the milk away and sees containers of food that look like they were eaten straight out of, not plated. A half drunk cup of coffee. Another bottle.
He closes the fridge slowly.
“Jesus,” he mutters quietly to himself.
Not in a judgmental way. In a I did not realize it looked like this way.
He rolls up his sleeves and starts with the sink. He rinses the bottles, lines them up, washes what is in there. Wipes down the counter. Throws the burp cloths into a small pile. Folds the tiny laundry on the couch the way he has seen you do it, even though he is not very good at folding things that are that small.
Every few minutes, he glances down the hallway toward the bedroom and the bathroom, like he is waiting for you to come out.
But you don’t.
So he just keeps cleaning. Quietly. Not making a big deal out of it. Not announcing it. Just… doing it.
At one point he picks up one of Rosie’s tiny pink socks and just looks at it, shaking his head a little to himself.
“She’s so small,” he murmurs.
Then he looks around the house again, at all the little signs of your week. The survival mode. The half done things. The evidence that you were doing everything by yourself.
He leans his hands on the counter and stares down at the sink for a long moment.
“I really messed that up,” he says quietly to the empty kitchen.
And for the first time since he got home, he is not thinking about the TV at all.
He is thinking about you standing there saying, You weren’t here.
And now, looking at the house, he finally understands what you meant.
When you finally open the bathroom door, the house is quiet.
That is the first thing you notice.
Not baby quiet. Not TV quiet. Real quiet.
You walk down the hallway slowly, towel still wrapped around your hair, and when you step into the living room you stop for a second.
The laundry that was on the couch is folded. Not perfectly, but folded. The bottles that were in the sink are clean and lined up on a towel. The counters are wiped down. The burp cloths are in a neat little stack.
You just stand there for a second, taking it in.
Harry is in the kitchen, leaning back against the counter, scrolling on his phone but not really looking at it. He looks up when he hears you.
For a second, neither of you says anything.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
“Hey,” you say back.
There is this strange, fragile feeling in the room now. Like if either of you says the wrong thing, it is all going to snap again.
He nods toward the hallway. “She’s down. She fell asleep pretty quick.”
You nod. “Okay. Good.”
Another small silence.
He pushes himself off the counter like he is about to say something, and you can see it on his face. He wants to talk. He wants to fix it. He wants to say something about earlier.
But you are so tired.
Not just physically. Tired in your chest. Tired in your head. Tired in that place where conversations like this take energy that you just do not have right now.
So you speak first.
“I love you,” you say.
It clearly catches him off guard. His face softens immediately. “I love you too.”
You nod once, like you just needed to say it out loud so he knew this was not bigger than that.
“I’m just really tired,” you say quietly. “I think I’m going to take a nap… if that’s okay.”
He nods right away. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Go lay down.”
You hesitate for a second, then add, “Can you just… listen for her? And there’s bottles in the fridge. She’ll probably wake up in like an hour or so.”
“Yeah,” he says again, softer this time. “I’ve got her. Don’t worry about anything. Just go to sleep.”
You nod, and you start to walk past him, but he reaches out gently and touches your arm, not grabbing, just stopping you for a second.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
You look at him but you do not say anything.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t… I didn’t think before I said that. About the TV. I just saw it and I reacted. I’m sorry.”
Your throat tightens a little, because you can tell he means it.
But you are still too tired to have the whole conversation. Too tired to cry again. Too tired to explain everything that has been sitting in your chest all week.
So you just nod a little.
“I know,” you say softly. “I know you didn’t mean it like that.”
And you do know.
You squeeze his hand once, then let go.
“I’m going to sleep for a bit,” you say again.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll be here.”
You walk into the bedroom, close the door, and for the first time in a week, you lay down in the middle of the day while someone else is in the house to listen for the baby.
In the kitchen, Harry stands there for a long moment after you close the door, just looking down the hallway.
Then he quietly starts making a bottle and sets it in the fridge for later, just in case.
And every few minutes, he checks the monitor.
And he lets you sleep.
A few hours pass quietly.
Harry keeps the monitor next to him the whole time, the volume low while he moves around the house, answering a couple emails, folding the rest of the tiny laundry, wiping down the counters again even though they are already clean.
At some point he checks the time and realizes you have been asleep for almost three hours.
“Yeah,” he mutters to himself. “You needed that.”
He orders dinner from your favorite takeout place. The one you always get when you are too tired to cook and say, “I don’t even care, just order for me.” He does not even have to ask what you want. He just orders your usual.
Right as the delivery app says the driver is two minutes away, Rosie starts crying over the monitor.
He goes and gets her from the crib, her face all scrunched and warm from sleep, her little hands grabbing at his shirt while he walks her back into the living room.
“I know,” he murmurs, bouncing her gently. “I know. You’re hungry. Tough timing, yeah? Give me one second.”
The doorbell rings while he is still trying to settle her, so he opens the door with Rosie on his hip, signs for the food, thanks the delivery guy, and carries the bags to the kitchen table.
The house smells like warm takeout almost immediately.
Rosie is properly crying now, that hungry cry that is not dramatic but very insistent, so he grabs a bottle from the fridge and warms it while holding her with one arm.
“Alright, alright,” he says softly. “I’m moving as fast as I can. You’re very bossy for someone who can’t even hold her own bottle yet.”
He feeds her in the living room, the lamp on, the rest of the house dim and quiet. Halfway through the bottle, he hears something faint down the hallway.
Your phone.
The soft, familiar sound of TikTok videos playing quietly.
He glances down the hallway, then back at Rosie.
“Mum’s awake,” he says softly. “That’s a good sign.”
After Rosie finishes the bottle and burps, he walks down the hallway and stops outside the bedroom door. He can hear the faint sound of a video and you shifting around in the bed.
He knocks gently on the door.
“Yeah?” you call.
“Can I come in?” he asks.
“Yeah, come in.”
He opens the door and steps inside, Rosie on his hip.
You are sitting up in bed, pillows behind you, blanket over your legs, your hair a little messy from sleep, phone still in your hand. You look… better. Still tired, but not like you are about to cry anymore.
When you see Rosie, your whole face softens immediately.
“There’s my girl,” you say, setting your phone down and reaching your arms out for her.
Rosie immediately leans toward you, like she has been waiting for this exact moment.
Harry walks over and carefully hands her to you, and the second she is in your arms, she relaxes against your chest like that is where she belongs.
You press a kiss to the top of her head and close your eyes for a second.
“Hi, Rosie,” you murmur. “Did you have a nice nap with Dad?”
Harry stands there for a second, watching the two of you, then he says quietly, “I ordered dinner. From that place you like.”
You look up at him, a little surprised. “You did?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Figured you wouldn’t want to cook.”
You let out a small, tired laugh. “You figured right.”
There is a small pause, then you say softly, “Thank you. For letting me sleep.”
“Of course,” he says. “You needed it.”
Another one of those quiet, fragile silences settles in. Not as sharp as before. But not completely normal yet either.
Rosie makes a small happy noise against your chest and you absentmindedly rock her a little.
Harry shifts his weight slightly, like he is trying to figure out how to say what he wants to say without starting another fight.
“I cleaned up a bit,” he says. “I didn’t know where everything went, so… if I put stuff in the wrong place, that’s why.”
You look at him for a second, then glance past him toward the hallway, like you are remembering how the house looked earlier.
“I noticed,” you say quietly. “Thank you.”
He nods once. “Yeah.”
He is still standing there, like he does not really want to leave the room yet.
And you are sitting there on the bed, holding Rosie, looking at him like you both know you still need to talk about it.
Just not in the same way as before.
You adjust Rosie on your chest and shift toward the edge of the bed.
“Do you want me to come out there?” you ask. “Or do you want to eat in here?”
He shakes his head slightly. “No, come sit on the couch. We haven’t sat on the couch together in like a week.”
You give a small smile at that, because it’s true. The couch used to be where you ended every night together. Now it feels like a place you pass through on the way to do something else.
“Okay,” you say. “Let me just change her diaper really quick.”
“I’ll grab the food,” he says.
You stand up carefully with Rosie, who immediately makes a small protesting noise at being moved.
“I know,” you murmur to her. “You hate outfit changes, diaper changes, being slightly inconvenienced in any way. Very hard life you have.”
Harry huffs a quiet laugh and walks back toward the kitchen while you take Rosie to the nursery. You change her diaper, put her in a soft little sleeper, and by the time you come back out, the coffee table is covered in takeout containers, napkins, and two drinks.
