AU PAIR
a harry styles x you one-shot cw: solo female masturbation, slow burn, tension!!! word count: 11,408
summary: a working single dad and his au pair start to bond over simple bedtime routines, but a steamy kiss after bath time threatens their professional boundaries tag list: @esposa-do-harry @fangirlstuffsblog @matildasatellite @dipmeinhoneyh @thepopcultureaddict @iloveharrystyles04 @theluckyleprachaun-in-stripes @this-is-tiny-mia @emmie2308
hope you all enjoy <3
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The sound of the house settles into one of those rare, aching silences — the kind that hums against your skin after a long day of toys scattered across the living room floor and tiny feet padding after you, or the sounds of the juice spilling from the table and onto the meticulously kept hardwood.
Quinn, Leo, and yourself are currently sharing one of the small toddler beds for bedtime stories, as you begin smoothing the edges of her quilt on the side of Leo that he is curled up into, the faded colors soft under your fingertips. You can hear the breathing of two worn-out toddlers coming in slow, even puffs now.
Your voice is a whisper as you finish the last page, Goodnight Moon balanced on your knee, thumb running absently over the cracked spine.
“…goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight noises everywhere.” Your last breath is practically silent as you recognize that the two children have fallen asleep; you knew they would fall asleep seconds after you started reading for the second time.
You close the book quietly, pressing it to your chest for a moment like a shield, before setting it aside on the little nightstand. The main mission now is to get yourself out of the bed, trying to make your way around and down to the bottom so you do not disturb them.
It is not unusual that they fall asleep in each other’s beds; the five- and three-year-old have practically slept in the same bed all along – as long as you have been here to notice it. It was more of a comfort thing, you find. Maybe it has to do with the loneliness that they feel from their parents, you are not entirely sure. All that you know is that you do not find an issue with leaving them to find comfort in each other.
As you’ve gotten off the bed, you place the children’s book on the small shelf beside the bed. For a moment, you simply sat there, watching the slow, even rise and fall of their chests, the occasional twitch of a dream beginning to form in one of their tiny limbs. It was a rare kind of peace—something delicate, something sacred. To be a child is an honor, and you feel it’s an honor to watch them.
As you make your way to the door, you’ve smoothed your palms down the front of your denim shorts, casting one last look at the sleeping children before slipping quietly from the room. You pulled the door almost shut behind you, leaving it open just a crack, just the way they liked it – just in case they ever needed to find you.
In the large home in Hampstead, it was quite hard for the little ones to manage their way around on their own.
The hallway was quiet; the light had dimmed outside in the summer heat but hadn’t completely set as it crept through the windows that lined the hall. There was a stretch of warm wood floors and framed photographs—beaches, birthday cakes, candid laughter caught mid-breath. You padded barefoot down the stairs. The house smelled faintly of cinnamon and soap, a comfortable blend that was beginning to feel familiar.
You made your way to the kitchen space, in the small breakfast nook, where your laptop sat waiting for you on the corner, an abandoned Word document still blinking impatiently on the screen as if it had been just sitting and waiting for written words to come that never would.
There was a mug of cold coffee next to it, forgotten hours ago prior to bath and bedtime, even after Leo had demanded "one more story, pleeeease," and Quinn had chimed in with her irresistible little lisp.
You sat down with a soft sigh, pulling the computer closer, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. There was a paper due for your Early Child Development summer course, which, on a complete ironic level you had decided to write about the role that storytelling played on a cognitive level in early childhood. However, you found yourself staring at the cursor, your thoughts wandering lazily through the evening, replaying the sound of Quinn’s giggles and Leo’s earnest questions about dragons and knights.
A sip of the cold coffee wasn’t what you needed – it was truly something stronger, but you knew that you had to get this finished before Monday. On a normal Friday, you would be trying to find a plan – something to do with some of your friends. But now, it was sitting in your boss's kitchen waiting for inspiration to hit so you could at least write the first sentence.
It was an hour later when you heard the key turn in the lock; the sound that someone had gotten home.
You glanced up just as the front door pushed open and Harry stepped inside, the heat of the summer night air following him in for a moment before he shoved the door closed with his foot. His hands held his satchel, a cup that he used for coffee in the morning, and his keys.
He looked exhausted, a bit of distress coating his face.
His dark hair was a mess, flattened on one side like he had been running his hand through it for hours. His jacket was slung over one shoulder, the fabric rumpled, and his tie hung loose and crooked around his neck. The first two buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing the hint of a tattoo curling just beneath his collarbone, something you hadn’t dared stare at for too long.
You had never seen it in full detail, but you knew that it was there.
Without a word, Harry tossed the jacket onto the back of the nearest chair and headed straight for the bar tucked into the corner of the living room, without as much as a ‘hello’ to greet you in the dimly lit kitchen space. You heard the clink of glass against glass as he selected a tumbler and set it down with a tired sort of deliberation.
“Long day?” you asked softly, unsure if you should interrupt his brooding, or if he might want to do that in the peace of the space he owned.
He glanced over his shoulder at you almost as if he didn’t see you sitting there, the corners of his mouth tugging into a crooked smile—half amusement, half pure exhaustion.