He is sitting on the couch waiting, not eating yet.
You notice that immediately.
“You didn’t start?” you ask.
He shakes his head. “I was waiting for you.”
You sit down on the couch next to him, tucking your legs under you, settling Rosie against your chest again. She squirms for a minute, then relaxes, her cheek pressed against you.
You both open your containers and start eating, the TV still off, the room lit by just the lamp in the corner.
It feels quiet in a different way now. Not angry quiet. Not sad quiet. Just… careful.
After a few minutes, you say softly, “This is really good.”
“Yeah,” he says. “You always get the same thing.”
“It’s because it’s the best thing,” you say.
He smiles a little. “I know.”
You eat in silence for another minute, then he sets his fork down and leans back into the couch, looking at you but not in a confrontational way. Just… like he wants to understand.
“Can we talk about earlier?” he asks gently.
You look down at Rosie, brushing your thumb lightly over her back, thinking for a second.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “We should probably talk about it.”
And this time, it does not feel like the start of a fight.
It feels like the start of a real conversation.
He does not start with the TV this time.
He just looks at you for a minute and says quietly, “Were you really having that bad of a week?”
You let out a small breath through your nose and look down at Rosie, who is now asleep and warm and heavy against you.
“Yeah,” you say. “I really was.”
He nods slowly, like he is telling himself to just listen this time.
“She wouldn’t sleep,” you say. “Not during the day, not at night. Unless she was on me. And every time I put her down she’d wake up screaming. I felt like I was doing something wrong, like I couldn’t figure out what she needed.”
He does not interrupt. He just watches you and listens.
“I was so tired, Harry,” you continue quietly. “Like, so tired I felt sick. And the house was a mess and I didn’t want to tell you how bad it was because you sounded so happy to be back in the studio and I didn’t want to be the person on the phone ruining that.”
His face changes a little at that. “You wouldn’t ruin that.”
“I know,” you say. “But I felt like I would. So every time you asked how we were, I just said we were good. And we are good. I just… had a really hard week.”
He nods again, slower this time.
“And today,” you say, “she was crying and I was trying to wash bottles and I realized I hadn’t eaten and I hadn’t sat down and I just… I just needed ten minutes where no one needed me. So I put that show on and she stopped crying and I just stood in the kitchen and it was quiet and I felt like a human being for like ten minutes.”
Your voice gets a little tight at the end and you look down so you do not cry again.
For a minute, he does not say anything.
Then he says quietly, “I’m sorry.”
You look up at him.
“I shouldn’t have walked in and said it like that,” he says. “I didn’t even ask how you were. I just saw the TV and went straight into dad mode.”
You give a small, tired smile. “You did go straight into dad mode.”
He huffs a quiet breath. “I think I panic a little. That I’m going to miss things. Or that I’m not here and then I come home and something’s different and I didn’t even know when it changed.”
You look at him more carefully now. “Nothing changed, Harry. I just had a bad week.”
“I know that now,” he says. “I didn’t know that when I walked in. I just saw the TV and thought we were already breaking the rules and I wasn’t even here for it.”
You nod a little. That makes sense in a sad kind of way.
After a small pause, you say quietly, “I think I’m a little depressed.”
The words kind of just sit there between you.
He does not laugh. He does not brush it off. He does not say you are being dramatic.
He leans forward slightly, his elbows on his knees.
“Yeah?” he says softly.
You nod, staring down at Rosie’s tiny hand.
“I don’t feel like myself,” you say. “I love her so much. I love you. I love this. But sometimes I feel really sad and I don’t know why. And I feel lonely a lot. And then I feel guilty for feeling lonely because I have everything I ever wanted.”
He is quiet for a long moment, just taking that in.
“You’re not supposed to do this by yourself,” he says finally. “Even if I’m gone sometimes, you’re not supposed to feel like you’re by yourself.”
You swallow. “It felt like that this week.”
He nods, like that physically hurts to hear. “Okay. Then we need to change something. Because I don’t want you feeling like that. And I don’t want you crying in the shower because you think you’re failing some rule about the TV.”
You look at him quickly. “How did you know I was crying?”
He gives you a small, sad smile. “I didn’t. I just guessed.”
You look down again, and he continues.
“The TV is not the problem,” he says. “I think I just made it the problem because it was the only part I could see. I didn’t see the week you had. I just saw the screen.”
You nod slowly.
“I still don’t want her in front of screens all the time,” he says gently. “But I also don’t want you falling apart because you’re trying to follow a rule we made when we were both home and sleeping.”
You let out a small breath that almost feels like relief.
“So maybe,” he continues, “the rule isn’t no screens ever. Maybe the rule is we survive first. And then we worry about being perfect parents later.”
You laugh quietly at that, and it turns into a small, shaky almost cry again, but not a bad one this time.
“I can survive,” you say. “I just… I need help sometimes.”
He nods immediately. “Then we get you help. We can get someone to come a few days a week when I have to go, like my mum. Or someone. And when I’m gone, we make an actual plan, not just ‘you’ve got it.’ Because clearly that’s not working.”
You nod, and for the first time in the whole day, you feel like you are not standing on a ledge by yourself.
“And,” he adds quietly, “you can tell me when it’s bad. You don’t have to pretend you’re okay so I can enjoy work. I need to know when you’re not okay.”
You look at him for a long moment, then you say softly, “Okay.”
Rosie shifts slightly in her sleep between you, making a small sighing noise, and both of you look down at her at the same time.
Harry reaches over and gently touches her back.
“We’re learning,” he says quietly. “We’ve only been parents for a few months. We’re allowed to mess up a bit.”
You lean your head back against the couch and look at him.
“Today sucked,” you say.
“Yeah,” he says. “Today sucked.”
“But I still love you,” you say.
He gives you a small smile. “I still love you too.”
And this time, when the room goes quiet, it does not feel tense anymore.
It just feels like a family at the end of a very long day.
Boyfriends - Where Harry hasn’t been the most present boyfriend. Based around Boyfriends by Harry Styles
Chocolate Hearts *- Based off CVS by Winnetka Bowling League
Ceilings- Based off Ceilings by Lizzy McAlpine
Too Sweet*- Based off Too Sweet by Hozier
The Alchemy*- AU where Harry is the star quarterback at his college and y/n is an English major.
Chapters- Where Harry stumbles into a book store and finds more than just his next read.
Alone Together- On a chilly New Year’s Eve, Y/N, seeking an escape from loneliness, finds herself unexpectedly swept into a night of warmth, fireworks, and romance when longtime crush Harry shows up at her bar table.
My Boss's Son Part Two*- Y/N, an assistant to Anne Twist, forms an unexpected connection with her son, Harry, when he comes home for the holidays.
I Want to Kill Her* Part Two* -Au where Y/N and Harry are neighbors who find out their spouses are cheating with each other.
Meet Me in the Hallway*- where y/n and harry cross paths in Paris. a quiet hotel. a hallway. a second chance.
One More Round (Then You)*- Where Y/N and Harry get bored, get drunk, and get each other.
Pillow Wall- Where Harry wants to blame the cold or the mattress or her gravity, but the truth is, he just sleeps better wrapped up in her.
You Found Me Here- Where Harry is a librarian who leaves notes poetry books.
Let's Call it Even- Where Y/N is an interviewer who pushes Harry Styles too far.
The Sound of My Voice- Where Y/N and Harry were once bandmates until a bitter fallout ended everything. And where, years later, a forced reunion puts them back on stage.
White Lie*- Where Y/N tells Harry a lie and she gets in trouble.
For the Both of Us- Where Y/N trains for a marathon with Harry, but an injury leaves her waiting for him at the finish line.
Like Us- Where Y/N and Harry thought they had lost each other, fate gives them a second chance.
A Real Good Doctor, part 2- Where Y/N is running and hurts herself but there happens to be a doctor who can help.
It's You*, part 2- Where Y/N never asked for anything, and Harry gave her something that meant everything.
House Tour*- Where Harry makes too much food and y/n finally gets invited over to his house.
Hands On You*-Where y/n is a massage therapist and makes a house call.
Picked Up Anyway-Where Harry drinks too much and costs him the things he loves most.
Pleased to Meet You*- Where y/n is a product designer for Pleasing and they’re launching a new product.
#1 Fan- Where y/n is Harry’s #1 fan and he goes along with it.
Trouble*- Where harry’s a soft TikTok streamer and y/n happens to find his stream.
It Was Enchanting to Meet You- Where y/n is on a girls trip and meets a man who belongs to the sea.
American Girls- Based off American Girls by Harry Styles
No Boats Involved- After a brutal breakup, your influencer best friend hands you a Raya invite code as a distraction, and somehow you end up matching with the one person you never expected to see on a dating app.
Die With A Smile- Y/N and Harry reconnect while surviving in a world overrun by a humanlike infection, slowly building a fragile life out of routine and trust. But as the dangers of this new world creep closer, Y/N is forced to confront how far she’s willing to go when survival and loss begin to blur together.
Extra Thick Icing- It is Harry’s birthday, and Y/N is doing everything she can to keep the surprise she planned from slipping out before the big moment.
All Eyes On You- Grammys
Friends Or Lovers- Based off Friends Or Lovers by Hayley Williams
Nice to Each Other- Based off Nice to Each Other by Olivia Dean
No One Would Believe You- where Y/N slips into Berghain alone, only to end up on her knees
Waking Up In Vegas- where harry and y/n are in vegas and the joke turns into the truth
Series
Love Bites (Au Vamprry)- A bookstore barista catches the attention of a vampire drawn to her scent, and everything changes when she invites him in.
Honey & Venom* ,2,3- Where Harry, a serial killer, believes he’s found someone exactly like him.
Not Here to Be Nice, 2, 3- Where Harry is a surgeon with a god complex and zero patience, and Y/N is the nurse who finally gives him a reason to lose control.
Cold to most, except to the girl that had him burning up. That bit of warmth that had his icy exterior melting the closer he gets, no matter how far he tried to stand.
Or, harry’s a grumpy CEO and his sunshiney assistant has him a bit wrecked.
An older series I’m bringing back and editing, started out as just one blurb and spiraled into many. I’m working on editing them and updating the series so bear with me for any mistakes!
Check out our Patreon
Warnings: slight age gap, power imbalance (boss x assistant), Harry’s a dick to most people, shows of wealth, bullying in the workplace, etc (will add more as it continues)
After a brutal breakup, your influencer best friend hands you a Raya invite code as a distraction, and somehow you end up matching with the one person you never expected to see on a dating app.
word count: 8.5k
You are sitting on Camille’s kitchen counter while she rearranges a cluster of candles on her dining table, muttering to herself about lighting.
“Don’t move,” she says, angling her phone toward the window. “You’re accidentally in frame and it looks candid.”
“I refuse to be background texture in your oat milk sponsorship.”
“It’s not sponsored. It’s aspirational.”
You swing your legs idly and watch her fuss with the tripod. Camille has always been like this. Confident in a way that looks effortless but is actually engineered. She calls her job lifestyle content, but it’s really just her life filtered through better angles and cleaner fonts. A few years ago a video of her ranking iced coffees in the city blew up, and she never quite stepped out of the spotlight after that. Now brands send her candles and oversized blazers and she goes to events she claims she hates and somehow leaves with three new contacts and a story.
She stops recording and glances at you. “You look sad.”
“I am not sad.”
“You are aggressively neutral. Which is worse.”
You pull at the sleeve of your sweater. “It’s been three weeks.”
“Three weeks since the breakup,” she says, hopping onto the counter across from you. “And you are still defending a man who thought oat milk was a personality.”
You huff out a small laugh despite yourself. “He was not that bad.”
“He was that boring.”
The thing about Camille is that she could have said I told you so months ago. She saw the cracks before you did. Instead she let you figure it out, and now she is careful with you, even when she’s teasing.
“You need a distraction,” she says, softer now.
“I have work.”
“You write about city council meetings.”
“I like writing about city council meetings.”
“I know you do,” she says quickly. “I’m not diminishing your civic passion. I’m saying you deserve something that makes your stomach flip in a good way.”
You give her a look. “That sounds dangerous.”
She grins and reaches for her phone. “It is.”
You already know that expression. It’s the one she gets right before she convinces you to do something you swore you wouldn’t.
“Camille.”
“Raya.”
You laugh immediately. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Because that is for models and DJs and men who own boats. I am a writer for an online newspaper. I am painfully normal.”
She slides off the counter and comes to stand in front of you, arms crossed. “First of all, you are not painfully normal. You are emotionally literate and hot. That’s a rare combination. Second, I have an invite code.”
“How do you just have an invite code?”
She shrugs. “It circulates.”
“That is not an answer.”
“One of the stylists I worked with last month had extras. Influencer privilege. It resets every so often.”
You stare at her. “Your life sounds fake.”
“And yet here I am, using it for good.”
She types something quickly and your phone buzzes in your hand.
“Camille.”
“Just download it. You don’t have to use it. Think of it as exposure therapy.”
“I do not need exposure therapy. I need to stop wanting to text my ex.”
“Exactly,” she says, like you just proved her point. “This is you moving forward without actually moving forward. Low stakes. No expectations.”
You look down at the string of letters and numbers on your screen. A code. A tiny door you did not ask for.
“You’re going to make fun of every man on there with me, aren’t you.”
“Respectfully,” she says. “Yes.”
You slide off the counter and open the app store before you can overthink it. Camille watches like she’s overseeing a soft launch.
When the app opens and asks for photos, you hesitate.
“Use the one from Emma’s birthday,” she says immediately.
“I look shiny.”
“You look dewy. Big difference.”
You scroll anyway, choosing three that feel honest. You laughing mid sentence. You walking down a street. You at your desk with coffee and a stack of papers.
It asks for your job.
You type: Writer, online newspaper. You pause, then add: Painfully normal.
Camille leans over your shoulder and smiles. “That’s charming.”
“It’s true.”
“It’s self aware. People love self aware.”
“I do not want people loving anything. I want them mildly intrigued at best.”
She nudges you. “You say that now.”
You finish setting it up. The profile exists. A version of you sitting in a digital room full of strangers.
“Now what,” you ask.
“Now nothing,” she says. “Close it. Let it breathe. You don’t have to dive in tonight.”
You study her for a second. “You’re being surprisingly chill about this.”
She softens. “I’m not trying to throw you into chaos. I just don’t want you shrinking.”
The words land heavier than the joke did.
You swallow and nod once. “Okay.”
That night, the app sits on your home screen. Small. Unassuming. You open it once, just to look. Profiles slide past. People with glossy photos and inside jokes in their bios. It feels like a room where everyone already knows each other.
You close it. You are not ready. The next day you don’t open it at all. Or the day after that. But you don’t delete it either. You don’t open the app again.
Not when you’re bored on the train. Not when you’re half tempted to text your ex and need a distraction. It just sits there, tucked between your news app and your notes, quietly existing.
A week passes.
Then Camille texts: Girls night. Emergency vibes. Bring pajamas.
You show up at her apartment with a tote bag and low expectations. She’s already in matching satin shorts she claims were gifted but absolutely bought herself. There’s a charcuterie board that looks suspiciously sponsored but isn’t, and a bottle of wine breathing on the counter.
“You look alive,” she says approvingly as you kick off your shoes.
“I showered.”
“Growth.”
You roll your eyes and accept the glass she hands you. The apartment smells like whatever expensive candle she’s currently pretending not to be emotionally attached to. Music plays softly in the background. It feels easy.
You talk about work first. You tell her about a piece you’re drafting and how your editor keeps asking for more bite. She tells you about a brand dinner where a micro celebrity tried to explain crypto to her for twenty minutes.
By the second glass of wine, you feel looser. Not reckless. Just less tight in your chest.
Camille studies you from across the couch. “Did you delete it?”
You know exactly what she means.
“No.”
Her eyes light up. “So you kept it.”
“That does not mean anything.”
“It means you’re curious.”
“It means I forgot.”
She gives you a look that says she does not believe you for a second.
“Open it.”
“Camille.”
“Open it. We’re in a safe environment. I will curate.”
“You are the least neutral curator alive.”
“Correct.”
You hesitate, then reach for your phone. The app opens faster than you expect, like it’s been waiting.
Profiles start sliding past. A director in Berlin. A DJ in Miami. A guy whose bio is just a single black square emoji.
Camille narrates like it’s a sport.
“Absolutely not.”
“He looks like he says ‘let’s circle back.’”
“Oh he owns a boat. You were right about the boats.”
You laugh more than you have in days. It feels harmless. Distant. These are just faces on a screen.
You swipe left. Left. Left. Then you pause.
Camille notices immediately. “What.”
“Nothing.”
“Show me.”
You turn the phone toward her.