“Oh, I mean, you could say that,” he muttered, reaching for a bottle of whiskey and giving it a quick once over. The amber liquid caught the light as he poured it, generous and unbothered. “Never-ending meetings. Clients who think they know better than their attorneys – which is ironic considering we’re hired to make sure that they win, and they should keep their mouths shut. Partners breathing down my neck about quarterly numbers. You know, just another day in the office.”
He shook his head as he set the bottle back down with a muted thunk.
You closed your laptop, pushing it aside, the document forgotten for the moment. Something about the slump of Harry’s shoulders, the way he rubbed the back of his neck, made you want to offer him something—comfort, distraction, maybe just company if he needed it.
Harry came home a lot to an empty house – no one to talk to, so your presence might have been needed every once in a while. Once he got home, you would go out with friends or go to class or just get yourself out of the house since you were home with the kids all day.
He took a sip of his drink and exhaled slowly, eyes falling closed for a beat. He leaned against the kitchen counter. One at a time, he rolled his sleeves up to his elbow. When he opened his eyes again, they found you across the room, lingering, uncertain.
“Kids asleep?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that filled the cozy space between you.
You nodded in confirmation. “Out cold. Leo made me read Goodnight Moon twice. Quinn didn’t even last through the first time.”
“How many times does the moon need to be told ‘goodnight’?” Harry’s mouth quirked again, softer this time. “Must mean you tell the story in an enticing way.”
There was something in his gaze then—something heavier, quieter, something that lingered a little too long. You felt your skin prickle with awareness, a flush rising in your cheeks that you tried to ignore.
“They’re good kids, it’s the least I can do.” You said, your voice a little too bright, a little too quick. You stood, tucking your chair in, needing the motion to shake off the sudden, humming tension in the room.
“I-I, uh,” You swallowed as you looked at your laptop that was shut sitting next to you. “I should be writing a paper, actually. It’s due on Monday.”
Harry watched you then, swirling the whiskey in his glass, the ice clinking softly. The look on his face made it seem like had some thoughts in the back of his head.
Then he glanced over at you, almost shyly.
"You want a drink?" he asked, uncertainty in his voice as he didn’t look back up when you didn’t answer right away.
You blinked, surprised at his question. It wasn’t that it was unlike him to be friendly – he was one of the nicest bosses that you could have ever had. It was mostly because it was unlike him to be doing something other than putting himself in his office, shutting the door, and working until two A.M.
"I—" You glanced down at your laptop, the half-finished paper still glowing through the screen. "I probably should keep working..."
Harry’s mouth quirked, a half-smile that felt both boyish and unbearably tired.
"Come on," he said, pushing off the island. "It’s a nice night. We can sit outside. Just for a little while."
You hesitated — but the softness in his voice, the aching loneliness he didn’t even bother to hide, undid you. Something about thinking of him sitting out there alone, in the quiet garden that probably held too many memories, made you nod instead.
"Okay," you said quietly, giving him an encouraging smile.
Harry grabbed a second glass and poured you a measure of whiskey without waiting for confirmation on how much. You slipped your laptop onto the coffee table, accepting the drink he pressed into your hand when you went to receive it. His fingers brushed yours — a light, accidental touch — but it felt like something more.
The dark, tattooed circle on his ring finger always stood out to you, but you never asked.
He led the way through the French doors into the garden that sat off the living room.
The night air wrapped around you, thick and warm, rich with the smell of honeysuckle and something green and wild. Crickets sang somewhere off in the hedges as the warmth of the summer breeze had tickled your skin and left you with an ease. The fairy lights Harry had strung over the small stone patio twinkled overhead, casting everything in a soft golden glow.
He slouched into one of the old wooden chairs, sprawling with all the boneless grace of a man who didn’t know how to relax but was trying to anyway.
You settled into the chair across from him, tucking your legs up beneath you. The whiskey glass was cool against your palm as you took another sip.
For a while, neither of you spoke – you stared up into the night sky, seeing the reds and pinks that summer brought to the atmosphere. You just sat there, breathing in the humid, fragrant night, the soft clink of his glass against the chair arm the only sound between you.
Harry broke the silence first. His voice different than usual as he stared at the whiskey glass that settled on the arm of the chair.
"You’re so good with them," he said, meaning Leo and Quinn. He shook his head like he couldn’t believe it himself for admitting something he had kept to himself.
You shrugged, a little embarrassed by the compliment. "They make it easy. And it’s my job. I’m sure you’re good at your job, too."
His smile was faint at your own compliment, almost self-mocking. "Not always."
You glanced at him, catching the tightness around his mouth, the way his hands curled around the glass made your eyes want to stare, but your attentiveness made you look up.
There was a moment when you stopped and thought about your next words and if you should say them aloud. You bit on your lip as you tasted the whiskey with hints of vanilla and all-spice.
"You’re doing a good job, you know," you said. "They’re happy. They talk about you all the time.”
Harry made a soft sound — not quite a laugh. He leaned his head back against the chair, staring up at the night sky.
"Some days I feel like I’m just...trying not to screw them up too badly," he said. "Trying to be two people at once, and trying to be present, do things with them. But I’m so glad that you’re around because I feel like… I don’t know, I feel like you’re just good at what you do and you’re good with them and they love you.”
Your heart ached at the raw honesty in his voice. It felt like he had been waiting for a long time to say those things to you.
"You’re more than enough," you said, not knowing what else to say to him. You didn’t know if it was the whiskey talking, or if there had been more on his mind. You sat with your heart open to allow him to know that everything would be okay – it was just a rough day. We all had them.