The first photo is candid. Slightly blurry. Sunglasses. A half smile that feels familiar in a way your brain takes a second to process. The second is him on what looks like a boat, wind pushing his hair back. The third is simple. Black shirt. Direct eye contact with the camera.
There’s no over the top bio. Just his name. Harry. A few understated details. A song playing in the background of the profile that you recognize immediately.
Your stomach drops in a way that has nothing to do with wine.
Camille blinks. Then blinks again. “Is that…”
“Yes.”
She grabs your wrist. “Oh my god.”
“It’s fake.”
“It does not look fake.”
“It’s absolutely fake.”
The photos don’t look like press shots. They look like someone handed a friend a phone. The prompts are understated. Almost boring. Which somehow makes it worse.
Camille leans closer to the screen. “Location?”
You glance at the top. It lists New York, but there’s a small note about frequent travel.
Your heart is beating faster now, and you hate that it is.
“This is stupid,” you say, more to yourself than to her.
“Swipe right.”
“No.”
“Why not.”
“Because what if it matches.”
“That is the point of the app.”
“Camille.”
She softens, just slightly. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But if you’re going to tell this story one day, you’re going to wish you swiped right.”
You stare at the screen. At the small, digital version of a man you have only ever seen on stages and magazine covers. It feels ridiculous. Unreal. He is just another profile. Just another person in a room full of people.
You swallow.
“This is insane.”
“I know,” she whispers, grinning.
You swipe right.
The screen barely has time to settle before it flashes.
It’s a match.
You and Camille freeze at the exact same time, staring at the glowing words like they might rearrange themselves into something more reasonable.
“No,” you say immediately.
Camille grabs your arm. “No way.”
The phone is still in your hand. Still warm. Still real.
You both scream. It’s not cute. It’s not controlled. It’s loud and sharp and slightly panicked. Camille knocks over her wine glass in the process and you fling the phone onto the couch like it just burned you.
“Oh my god,” she says, half laughing, half hyperventilating.
“This is not funny,” you say, backing away from the couch like the phone might start speaking.
“You matched with him.”
“It’s fake.”
“It literally says matched.”
“That does not mean anything. People hack things.”
She lunges for the phone. You lunge too. You both miss and it slides off the couch and lands face down on the rug.
You stare at it.
“Pick it up,” she whispers.
“You pick it up.”
“It’s your life.”
“It was your code.”
She laughs in this nervous, stressed out way that makes everything feel ten times more unhinged. “Okay. Okay. Breathe. This is fine. You’re fine.”
“I am not fine.”
She scoops up the phone and flips it over. Still there. His name at the top of the screen. The little notification bubble waiting.
“You have to message him,” she says.
You actually yell. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No. Absolutely not. I am not messaging him.”
“You cannot match with Harry Styles and then just sit there.”
“I can and I will.”
She shoves the phone toward you. “Say hi.”
“I don’t know how to say hi to that.”
“You say hi like you would to anyone else.”
“That is objectively untrue.”
You grab the phone from her and clutch it to your chest like you’re protecting it from her.
“What if it’s not him,” you say quickly. “What if it’s someone pretending to be him and I say something normal and they screenshot it and it’s humiliating.”
Camille squints at the profile again. “The photos look real. The prompts look real. It’s understated in a way that feels real.”
“That is not comforting.”
She tilts her head. “Do you want him to message first?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t control that.”
You glance down at the screen like it might betray you at any second. “This was supposed to be funny.”
“It is funny.”
“It is not funny. It’s deeply stressful.”
She grins despite herself. “You are glowing right now.”
“I am panicking.”
“Same,” she says brightly.
Your thumb hovers over the message bar. Blank. Waiting.
“Okay,” Camille says, suddenly serious. “If you don’t message him, you’re going to think about it all week. If you do message him, worst case scenario he doesn’t respond and we move on.”
“And best case.”
She smiles slowly. “We get a story.”
You look at the phone. At his name. At the tiny space where words are supposed to go.
You feel ridiculous. You feel curious. You feel a small flicker of something that does not feel like your ex.
“I hate you,” you tell her.
“I know,” she says sweetly.
Your thumb taps the keyboard. Then you panic and throw the phone back onto the couch again.
“No. I can’t.”
Camille bursts out laughing and dives for it before you can. “You are impossible.”
“Do not send anything,” you warn, scrambling after her.
“I won’t. I promise. I’m just looking.”
You both collapse onto the couch, shoulders pressed together, staring at the screen like it’s a live wire.
The message bar is still empty. Waiting. You stare at the blinking cursor like it’s personally judging you.
Camille is practically vibrating next to you.
“Okay,” she says carefully, like she’s negotiating with a wild animal. “Give me the phone.”
“No.”
“You are spiraling.”
“I am thinking.”
“You have been thinking for ten full minutes.”
You glance at the clock. She’s right. It has been ten full minutes of you typing something, deleting it, typing something else, deleting that too.
“What if I say something weird,” you say.
“You won’t.”
“What if I black out and accidentally propose.”
She snorts. “Then at least it would be memorable.”
You press your lips together and look back down at his name. It still feels surreal. Too big for the tiny screen.
“Okay,” you say slowly. “You can send it.”
Her eyes widen. “Really.”
“Yes. But nothing embarrassing. Nothing flirty. Nothing that sounds like I’ve ever listened to music in my life.”
She grabs the phone gently, like it might shatter. “Relax.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
You watch her thumbs hover over the keyboard. Your heart is pounding again, which is ridiculous. This is a dating app. People message each other every day. This is normal.
Painfully normal, you remind yourself.
“Just say hi,” you whisper.
“That’s boring.”
“Boring is safe.”
She thinks for a second, then starts typing. You crane your neck to see.
Hi. I was told this app was for models and DJs and men who own boats, so I’m slightly confused.
You stare at it.
“That’s actually good,” you admit quietly.
“I know.”
“It sounds like me.”
“Because I am a genius.”
She looks at you one more time. “Last chance.”
You take a breath. The worst that happens is nothing. The worst that happens is it is him and he doesn’t respond. The worst that happens is you wake up tomorrow and your life is exactly the same as it was this morning.
“Send it,” you say.
She taps the screen. The message flies off into the void. You both immediately scream again and she drops the phone onto your lap this time.
“It’s done,” she says, laughing in that stressed out way that makes everything feel unreal. “You did it.”
“I didn’t do it. You did it.”
“You approved it.”
You stare at the chat. The message sits there, small and harmless looking. Sent. Now you wait.
Camille leans her head against your shoulder. “See. That wasn’t so bad.”
You swallow. “It was terrible.”
She smiles. “Admit it. You’re curious.”
You are.
There isn’t an immediate response. Of course there isn’t.
You and Camille stare at the screen for a full minute like something dramatic is supposed to happen. It doesn’t. The chat just sits there with your message hanging in polite, digital silence.
Camille eventually clears her throat. “Well. He’s busy.”
“Right,” you say quickly. “He’s… him.”
“He could be in a studio. Or asleep. Or on a boat.”
“Stop mentioning boats.”
She laughs, but after another minute of nothing, the intensity fizzles. The wine settles. The night moves on. You order takeout. You watch something mindless. You do not check the app again before you fall asleep on her couch.
The next morning, you half expect a notification. There isn’t one. And weirdly, that makes it easier.
Life resumes.
You go to work. You draft headlines. You sit in meetings where someone says the phrase content vertical without irony. The Raya message drifts to the back of your mind, filed somewhere between embarrassing and funny.
Every few days, Camille checks in.
“Any movement?”
“No.”
“Are you checking?”
“Not obsessively.”
“That is not what I asked.”
You roll your eyes at her texts and keep walking down the street, coffee in hand. It becomes a bit. A running joke. The time you matched with Harry Styles and nothing happened.
You stop opening the app altogether. You don’t want to see the unchanged chat. It feels cleaner to leave it unopened than to confirm the silence.
A week passes. Then another.
The sharpness of it dulls. You stop imagining what you would say if he responded. You stop replaying the message in your head. It becomes a story you’ll tell someday. Remember when.
One evening, you’re walking up the stairs to your apartment, juggling your tote bag and your keys. It’s been a long day. You stayed late finishing a piece and your brain feels like static. All you want is a shower and something easy to eat.
Your phone buzzes in your hand.
You don’t even look at the screen at first. You assume it’s Camille. She tends to text around this time, usually something chaotic like I have a new theory about men.
You push your door open with your shoulder and glance down casually.
It’s not iMessage blue.
It’s the Raya icon.
Your heart drops so fast you actually miss the doorway and bump your hip against the frame.
You stare at the notification. Harry sent you a message.
For a second, you just stand there in your dim apartment hallway, door half open behind you, keys still in your hand.
You genuinely consider not opening it. Preserving the possibility instead of facing whatever is actually there.
Your phone buzzes again. Another message.Your throat goes dry.
You step inside slowly and close the door with your foot, like you’re trying not to disturb something fragile. The apartment is quiet. The only sound is your own breathing, suddenly louder than it should be.
You unlock your phone.
Your thumb hovers over the app.
You think, absurdly, I thought this was Camille.
It isn’t.
It’s him.
You open it before you can talk yourself out of it.
The chat loads.
Your message is still there at the top, slightly smug now that it has company.
Below it:
I don’t own a boat. Feels important to clarify.
You stare at it.
Then the second message.
But I am slightly offended I got lumped in with DJs.
You let out a sound that is half laugh, half something close to hysteria.
It’s him. It has to be him. The tone is dry. Understated. Not trying too hard. Not grand.
You drop your bag on the floor without meaning to.
Your brain immediately starts overanalyzing. How long ago did he send this. You check.
Three minutes.
Three.
He is currently on the app.
Your heart begins beating in a way that feels wildly disproportionate to a dating app notification.
You pace once across your living room. Then back.
You consider calling Camille. You absolutely cannot call Camille. She will scream and make this worse.
You look back at the messages.
There are no emojis. No exclamation points. Just clean, simple sentences.
You sit down on the edge of your couch and type.
I appreciate the clarification.
It feels neutral. Slightly amused. Safe.
You hesitate for only a second this time before hitting send.
The message delivers.
You immediately lock your phone and toss it onto the couch like distance will regulate your nervous system.
It buzzes.
You freeze.
You turn slowly and pick it up.
That was faster than I expected. I thought you might have forgotten about this place.
Your stomach flips.
You type back before you can overthink it.
I did. Briefly.
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Fair. I disappear for weeks at a time. Occupational hazard.
You swallow. Occupational hazard. He’s referencing it without naming it. Casual.
You lean back into your couch now, letting yourself settle into it.
Hazard implies danger. Should I be concerned.
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.
Only if you’re afraid of slightly inconsistent texting habits.
You actually smile.
That feels honest. Not polished. Not trying to charm.
You decide to push, just slightly.
And what exactly is the occupation that causes that.
You stare at the screen after sending it. It’s a normal question. Completely normal.
The three dots take longer this time.
Then:
I sing sometimes.
You laugh out loud in your empty apartment.
Sometimes.
You rest your head back against the couch and type:
Ah. Casual.
A pause.
Then:
And you’re painfully normal, if I remember correctly.
Your cheeks warm.
Writer. Online newspaper. I cover city council meetings sometimes. No boats involved.
Three dots.
That sounds more interesting than boats.
You blink at the screen.
You weren’t expecting that.
Before you can respond, another message appears.
How did you end up on this app if you’re so painfully normal.
There’s no judgment in it. It reads curious. Respectful.
You hesitate for a second, then decide honesty is easier than crafting something cool.
A friend passed along an invite code. She said it would be character building.
You add, after a beat:
I haven’t decided if she was right.
The typing bubble appears again.
I respect a friend with connections. Sounds efficient.
You smile at that.
Your apartment feels different now. Lighter somehow. Charged in a quiet way.
It stays small. Contained. Two people in a digital room, testing the edges.
And for the first time in weeks, your chest feels full of something that isn’t grief.
It’s curiosity.
And it feels dangerously close to excitement.
You stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary, letting the fact that this is happening settle somewhere in your chest.
You decide to keep it light.
She would be thrilled to hear that. She considers herself very well connected.
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
Sounds intimidating. Should I be worried about her vetting process.
You smile.
She’d absolutely run a background check if she could.
That feels fair.
The ease of it surprises you. There’s no heavy flirting. No performance. Just conversation.
Another message appears.
So. Writer for an online newspaper.
You shift on the couch, tucking one leg under you.
Yes. Very glamorous.
What do you write about.
You consider giving him the short version. Instead, you answer properly.
Local things. City council meetings when they matter. Housing issues. Small business stories. Restaurant openings. The kind of pieces people actually click on at eight in the morning while they’re drinking coffee.
You pause, then add:
Sometimes it’s more human. I interviewed a man last month who’s been feeding the same stray cat outside a laundromat for nine years. That one did surprisingly well.
The typing bubble appears quickly.
That sounds more interesting than most things I’ve read today.
You blink at the screen.
It’s not glamorous. But it’s real.
A moment passes.
Real is better.
You feel that one land somewhere you weren’t expecting.
Then:
What got you into it.
It isn’t surface level. He keeps asking follow ups like he actually wants to know.
You think about it before answering.
I like paying attention to things that would get ignored otherwise. Small decisions. Small people. The stuff that doesn’t trend but still matters.
You hover over the screen, suddenly aware you might be revealing more than you planned to.
You send it anyway.
The typing bubble lingers.
That doesn’t sound painfully normal to me.
Your cheeks warm.
You’ve exchanged maybe fifteen messages with me. That’s not a thorough character study.
I work well with limited data.
You laugh under your breath.
You decide to pivot.
And you. You “sing sometimes.” Is that what you put on tax forms.
A beat.
Depends who’s asking.
I’m asking.
There’s a slightly longer pause this time.
I travel a lot. I write songs. I spend more time in airports than I’d like.
It’s understated. No résumé. No ego.
Then another message appears.
I’ve been spending a lot of time in Italy lately. I’m there now.
You sit up a little straighter.
Oh.
Work. I tend to stay longer than planned.
You picture it without meaning to. Warmer air. Different language. A life that moves at a different speed.
That sounds better than New York in February.
It’s quieter. Less arguing outside the window.
You smile.
On impulse, you switch languages.
Quindi ora sei ufficialmente italiano?
(So are you officially Italian now?)
You immediately wonder if that was too much.
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.
Capisco un po’. Not enough to get in trouble.
(I understand a little.)
Your eyebrows lift.
That’s suspiciously vague.
It’s strategic.
You laugh.
How much is “un po’.”
(“A little.”)
A beat.
Enough to order dinner. Not enough to win an argument.
You shake your head, smiling into your phone, alone in your apartment but suddenly not feeling it quite as much.
You stare at the last message for a while.
Enough to order dinner. Not enough to win an argument.
You type a response. Delete it. Type another. Delete that too.
You don’t want to overextend it. You don’t want to drag the conversation into the early morning just because you can. He said it was late there. You can feel the natural pause settling in.
So you send one last thing.
That feels like the correct level of fluency.
The message delivers.
You lock your phone before he can respond.
Not in a dramatic way. Just deliberately. You don’t want to sit there watching the typing bubble. You don’t want to turn this into something frantic.
You set your phone on the coffee table and lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.
Your apartment is quiet again.
It feels different though. Charged. Like the air shifted a few degrees.
You tell yourself you’re being normal. You had a conversation. That’s it. People have conversations every day.
Still.
After a minute, you reach for your phone again.
You don’t open the chat.
You open his profile.
The first photo loads. Slightly blurry. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair. A half smile that looks unguarded. The kind of picture that feels like it was taken by someone standing too close, not a press photographer.
You swipe.
The boat photo. Wind in his hair. Sun on his face. He looks relaxed in a way that feels almost private.
You swipe again.
The black shirt. Direct eye contact with the camera. No exaggerated expression. Just him.
You exhale slowly.
He’s beautiful.
Not in a distant, untouchable way. In a human way. In a way that feels almost unfair when it’s paired with the quiet, thoughtful messages you just read.
You zoom in slightly before you can stop yourself, studying details you would absolutely make fun of Camille for noticing. The curve of his mouth. The line of his jaw. The softness in his eyes that doesn’t fully translate on stage but shows up here.
Your stomach flips again.
You close the app.
Open it again.
Just to look one more time.
You’re not desperate. You’re curious. There’s a difference, you tell yourself.
You set your phone down for good this time and stand up, pacing once across your living room.
This is ridiculous, you think.
You give it a few days.
Not on purpose at first. Just life moving the way it does. Work piles up. Your editor sends back notes. You spend an entire afternoon interviewing a bakery owner who insists on telling you her full life story before answering a single question.
You do not open the app.
You think about it, though.
In line for coffee.
On the train.
When your phone buzzes and your heart does something irrational before you check the notification and it’s just a news alert.