He turned his head, looking at you properly. The distance between your chairs felt smaller suddenly, like the air had shifted, pulling you closer as you sat under the lights in the garden.
Harry’s home had been your home for the past six months as you tried to make your way through medical schooling; you wanted to work with children, and you need to make a bit of extra cash. This was a job that was close to your school, staying in the area you wanted, and Harry was kind enough to try to work his schedule around yours just because you were so good at what you did.
There really hadn’t been a moment when it was the two of you like this, so you treasured it, in a way. You were happy to see this adult side of him – not the lawyer, not the father.
His eyes were dark in the low light, unreadable as he blinked staring at his glass tumbler that was starting to sweat with condensation. But something flickered there — something fragile and aching.
"You're kind," he said, voice low. "I don’t know if it’s true, but...thank you."
You smiled, sipping your drink to hide the sudden rush of heat to your cheeks. Harry tipped his own glass toward you slightly, a lazy sort of toast.
"To another day," he said.
You leaned forward a bit, making sure that you could clink your glass against his. "To another one."
The whiskey burned sweetly down your throat, settling low in your stomach as you took your sip. You leaned back in your chair, letting the wood help perch you up a bit.
Harry shifted in his chair, turning slightly toward you, his knee brushing the edge of your chair. The touch was casual, almost careless — but your body betrayed you, hyperaware of the small point of contact.
"You’ve really changed our lives," he said suddenly, voice rougher now. You could tell that he was having a thoughtful moment; he didn't know how to express it correctly, you could tell by his facial expression after he said it. "Having you here."
Your breath caught.
"Harry—" you started, but the words tangled.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the glass dangling from his fingers. His tie hung loose around his neck, his shirt rumpled and open at the throat. He looked undone in a way that made your chest ache.
"I’m probably crossing a line just saying that," he said, a hint of a smile ghosting across his mouth, he pushed away the comments just as easily as he made them. "I’m just tired. Ignore me."
But you couldn’t ignore him. The words settled between you, too heavy, too important.
"You’re not," you said softly. "Crossing a line, I mean."
He watched you carefully, like he wasn’t sure he believed you. Like he was waiting for you to push him back into his safe, professional box.
Instead, you shifted a little closer, your drink cradled loosely in your lap.
"It’s nice to just...talk," you said. "To be real with someone."
Harry's mouth twisted, something tender and pained flashing across his face.
"Not many people want the real version of me anymore," he said. "Just the lawyer. Or the dad," He paused for a moment, "Or the ex-husband. The...functioning adult."
You looked at him — really looked — and saw the man beneath all the roles he wore like armor.
"I like the real you," you said before you could stop yourself. "You've been very kind to me since I've been here, and I think sometimes we all just need a break from it all."
Biting your lip, you thought about the plans you had in the morning. You thought about how you were going to leave Harry on his own, taking the kids to the farmers market to shop for groceries for the weekend.
"Why don’t you take the kids to the farmers market in the morning? Maybe it would be good for you – just the three of you."
His eyes flew up to you, like he had been unsure of your intentions, so you interrupted his thought.
"I was going to take them because they had this tulip picking event – a bit selfish, because really the tulips were for my enjoyment," You found yourself starting to smile, "But if you want some alone time with the kids without me, don’t hesitate to ask."
You watched as he took in a breath, finally nodding at your request. "That would be really nice, actually. I probably do need that."
The air between you went very still.
Harry’s gaze dropped to your mouth for the briefest, most dizzying second — then back up to your eyes. His hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for you but thought better of it.
You stayed frozen, breath shallow, heart thudding so hard it drowned out the crickets, the soft hum of the garden lights.
He smiled then, slow and deliberate but almost shy, and leaned back in his chair, putting just enough space between you to let you breathe again.
"I should probably call it a night before I make a complete ass of myself and say something so regret," he said, voice warm and rough and fond. He downed the rest of his drink before you heard the ice clink against the glass.
You laughed softly, the tension breaking just enough to make your hands stop trembling around the glass.
"Okay,” You agreed, your voice a whisper in the warm dark.
Neither of you moved, though. Neither of you really wanted to – you weren't sure of why. There wasn’t a rush.
The air between you stayed charged, heavy and tender, even as Harry finally, reluctantly, pushed up from his chair.
He stretched his arms overhead, the hem of his shirt pulling just a little at his hips, before he dropped his arms and looked down at you, smiling in a way that made your stomach twist.
"You staying out here a little longer?" he asked.
You nodded, unable to find your voice. It had been a good idea to come out and get some warmth on your skin.
Harry hesitated like he wanted to say something more. Like maybe there was something he could say to untangle the complicated thing sparking between you — but whatever it was, he swallowed it down and shook his head, voting against it.
Instead, he simply said: "Goodnight, moon.”
Your breath hitched — not at the word itself, but the low, absent affection in it, like it had slipped out without thinking.
"Goodnight, Harry." You whispered.
He gave a small, almost pained smile — and then turned and went back inside, leaving the door cracked open behind him.
You stayed there long after his footsteps faded upstairs, the night humming gently around you, the taste of him still lingering somehow, though he hadn't even touched you.
You closed your eyes and leaned back in the chair, cradling the cooling whiskey glass in your lap, feeling the slow, aching bloom of something new — something dangerous — take root inside you.
THE NEXT DAY
The first thing you noticed when you woke was the sunlight that came in slanting through the gauzy curtains, painting the room in pale gold. That was the peaceful thing that you noticed.
The second thing was the sound of the house alive around you, along with what had been going on downstairs. Small feet pattering across hardwood floors, the clatter of shoes being found, the low rumble of Harry's voice cutting through the chaos with patient authority.
"Jacket, Quinn. No, the green one. Leo, leave the dinosaur — please, bud. We don't need to bring that with us."
You smiled into the pillow as you laid on your stomach, stretching your limbs luxuriously, savoring the rare slow start to your morning.
The front door banged open and shut with a final thunk, followed by the muffled sound of tires crunching on the driveway gravel as they made their way away from the house.
Then, there was that sound. Silence.
You turned onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. The house, usually bustling, noisy, spilling over with half-finished crafts and impromptu pillow forts, was suddenly, blissfully still.
An unexpected, precious pocket of time all to yourself. You took in a deep breath as you found a bit of a thrill as you let your hand touch the lower side of your hip. Your fingertip slowly circled round, feeling the bone of it. Slowly, you let your hand caress the edge of your panties.
Shutting your eyes, you let your hand fall deeper underneath. The touch of your clitoris confirmed your need; it was sensitive and warm to the touch, needing the affection you had time to give.
All alone.
Then, all the sudden, you hear your name said aloud. Your eyes blink up and open; it had felt so real.
But it wasn’t real. The sound of the voice coursing through your thoughts was from him. It excited you – knowing that he was on your mind. But the total encapsulation of his being had turned you on, giving you a scare as you thought about what that could mean or why it happened in the first place.
You were sitting on your elbows, then. Wondering if you should continue with the thought of him. Licking your lips, you think about the way his hand wrapped around the whiskey tumbler– fingers delicate and and poised around the cold glass. You can imagine him flicking the water off his fingers, cold and with ease.
Your fingers dance around you, guiding your thoughts dirtier. Your fingers dive into you, letting out a gasp as you think about the feeling of his cold hands on your hot skin.
You think about the way that the tattoos on his chest dance along the neckline of his shirts, the forbidden heat of it driving you insane. Curling your fingers, you lift your legs to bend to give you further access inside of yourself. Your two fingers are pushing deeply in and out, missing the feeling when you pull out.
A gasp escapes your lips as you feel your two fingers in a way that excites you – it pleasures you too well. Your swollen and warm and filled with something that is not him.
But his voice echos in your head as you let your thoughts hang above you like they're watching you please yourself at just the thought of him. You palm your clit with the thought of his head dipping between your thighs, opening you, letting his tongue work on your clit a way that feel exhausting.
Your thoughts mimic a feeling of guilt as you can practically feel the flat of his tongue, eyes darting up to see your reaction at the surge of pleasure he allows you.
"Don’t stop," Your murmur to yourself, "Fuck, Harry– please."
You echo the words, murmurs, and whimpers alike. A feeling grabs ahold of you and pulls you onto the bed, forcing you to take a moment to feel the excitement that rushes through you at once.
You're pulsating around your fingers; your orgasm holding you hostage for a moment as you feel the comedown of the high that felt so momentarily strong.
A few moments of clarity were needed as you laid on the white sheets, feeling the warm summer sun come in through the windows. Your heartbeat falling back to normal, your breathing starting to come to a normalcy.
There was so much to unpack in just the small moment for yourself. A lot of questions, a lot of solitude was needed.
Without overthinking it, you pulled away your covers, stepping out of the bed The sun outside was shining high, you could feel the heat just from the window.
You decided that it may be nice to lay by the pool for a bit, since you have some time off this morning for yourself. The paper could wait — after the conversation with Harry last night, this would be good for you.
It took a moment to find, but once you did, you pulled on your swimsuit — a simple black two-piece, practical but flattering — and layered a loose linen button-up over it. The fabric, soft and worn from washing, hung almost to your mid-thighs to give you a good cover-up.
Barefoot, you padded downstairs, grabbing your thick paperback novel that had been sitting on the coffee table and a pair of sunglasses from the hall table where you left your purses and keys.
The back door creaked gently as you pushed it open.
Outside, the garden was bathed in the early summer light, the air already warming but still edged with a faint coolness in the shade. Bees floated lazily among the wisteria vines curling over the trellis, and somewhere nearby, a lawnmower buzzed faintly, already at work.
You crossed the flagstone patio and dropped into one of the lounge chairs with a satisfied sigh, tucking your legs underneath you and flipping open your book. The sun was hot – you could feel it on your skin as you laid there in the summer bliss.
The words swallowed you whole into a captivating space where time and troubles didn’t matter.
Hours slipped by, unnoticed. You read and sipped iced water from a sweating glass, shifting positions when the sun crept higher overhead, letting the heat seep into your skin. It had taken you for surprise every moment your drifted off into a sleep; you felt so at peace.
You were so absorbed in your comfort that you barely noticed the car pulling into the driveway on the other side of the stone wall until the faint sound of car doors slamming echoed down the side yard.
You straightened up, heart giving a small, startled flutter. It was almost like in that small timeframe; this had been your paradise. It was like you had forgotten where you were, or who you were living with.
A moment later, the gate door swung open — and Harry stepped on in.