You tell yourself this is healthy. Measured. You are not spiraling. You are not glued to a screen waiting for a typing bubble.
You are taking it slow.
By day three, you’ve convinced yourself that leaving space makes you mysterious.
By day four, you realize you are just nervous.
Camille texts you on Thursday night.
Are you alive.
You stare at the message.
Yes.
That’s it? she replies. Suspicious.
You hesitate, then type:
He messaged.
There are three dots immediately.
WHAT.
You call her before she can send anything else because you know she will escalate.
She answers on the first ring.
“You cannot just text ‘he messaged’ and leave it there,” she says, already breathless.
“It was normal,” you say quickly. “Very normal. Calm. Human.”
“Define human.”
“We talked about work. Italy came up.”
“Italy,” she repeats, like it’s a plot twist in a show she’s invested in.
“He’s there.”
“I hate that.”
“I know.”
She goes quiet for a second. “So what’s the problem.”
“There isn’t one.”
“Then why do you sound like there is.”
You sit on the edge of your bed, twisting the hem of your shirt around your fingers.
“I just… I don’t want to ruin it.”
“Ruin what.”
“I don’t know. The tone. The ease.”
Camille softens.
“You’re allowed to enjoy something without pre ruining it.”
“I’m not pre ruining it.”
“You’re rationing it,” she says gently.
You look at the floor.
She’s not wrong.
“I haven’t opened the app in a few days,” you admit.
“On purpose?”
“Kind of.”
“Why.”
You search for the right words.
“Because if I answer too fast, it feels like I care too much. And if I answer too slow, it feels like I’m playing a game. I don’t want to play a game.”
Camille exhales.
“You are overthinking this.”
“I know.”
“He is a man. On a dating app. You are a woman. On a dating app. You are allowed to respond when you want to respond.”
“It’s different.”
“Because he’s famous.”
You don’t answer.
She continues, softer now.
“Is he talking to you like he’s famous.”
“No.”
“Is he acting like you should be impressed.”
“No.”
“Then stop assigning weight to it.”
You lean back onto your bed and stare at the ceiling.
“I’ve just been taking it slow,” you say finally.
“Slow is fine,” she replies. “Slow is sexy. Slow is mysterious. Slow is emotionally regulated. But slow is not avoidance.”
You laugh quietly.
“Which one am I.”
“A little of both,” she says.
You glance at your phone on your nightstand.
It hasn’t buzzed.
But you know the conversation is still there. Waiting. Not in a demanding way. Just existing.
You shift on your bed, tucking the phone tighter between your shoulder and your ear so you can free up one hand.
“Don’t,” Camille says immediately.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You don’t have to. I can hear it.”
You roll your eyes even though she can’t see you. “I’m just looking.”
“You are absolutely about to open the app.”
You don’t deny it this time. You pull the phone away from your ear for a second, switch to speaker, and open Raya.
The screen loads.
Your thumb hesitates before you tap the chat.
Nothing new.
The last message is still there. Calm. Unmoved. No typing bubble. No fresh notification.
You stare at it longer than you should.
“Well?” Camille asks through the speaker.
“Nothing.”
There’s a small pause.
“That’s okay,” you add quickly. “He’s busy.”
Camille hums in a way that says she’s watching you spiral from miles away.
“Yeah,” she says. “He probably is.”
You exit the chat but don’t close the app right away. You linger on his profile picture at the top of the screen like it might offer some kind of reassurance.
“He said he disappears for weeks sometimes,” you say, trying to sound unaffected. “Occupational hazard.”
“You remember the exact phrasing,” she points out.
“Stop.”
You finally lock your phone and set it on your nightstand.
“I don’t want to be the girl who waits around,” you admit.
“You checked once,” she says calmly. “While actively talking to me.”
“That still counts.”
“It counts as being human.”
You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling.
“It’s fine,” you say again, softer this time. “He’s in Italy. It’s late there. He probably has a life.”
Camille laughs gently. “I hope so.”
You smile despite yourself.
“It was one conversation,” you continue. “A good one. But still.”
“And if that’s all it is, that’s still nice,” she says.
The week stretches longer than you expect.
Not in a dramatic way. Just quietly.
You stop checking every day. Then you stop checking at all. Work fills the space. You finish the bakery piece. You sit through a zoning meeting that runs forty minutes past what it should. You have dinner with Camille where neither of you says his name out loud.
It settles into something that almost feels finished.
You tell yourself that was nice. A good conversation. A small reminder that the world is bigger than one breakup.
You don’t delete the app.
You just let it exist.
It’s the following Tuesday when it happens.
You’re on the train, wedged between a woman reading a thriller and a man aggressively eating almonds out of a plastic bag. You’re half listening to a podcast, half staring at nothing.
Your phone buzzes in your hand.
You glance down automatically.
Raya.
Your stomach drops so fast you actually miss your stop announcement.
You stare at the notification without opening it.
Harry sent you a message.
The train keeps moving. Someone coughs. The world continues like this is not a seismic event.
You open it.
The chat loads.
The last message is still yours. Then below it, new.
Sorry. I disappeared.
Your throat tightens.
Another message comes through.
You were right about the argument thing. I lost one in Italian. Very humbling experience.
You let out a soft, startled laugh on the train, earning a brief look from the almond man.
It’s been a week.
A full week.
And yet the tone is exactly the same. Dry. Casual. Like no time has passed.
You type slowly, deliberately.
That does sound humbling.
You stare at it.
Then add:
I assumed you were busy.
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
I was.
A pause.
Didn’t mean to vanish.
There’s something in that. Not defensive. Not overly apologetic. Just acknowledging.
You lean back against the train pole, trying to keep your expression neutral.
Occupational hazard, you write.
Three dots.
Exactly.
Another pause.
How’s New York.
You smile to yourself.
The fact that he remembers where you are.
Still cold. Still loud. No progress on the arguing neighbors.
The typing bubble.
I admire their commitment.
You laugh softly.
The train lurches and you grab the pole with your free hand, heart still beating faster than it needs
The train rattles forward and you stay where you are, letting two stops pass without even thinking about it.
Your phone buzzes again.
Did you write anything interesting this week.
You blink at the screen.
It’s such a simple question. And yet it doesn’t feel like filler.
You shift your weight and type carefully.
I wrote about a bakery that almost closed because of a rent increase. The neighborhood showed up for them. It worked.
There’s a pause.
Then:
That’s a good story.
You smile.
It felt like one.
Another message appears before you can overanalyze.
Do you ever want to write something bigger.
You hesitate.
Bigger how.
More glamorous. More visible. Less local.
You decide not to shrink.
Sometimes. But I like knowing exactly who I’m writing for. It feels less abstract.
The typing bubble lingers.
That makes sense.
Then:
Abstract gets lonely.
That lingers quietly.
You swallow.
The train announces the next stop. Yours. You step off, weaving through people while still holding your phone low against your chest.
Lonely in what way, you type as you climb the stairs to street level.
A longer pause this time.
You reach the sidewalk just as the reply comes through.
You play to a lot of people. It doesn’t mean they know you.
Your steps slow.
The city noise rushes around you. Taxis. Conversations. Wind cutting down the block.
You type carefully.
Do you want them to?
Three dots.
Disappear.
Reappear.
Not all of them.
There’s something steady in that answer. Not self pitying. Not dramatic.
You walk toward your apartment, pulse still elevated.
Selective, you write.
Almost instantly:
Exactly.
You smile.
There’s a rhythm now. A comfort.
Another message comes through.
What are you doing right now.
You glance around at the sidewalk, at the guy walking a dog in a tiny sweater.
Walking home. It’s disgustingly cold.
Italy would like to offer an alternative.
You laugh.
That feels like a marketing pitch.
It is.
You shake your head.
What are you doing?
A beat.
On a terrace. It’s late. I should be inside.
You can almost see it without trying. Warm air. Quiet. Different sky.
And yet, you type.
And yet I’m not.
There’s a softness to that.
You unlock your apartment door and step inside, shutting out the noise of the street.
Why not, you ask.
The typing bubble appears almost immediately this time.
Because I’m enjoying this conversation.
Your breath catches just slightly.
You sit down on the edge of your couch again, like your body instinctively knows you need to brace for impact.
You stare at the screen.
Then, slowly:
Me too.
There’s no immediate response.
Just the quiet hum of your apartment and the faint echo of traffic outside.
Then:
Good.
It continues like that.
Not intense. Not dramatic. Just steady.