You watched from down by the pool, unseen for a moment as you realized he had been dropping some items off by the gate.
He looked rumpled in the most achingly appealing way — sunglasses shoved up onto his head, hair mussed from the breeze. A bag of fresh produce was slung over one arm; his sleeves rolled to the elbow. There was a looseness about him, a casualness you rarely saw after his long days at the firm.
His eyes lifted and found you almost instantly. For one suspended moment, everything froze. You knew that he didn’t expect to see you here, and why should he have? You weren’t one to sit by the pool, or enjoy your time off like this – you barely got time off, as it was.
The bags slipped slightly down his arm as he instinctively jerked to a stop, muscles tightening. His gaze, dark and unreadable, swept over you in one swift, stunned pass: the bare legs folded under you, the black triangle of your bikini top peeking through the loose, open buttons of your shirt, the lazy, sun-drunk way you lounged there with a novel half-forgotten in your lap.
It lasted no more than a heartbeat. Maybe two as you drew in a breath. But you felt it like a physical touch, like static sparking in the heavy air between you.
Harry dragged his gaze away with a visible effort, dropping his eyes to the ground as if scorched by what he had seen. His jaw flexed, a faint pink rising over the stubble roughening his cheeks.
You snapped your book shut without thinking, heart hammering suddenly against your ribs.
He opened his mouth — maybe to apologize, maybe to say something normal, anything — when the kids burst through the garden-gated door behind him.
"Daddy! You have to show her!" Quinn shouted, her tiny sneakers slapping against the ground as she had followed him into the back gate.
You could tell that he hadn't planned for them to follow him, but he had lingered here too long, and they had not been caught.
Leo crashed into his thigh, clutching a brown paper bag like it was treasure.
Harry blinked, as if remembering where he was, and quickly stepped back to let them through. Quinn ran straight to you, a bundle of something crumpled and colorful clutched in her small hands.
"We got you flowers!" She said, breathless with excitement. She thrust them into your lap: reds and yellows spilled out from the paper.
You looked down: tulips, slightly battered from the ride home, their bright heads bobbing on long green stems. Your chest squeezed thinking of your conversation last night and the way he had thought of your disappointment possibly missing out on the tulip festival.
When you look up, you see Harry standing against the gate with a dimpled smile on his face as he watched his children shower you with affection.
"They're beautiful, sweetheart," You said, your voice quiet as you realized you had even really spoken to anyone yet today. You reached out and smoothed Quinn’s hair away from her forehead, smiling. "Thank you."
Leo tugged on your sleeve, brandishing his prize, a small jar of golden honey sealed with a checkered cloth lid.
"Real honey," he said proudly. "We saw the bees and everything!"
"Actual bees," Quinn emphasized, nodding gravely as if her brother could have been kidding, and she needed you to know that.
“As opposed to, you know," Harry stated afterwards, "Fake bees."
With a humorous tone, you stare at him with a smirk, both of your eyes covered by sunglasses. His hands pushed into the pockets of his shorts that came up midthigh, a hat on his head shielded him from the sun.
You laughed, scooping Leo up into your lap without thinking, tucking him against your side as you inspected the jar. His hair was warm and sun-smelling under your chin.
You felt Harry's gaze on you again but it was different this time; heavier this time, lingering.
Something about the way you sat there, barefoot, and golden in the morning sun, arms full of his children, your laugh spilling easily into the bright air… it may have given his heart a ping of something.
He cleared his throat roughly, going to grab at the gate door that had shut behind him.
"I'll, uh," he said, voice hoarse, "grab the rest of the stuff from the car." He disappeared outside before you could answer.
You watched the door swing gently in his wake, your heart still thudding unevenly against your ribs. You couldn’t deny what had passed between you — whatever invisible current had snapped taut across the sunlit garden.
And now, sitting there with the kids chattering excitedly around you, you realized two things with startling clarity: one, Harry was fighting with the idea that you loved his children. And two, you were starting to realize that sense too.
“C’mon, you two,” You say to the kids; Quinn has started to look through the novel you had sitting out but knowing that she couldn’t understand the words made you smile. “Let’s go help your daddy, hm?”
They scrambled ahead of you barefoot, little feet slapping across the hot stone that was baking under the unusually warm England sun, as they darted back into the house from the French doors. You followed at an easier pace, pausing just long enough to brush your damp hair off your neck from when you had taken a dip in the pool earlier to cool off, the thin straps of your bathing suit still just a bit dewy but practically dry. Your cover-up, a gauzy thing that barely reached mid-thigh, fluttered behind you as the breeze filtered through the door.
Harry was just pulling a crate from the boot of the car and into the house when he caught sight of you coming in through the kitchen
His hand faltered slightly on the box.
He hadn’t expected the way the sunlight would frame you like that, haloing your hair, catching the edge of your smile as the kids crowded around his legs to help. His daughter tugged at a canvas bag that he had sat inside and not fully bringing into the kitchen, insisting she was strong enough to carry it herself. Leo squealed with excitement when you bent to lift a carton of strawberries, your cover-up gaping slightly at the neckline as you moved.
Harry tore his gaze away, and grabbed at the list he didn’t really need in his pocket to make sure that he had gotten everything on it.
“Thanks,” He said when you stepped past him with a crate tucked in your arms. He caught the scent of your sunscreen—warm coconut and saltwater—and something else, something that made him dizzy for a beat too long.
“Of course,” You murmured, your voice easy, unaware—or pretending to be, at least.
In the kitchen, the kids were already unpacking the groceries with great ceremony, piling vegetables onto the kitchen counter in chaotic towers as they took one by one out. You joined them, setting down the crate and reaching for a peach to inspect, your fingers brushing the soft fuzz of it thoughtfully.
Harry brought in the last of the bags. He moved slower now, like he didn’t quite trust himself to get too close. But when he stepped up beside you and saw you standing there barefoot, tan legs bare beneath your cover-up, backlit in the window light—he knew he was in trouble.
“Do you want help with making lunch?” You asked, turning to him. Your lips curved gently, like you knew exactly how he was looking at you and weren’t afraid to let him.
He blinked, taken off guard by your question. “Yeah—uh, yeah, sure. I was thinking something easy. Sandwiches maybe?”
“That’s perfect,” You said, already reaching for the bread.
You moved around him like it was natural. You always had, he realized. Slipping past him in narrow spaces with a hand lightly grazing his back that usually felt like fire on him or brushing his forearm when you passed him the kettle, or leaning just slightly into him when the kids were being rowdy and you both needed a moment of shared silence. It was always small. Subtle.
But now… he was noticing all of it. There was no subtly, it was just happening.
He opened the fridge while you chopped tomato slices. And when you leaned over to grab a plate from the cabinet, the hem of your cover-up lifted just enough to show the curve of your upper thigh, the dark tie of your bikini bottom flashing against your skin. He made the mistake of looking.
Then you caught him; he looked practically ill.
You turned your head slightly, a knowing glint in your eye. “Is everything okay?”
His throat felt dry as he shrugged and tried to play off the behavior. “Yeah. Yeah, just… making sure I’ve got enough…” He trailed off, looking at the list, almost like he hadn’t known what to respond with.
Your heart beat faster at the way he seemed… nervous. You smirked faintly but didn’t press him, only went back to slicing vegetables with quiet focus.
He stood beside you, trying to concentrate on the sandwiches, but every time your arm brushed his, every time your hip nudged his as you both reached for the same cutting board, he felt like the floor might tilt under him. It was unbearable and addictive all at once—the domesticity of it, the small sweetness of this moment that looked, from the outside, like you’d done this a hundred times before.
He couldn’t remember what this feeling was, it had been too long since he had felt the draw of someone’s presence. Not with the same ache, the same hesitation. The need was one thing. But the softness of it? The rightness of it? That was new.
You handed him a finished plate with a horizontally cut sandwich, and your fingers touched—longer than necessary. And this time, neither of you pulled away quickly.
From the table, Leo called out, “Are you done yet? I’m starving!”
“Leo, be polite.” Harry stated back at him, acknowledging that the toddler had been a bit rude.
You smiled, breaking the tension, and pulled away to finish assembling the food.
Harry didn’t say a word. But when he caught your profile in the corner of his eye, the dip of your neck, the curve of your shoulder where your cover-up had slipped slightly off, he bit down on the inside of his cheek and looked away fast, chest tight.
Lunch was mostly a noisy affair, as it usually was with little voices bouncing off the walls. The kids sat perched around the kitchen table, chomping on peach slices and crustless sandwiches. You sat beside Leo, wiping mustard from his chin with the corner of a napkin, while Harry stood at the sink rinsing out the tomato-streaked wooden cutting board.
It had almost settled into a rhythm until Quinn suddenly piped up between bites of cheese that she had strategically picked from her sandwich.
“Daddy, when is Mummy coming this year?” The words landed with a thud in the air. Heavy and unexpected. You tried not to make a deal of it, but you had to glance at Harry to catch his reaction to her very innocent question.
Harry froze, hands still under the running water. You glanced at him instinctively and saw his shoulders tense—not a flinch, exactly, but a tightening, like he was bracing himself to give her an answer.
“She said maybe she’d come for the fireworks last time,” Quinn continued, oblivious, swinging her feet under the table. You didn’t exactly know what that meant – a promise made between her and her mother.
Leo looked up from his half-eaten sandwich, interested now. “Yeah, she missed them last year.”
You sat still, carefully quiet.
At the sink, Harry let the tap run another second too long before turning it off abruptly. The silence that followed was too sharp for the easy sunlit mood you’d all just been sitting in, and you felt a shift in the air.
He dried his hands on a dish towel slowly. Then, with a voice that was just a little too calm, he said, “We’ll see, love.”
Quinn frowned at his nonresponse. “But—”
“Let’s not worry about that today, alright?” Harry said, just a touch firmer now. He turned to face them, towel clenched in one hand. “I don’t know all the answers, but I do know you need to finish your lunch so we can continue with our day.”
The kids quieted, sensing the edge to his voice even if they didn’t understand it. Quinn looked down at her plate, nudging a slice of the fallen tomato with her thumb. Leo murmured something about the boat that they had gone on a few weeks ago with Harry’s family and went back to eating.
You felt the air shift like a tide pulling away. Harry caught your eyes across the kitchen. Just for a second. There was something there—something raw and tired and older than the man who’d been smiling moments ago. A look that said: Don’t ask. Please don’t ask.
You never did, and you weren’t going to start. But you did know that it seemed to be off limits.