A few messages in the morning. Sometimes late at night. Sometimes nothing for a full day, then a casual reappearance like no time has passed.
You fall into a rhythm without meaning to.
How’s the bakery.
Thriving. The power of carbs.
Impressive.
—————
How’s Italy.
Still warm. Still confusing me grammatically.
Have you won an argument yet.
Absolutely not.
—————
What are you writing today?
Housing piece. Slightly less charming than stray cats.
You make it sound charming.
—————
Some days it’s just:
Morning.
Morning.
Or:
You alive?
Barely.
It never tips into too much.
He disappears occasionally. Reappears with something small and thoughtful.
Heard a song today that felt like something you’d write about.
Saw a café that would make a good scene in an article.
You don’t ask for proof. You don’t demand consistency. You just let it exist.
Camille notices the shift before you say anything.
“You’re calmer,” she observes one night over dinner.
“Am I.”
“Yes. You’re not spiraling. You’re just… talking.”
That’s exactly it.
You’re just talking. Having fun even.
No declarations. No flirting that feels forced. Just pieces of each other exchanged in manageable amounts.
He tells you about long studio days without naming locations. You tell him about a zoning vote that got unexpectedly heated. He sends a photo once, unprompted. A blurry shot of a street at night. Warm lights. Stone buildings.
It’s quieter than New York, he writes.
You send back a photo of your street. Snow piled against the curb. A bodega glowing under fluorescent light.
It’s louder, you reply.
The time difference becomes familiar. You start to recognize when he’s likely awake. He learns your routine too.
You’re usually on the train around now, he texts one morning.
You pause at that.
Observant.
Limited data, he replies.
You smile.
It’s been three weeks.
Three weeks of casual conversation. Of checking the app without panic. Of feeling something build slowly instead of crashing all at once.
There are no grand gestures.
Just consistency.
It’s a random Wednesday afternoon when it shifts.
You’re at your desk, halfway through rewriting a paragraph for the third time, when your phone buzzes.
You glance down automatically.
Raya.
You open it without thinking now. No dramatic pause. No pacing.
I’m coming back to the States for a bit.
Your fingers still over the keyboard.
You stare at the message for a second.
Then:
Oh?
The typing bubble appears quickly.
Yeah. A few weeks.
Your heart picks up, just slightly.
Where.
A pause. Not long. Just long enough for you to become aware of your own breathing.
Los Angeles.
You lean back in your chair.
Of course.
Work? you type.
Promo. New album coming out. Record meetings. The usual chaos.
You smile at the understatement.
That sounds mildly busy.
It’ll be fine, he replies. Just loud.
You glance around your small office. Your muted computer screen. The hum of fluorescent lights.
You thrive in loud, you write.
There’s a pause.
Sometimes, he replies. Sometimes it’s just noise.
You sit with that for a second.
Then:
When are you back.
Next week.
Your stomach flips. You hate that it does.
Next week feels close. Close in a way Italy never did.
You try to sound casual.
That’s soon.
Yeah.
Another pause.
Will you be in New York at all, you ask before you can talk yourself out of it.
There’s a slightly longer beat this time.
Possibly. Not sure yet. Schedules are still moving around.
You nod to yourself like that makes it less vague.
Fair.
The typing bubble appears again.
Would you want to know if I am?
Your breath catches.
You read it twice.
It’s not a grand gesture. Not an invitation. Just a question.
But it feels like one.
You swallow and type carefully.
I think I would.
There’s no immediate response.
Just the faint hum of your office and your own pulse in your ears.
Then:
Okay.
Life keeps moving.
He flies back to the States and the day he lands your phone buzzes mid afternoon.
Made it. LA is aggressively sunny.
You smile at your desk.
Welcome back to chaos.
A photo comes through. Blurry palm trees from the window of a car. Another of what looks like a studio. Cables. A mic stand. Nothing flashy.
Proof of life, he writes.
You send one back without overthinking it. Your laptop open. Notes scattered across your desk. A coffee cup with lipstick on the rim.
Proof of deadlines.
He replies almost instantly.
Yours looks more organized than mine.
That’s a generous interpretation.
The weeks in LA settle into the same rhythm you built before. Messages between meetings. Late night replies when he’s done for the day.
Long one today, he texts one evening.
Good long or exhausting long.
A bit of both.
He sends a photo of a sunset over the hills. The sky pink and unreal.
You send back a photo of your street in the rain. Reflections in the pavement. A taxi splashing through a puddle.
Still louder, you caption it.
Still warmer here, he replies.
It feels steady. Not performative. Just two lives running parallel with small windows into each other.
You don’t talk about meeting. Not directly. It floats unspoken between you.
Until one night.
It’s late afternoon. You’re already in bed, half asleep, when your phone buzzes on your nightstand.
Raya.
You squint at the screen.
You up.
You blink, suddenly awake.
Unfortunately yes.
The typing bubble appears immediately.
I’m in New York.
You sit up in bed so fast you almost knock your lamp over.
What.
Another message.
One night. Early meetings tomorrow. Flying back out after.
Your heart is pounding now. Loud in the quiet of your apartment.
That’s… random.
Very.
You stare at the screen, trying to slow your breathing.
Where in the city, you type.
A pause.
Midtown. Hotel near the park.
Of course.
You swallow.
The distance between Italy and New York felt theoretical. LA felt far enough to be safe.
But this.
This is different.
Another message comes through.
Thought you’d want to know.
You stare at that one for a long time.
Your city. His one night.
The possibility hanging there.
You stare at Thought you’d want to know until the screen dims.
Your heart is beating too loud for how quiet your apartment is.
You could ignore the implication. You could say that’s exciting, hope it goes well. You could play it safe.
Instead, you sit up straighter and type carefully.
Busy schedule? Or do you get to pretend you’re a normal person for a few hours.
You erase it.
Too pointed.
You try again.
Any plans after your meetings.
Neutral. Almost casual.
You hit send before you can overthink it.
The typing bubble appears quickly. Disappears. Comes back.
I was hoping you might ask that.
Your stomach flips.
Then, another message.
No plans yet.
You inhale slowly.
He doesn’t leave it there.
Do you want to get a drink?
There’s no hedging. No vague maybe we should. No soft landing.
Just direct.
Your pulse kicks up again.
You stare at the message, reading it twice to make sure you didn’t invent it.
This is real. He is in your city. For one night.
You type back, forcing your fingers to stay steady.
That depends.
A pause.
On what.
You smile despite yourself.
On whether you’ve improved your argument skills.
Three dots.
I can lose in English too. Very versatile.
You laugh quietly.
Then you type what you actually mean.
What time?
It takes a few seconds longer this time.
I’m free after nine. I can come to you. Or we can meet somewhere you’re comfortable. If that’s not too late.
There it is again. Direct. But careful.
Not assuming.
Your chest feels tight in a way that isn’t panic. It’s anticipation.
You glance around your apartment like it might offer guidance.
There’s a place near me. Quiet but nice. Not Midtown chaos, you write.
The reply comes quickly.
Send me the name.
Another pause.
See you at nine.
Your breath catches at the simplicity of it.
No overcomplicating. No dramatic build.
Just a plan.
You lock your phone slowly and stare at your reflection in the dark window.
One night.
Nine o’clock.
The second you lock your phone, the calm dissolves.
You stand in the middle of your bedroom staring at your closet like it personally orchestrated this.
“This is ridiculous,” you mutter.
It is one drink. One man. One normal human interaction.
Except it is not normal and you know it.
You start pulling hangers aside too fast. Sweater. No. Too casual. Black dress. Absolutely not. That feels like you’re trying too hard. Jeans. Maybe. But which ones. The good ones. Obviously the good ones.
You sit on the edge of your bed and take a breath.
Cute and comfy. Well dressed. Effortless.
You settle on high waisted tailored trousers and a soft cream button up that drapes just right. Simple gold hoops. Loafers. Hair down, brushed out, not overly styled.
You look at yourself in the mirror.
You look like you. Just slightly steadier.
“Okay,” you whisper.
At 8:45 you’re pacing. At 8:50 you grab your coat. At 8:55 you’re walking faster than necessary.
The bar you chose is dim and narrow and usually quiet on weeknights. You push the door open at exactly 9:00.
No one else is there.
Just the bartender wiping down the counter and a couple in the corner booth speaking in low voices.
You swallow and walk to the bar, sliding onto a stool.
“Can I get you something?”
“Just a glass of red.”
Your phone sits face down on the bar in front of you.
9:02.
That’s fine. Two minutes means nothing.