Instead, you wiped Leo’s hands, gathered the empty plates, and stacked them with soft efficiency.
“I’ll take care of this,” you said gently, your voice low but light. “Why don’t you go and get their swimsuits on, and I’ll clean up here.”
“Go swimming?” The kids both perked up again at the mention of it and slid off their chairs after they had their plates removed, already halfway down the hall. Leo followed, dragging a half-eaten peach in one hand.
When they were gone, you placed the dishes in the sink beside Harry who had not made an effort to follow the kids to their rooms, careful to keep your movements quiet. You didn’t want to crowd him, but you didn’t want to leave either.
He scrubbed a hand across his jaw, exhaling roughly as if in thought. “She calls when she wants to. Sends gifts. Postcards.” He laughed, short and bitter. “And somehow they still think she might show up and make jam tarts like she used to.”
You said nothing, just rinsed the plates slowly. You knew that listening was the best you could do right now, so that’s what you did.
“It’s been nearly a year,” He added, quieter now. “But I’m still the bad guy if I say she won’t come.”
You glanced at him, turning the sink off. “You’re not the bad guy.”
He looked at you then—really looked at you—and there was something like gratitude swimming behind the guarded frustration in his face. Something tired and real.
“I didn’t- I don’t mean to get sharp with them,” He murmured. “It’s just… every time they ask, it sets me back. I think I’ve moved on. That I’ve built something steady for them. But then it all just… it builds up. I hate that their only memory of her is going to be the times she didn’t show up.”
“I get it,” you said gently. “You’re trying to hold it all together. It’s okay to be tired of the cracks, and for trying your best.”
He didn’t respond at first. Just stood there, drying his hands again even though they weren’t wet. You were close now—only a few inches of space between you. The hum of the ceiling fan, the distant seagulls outside.
“Kids hold onto the hope that things might go back to how they were.” You tell him, leaning against the counter.
He let out a humorless breath at that, shaking his head. “Yeah. Except she’s off in Provence or Cannes or wherever, living in some gated house, and sending ‘love from Mum’ in cursive on postcards from places she’s been that they’ve never even heard of before.”
You stayed quiet. Not out of awkwardness, but because it felt like he just needed to say it aloud. Needed someone to hear him for once. The way he opened to you wasn’t shocking – Harry was quiet an emotional man, you could tell that he had a lot being carried on his shoulders, but he never opened up to you the way he had been.
It was just someone to listen and to not judge him.
“She left a year and a half ago,” he said, still holding the towel in his hands. “Didn’t want this life anymore. Said she felt stuck. That she wanted to be ‘a woman again,’ not just a mother.”
Your stomach turned a little, not knowing how a mother leaves her children. You didn’t want to judge, but your impression had already soured. You crossed your arms over your chest and tilted your head as you listened.
“She married again to a – I don’t know, CEO of something somewhere. They live in luxury. Not that I didn’t try, not that I didn’t give her all of this,” Harry looked around the spectacular Hamstead home that had accommodations far greater than just the four of us that lived there. “She just didn’t want… responsibility. She wasn’t meant to be a mother, and I do feel that maybe I,” He paused, “Maybe I coaxed her into it. Like, she only did it for me.”
His voice was softer when he said, “Some days, I think I’ve forgiven her. Other days, I look at Quinn when she asks about her mum, and I just—” His jaw clenched. “I get angry.”
“She’s allowed to miss her mum,” you said gently. “But you’re allowed to feel angry, too, especially when your resentment is so high. You’ve been showing up. Every single day. That counts for something – the kids will remember that and see that. They will hold resentment too, but they will grow up understanding who was there for them.”
“Thanks,” he said finally, voice low. “For not making it a thing. With them… or me.”
You gave him a small, knowing smile as you thought of the times that Quinn would ask you questions you didn’t know answers to, so you would deflect. Harry looked at you then with something new in his eyes—soft, searching, a question he didn’t quite dare ask.
And just for a second, you let yourself imagine what it might feel like to reach up, thread your fingers through the edge of his T-shirt, and kiss him right there in the middle of the kitchen. To drop the pretense.
But you didn’t. Because the kids were down the hall, and because Harry was still trying to figure out how to let someone in again. So instead, you bumped his shoulder gently with yours and said, “Come on, let’s go make sure that peach Leo was holding doesn’t end up in a bed somewhere.”
He gave you a small, crooked smile. “Goddamn kids.”
You laughed, and it broke the tension just enough.
But the look in his eyes lingered—long after you left the kitchen, long after the kids had rallied for their towels and snacks and toys.
It clung to the warm corners of the day like something unsaid but undeniable.
Later that night, bathtime was always a bit of a circus in the house, especially when you didn’t have help. But tonight it felt even more chaotic, their sun-soaked energy bubbling over in the form of shrieks and slippery limbs.
Harry was also here – a lot of the times, he was at the office or working late, which is why you were there to help. He often came home in the middle of bathtime, getting a run down from the kids on the day and how they were doing while trying to eat his dinner as he stood in the doorway while you worked.
But tonight was different – tonight, you two worked as a team, each of you taking a kid and spending time with them. Leo had somehow managed to dump half a bottle of bubble bath into the tub before you’d even turned on the tap. Now the bathtub was just a sea of foam, the scent of orange blossom rising in the warm air.