You take a small sip of your wine and try not to look at the door every time it opens.
9:05.
He’s in Midtown. Traffic exists. Elevators exist. Security exists.
9:08.
Your stomach starts doing something uncomfortable.
You flip your phone over casually.
No new messages.
You open the app.
Nothing.
The last thing he said still sits there.
See you at nine.
You swallow.
9:10.
The bartender glances at the door when it opens. It’s not him. Just someone picking up a takeout order.
Heat creeps up your neck.
This is fine. You are early. Or he is late. That happens. That’s human.
9:12.
You open his profile again without meaning to. The same photos. The same half smile.
A ridiculous thought creeps in.
What if this is the long game.
What if you have been talking to someone who is not him. What if this is the punchline. What if you are about to become a story Camille tells at dinner parties.
9:15.
Your chest feels tight now.
You pick up your phone and hover over the chat.
You could send something casual.
You alive.
Too pointed.
All good.
Too needy.
You lock your phone again and place it back down carefully.
You will not spiral in public.
9:17.
The door opens again.
You look up automatically.
And for a split second, before your brain catches up, you think you might actually be getting catfished.
The door closes behind him and the cold air follows.
For half a second your brain doesn’t register anything except tall.
Then the details come into focus.
Black coat. Slightly windblown hair. That same half smile from the photos, only less curated. More real. His eyes scan the room quickly, adjusting to the dim light.
And then they land on you.
Recognition is instant.
Not confusion. Not hesitation.
Recognition.
Your stomach drops in a completely different way.
He walks toward the bar without rushing. Calm. Almost casual. Like this is just another Wednesday night and not the culmination of three weeks of careful conversation.
You are suddenly very aware of how you’re sitting. Of your hands. Of your face.
He stops a few feet away.
“Hi.”
His voice is softer than you expected. Warmer.
You blink once like your body needs to reboot.
“Hi.”
There’s a flicker of something in his expression. Relief, maybe. Like he wasn’t entirely sure either.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Elevator situation.”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “That tracks.”
He smiles properly at that.
Up close, he looks exactly like himself and not at all like a screen version. There’s texture. Movement. A small crease near his eyes when he smiles.
“Is this seat taken?” he asks, nodding to the stool beside you.
You shake your head. “No.”
He slides onto it and shrugs off his coat, draping it over the back. The bartender appears immediately.
“Whiskey,” he says, then glances at you. “That okay?”
You nod, like you have any authority over it.
There’s a small beat of quiet once the bartender steps away.
This is the moment that could be awkward.
It isn’t.
He turns slightly toward you.
“You look like yourself,” he says.
You blink. “I don’t know what that means.”
“It means I wasn’t catfished.”
You laugh before you can stop yourself.
“That was absolutely my fear fifteen minutes ago.”
His eyebrows lift. “Really.”
“9:15 was dark for me.”
He laughs softly at that, shaking his head. “I should’ve sent a message. That’s on me.”
“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “You’re here.”
The simplicity of that lands between you.
He studies you for a second in a way that doesn’t feel invasive. Just present.
“You’re real,” he says quietly.
“I could say the same.”
He smiles again, smaller this time. Less public. More private.
The bartender sets his drink down. He thanks him absentmindedly without breaking eye contact with you.
For a moment the noise of the bar fades into the background.
It’s just the two of you. No typing bubbles. No time difference. No distance.
Just this.
He takes a sip of his drink and tilts his head slightly.
“So,” he says. “Hi.”
And somehow it feels like the beginning all over again.
Synopsis: You land in Los Angeles for a one-month escape. Part solo adventure, part soul search. It’s your first time in the city of neon dreams and casual fame, and you plan on keeping things chill. A few new friends, some spontaneous nights, and maybe a little mischief. Nothing too deep but that changes the night you get invited to a private Halloween party in the Hills. Exclusive. Celeb-packed. The kind of party you’ve only ever seen through Instagram stories. You’re there as a plus-one to a sweet influencer you matched with, but fate—or maybe just chaotic timing—throws you into the path of Harry Styles.
Drunk. Flirty. And frustratingly magnetic.
He’s famous, you’re temporary.
A story of missed timing, magnetic pull, and what happens when you fall too hard for someone who was never supposed to be yours…. until maybe, just maybe, he is.
Miss Bird (Miss Bee to her students) is a kindergarten teacher who loves her job, her students, her classroom, and works endlessly hard to make sure her little ones have everything they need to be the best little people who will grow into the best adults.
Mr. Harry Styles is the foreman on a project right next to the playground building a new police and fire department building.
Miss Bee is insistent that she doesn't need the TLC kind of help that her classroom does. But Harry is insistent on taking care of any and all hands on projects for her.
Including making sure she feels a little TLC herself.
Summary: A one night stand turns into more than you bargain for when you find yourself pregnant after drunkenly hooking up with Harry Styles after a few too many rounds at a karaoke bar. You don't really know him and he doesn't know a lot about you minus the fact your cat really just doesn't like him, but the one thing you quickly learn is boy can you two argue. This series is all about how you and Harry navigate going from strangers to soon to be parents all while trying not to kill each other in the process and maybe see what these weird feelings that develop along the way are all about.✨
Pairing: Harry Styles x pregnant!reader
Status: Completed ✨
Trope: Enemies to lovers (with a twist because it's like lovers to enemies back to lovers?), slow burn baby so buckle up.
CW: Mentions of a lot pregnancy/baby things, language, Harry's a bit of a dick, possessive behavior, jealous behavior, angst.
Tag List: Open just let me know if you'd like on it.
Story Type: This series is a mixture of texts and one shots, I think it'll be fun to see a a good mix!
Extras: Here
Update Schedule: Once A Week✨
Part 1: Late for What?
Part 2: City of Love
Part 3: Reviews
Part 4: A Little Treat
Part 5: Mr. Popular
Part 6: Places of Peace
Part 7: Swoon Worthy
Part 8: Good Hands
Part 9: Civil extra: Harry’s convo with Niall here
summary: “What starts as a sweet and innocent crush ends with you finally getting your hands on the guys you've been eyeing for months.”
pairing: Frat!Harry X (Fem)Reader
warnings: 18+FLUFF/SMUT(Language, alcohol use, light peer pressure, light public humiliation, size kink, talks of oral sex/ oral sex (m) receiving, brief spit talk, light Dom Frat!Harry behavior, protected sex, hair-pulling...)
Ruin The Friendship by @lemoncrushh
summary: “It's Ella's birthday, and her best friend Harry plans to tell her how he feels about her.”
pairing: Uni!Harry x OC
warnings: None, just sweet, sugary fluff
“CAN I TELL YOU A SECRET?” by @st4rkeysangel
summary: “your best friend’s best friend took an interest in you quite a while ago but never made a move in fear of messing things up for everybody. at a party where he’s desperate to see you, things go terribly wrong, resulting in you in the emergency room where he finally confesses.”
pairing: uni! harry styles x fem! reader
warnings: mentions of parties and alcohol, swearing, blood, getting knocked out, hospital trip, fluff.
warnings: drug usage/selling, angst, college!harry, fem!reader, smut in pt2 if that’s what ur here for, allusions to violence, friends to lovers if u squint
Windows Facing | H.S by @ghstyles
summary: “By sophomore year, Y/N gotten used to the chaos. Specifically, the chaos coming from the frat house directly next to her apartment. Ever since move-in day freshman year, her bedroom window has faced his: Harry Styles. Loud, shirtless, smug, and apparently hell-bent on ruining her peace. Their window wars have become tradition: insults yelled across the alley, lights flicked on at 3 a.m., and a rivalry that keeps the entire floor entertained. But somewhere between the late-night fights and sarcastic truce offerings, something unexpected begins to grow. She was supposed to hate him. He was supposed to be a joke. But their windows aren’t the only things opening.”
pairing: fratboy!harry x fem!reader
warnings: none
Not Your Charity Case by @erodasfishtacos
summary: “Harry is a frat boy - who doesn’t need sympathy from anyone. He makes Y/N feel a sense of home when they’re together. But is Harry just like every stereotypical frat boy?”
pairing: deaf fratboy!harry x fem!reader
warnings: minor violence, language, deaf!harry, smutttt
I Hate You by @smuttyaf
summary: “𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞”
pairing: fratboy!harry x fem!reader
warnings: none
loudest voice in the room by @cinemafics
summary: “enemies to lovers! college/frat boy harry styles (and you can probably guess what’s happening in the story)”