You sat on the edge of the tub, shorts damp at the edges, scrubbing Leo’s feet gently while he chattered about how he was going to be “the biggest shark” in the pool tomorrow. Harry was toweling Quinn’s hair, his forearms flexing with the motion, tattoos slick and shining from the steam and water. You had to look away.
Or rather—you tried to, but kept noticing how they stuck out around the tight t-shirt he was sporting.
All afternoon, you’d caught flashes of him in the pool: tossing Leo effortlessly into the air as the boy shrieked with joy, letting Quinn ride on his shoulders during splash fights, his own laughter echoing off the garden walls. The sun had traced golden lines across his skin, catching on the wet curve of his neck and shoulders, the faint pink of a sunburn spreading across his back and cheeks.
And the tattoos—how they shifted and twisted with each movement. You’d noticed the faint trail of water dripping down his ribs, over the anchor inked on his wrist, and how your fingers itched to touch them. Not for the first time.
“I think the bubbles are trying to eat me!” Leo shouted, thrashing like a sea creature, and spilling water over the edge of the tub.
“They’ve claimed you,” Harry declared dramatically. “There’s nothing we can do now – you’re lost in the sauce, brother.”
Quinn dissolved into laughter again, slipping off the towel pile in her giggles as she made her way into her bedroom, Harry following.
By the time both kids were dried, lotioned, and wriggling into their pajamas, it was nearly nine. Harry read to them on Quinn’s bed—something about a traveling mouse—and you sat in the hallway, folding towels from the laundry, as you listened to him read. His voice was low, soft around the edges, full of patience and presence especially when the kids would interrupt with questions.
You heard him wrapping up with the story, both receiving a kiss goodnight; Quinn getting a forehead kiss, Leo a noisy cheek one. Harry soon made his way into the hallway and closed the door behind him softly after saying his goodnights.
You turned toward Harry. He stood just a few steps away, one hand on the back of his neck, his own hair still a little damp.
“They adore you,” You said, your voice quiet in the hush.
“I adore them,” he replied, then added, “and they adore you.”
The air shifted. Like the stillness before a thunderstorm, the pressure obliterating.
You started walking toward the kitchen, meaning to clean up the dinner dishes you’d abandoned earlier, but he followed, falling into step beside you. You had wondered if he had something else to do, to leave you to your job. Neither of you said much as you wiped down counters and stacked plastic plates. Your bodies moved in sync, brushes of skin here and there—a shared space carved out of routine.
You bent to load the dishwasher and felt his presence behind you before you turned into him. Straightening, you found him watching you again.
You didn’t know which of you moved first. Only that one second the air was thick between you, and the next, his mouth was on yours.
It was a soft kiss. Cautious, at first. Just a press, a seeking acknowledgement of being felt. Then, it deepened. Just enough that you felt the tenseness in your shoulders fall.
His hand slid to your jaw, tilting your face slightly, his thumb grazing your cheek as he kissed you like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed—but couldn’t help it anyway. You tasted the remnants of toothpaste on his lips, the faintest hint of fresh watermelon from earlier, and something else entirely—desire, long-hushed and finally slipping free.
You kissed him back, stunned by how easy it was. How right it felt as you tilted your neck to meet his lips.
Almost like a light switch had turned on, he pulled away – fast.
“Shit,” he muttered, shutting his eyes at the acknowledge; as soon as your eyes met when he pulled away, it was like you were on fire and he was touching you with bare hands. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—fuck.”
“Harry—”
“No, I know. That was… that was stupid. I crossed a line.”
You blinked, still catching your breath – he wasn’t wrong, but you didn’t want to make him feel worse. You participated; you didn’t end it – you didn’t stop him. You didn’t… want him to stop. “It wasn’t stupid.”
He ran a hand through his hair, backing a step away from you like it might undo what had just happened, or both of you might just forget it.
“It’s not fair to you,” he said. “I can’t… I shouldn’t blur things. You’re here for the kids, and I’m—Christ, I’m a mess, and I just—”
You stepped forward this time, your voice gentle but firm as you go to touch him, but he flinches at the way your fingers grace him. “Harry.”
He looked at you then, eyes filled with panic and something else—something raw and vulnerable like he feels so conflicted with how he is responding.
“I- it may have been a mistake, but,” you said. “Whatever that was… it didn’t feel like a mistake.”
He didn’t say anything right away. Just stood there, breathing hard. But when he finally nodded, slow and quiet, you saw it in his eyes: the want. The fear. The pull.
The storm had been coming for a while. That kiss was just the first crack of thunder, and you were feeling the effects of the downpour.
You watch as he threads his hands through his hair, leaning against the counter. The way that he starts to fall into an oblivion of dissociation from his thoughts, you worry that he’s going to spiral.
The kitchen was still, filled with the soft hum of the dishwasher and the sound of your breathing. You stood across from him, heart skittering from the kiss and the way he’d pulled away — not because he hadn’t wanted it, but because he had. He had wanted it so badly that he crossed the invisible line to get it.
Harry scrubbed a hand down his face, eyes darting around the room as if searching for something to ground himself.
You didn’t move. Just watched him.
“I’m – I really am sorry,” he said again, softer this time. “That was—impulsive. I didn’t plan it.”
You let out a quiet breath. “Neither did I.”
He glanced up at you, trying to fidget with whatever he can get his hands on as if you will see his hands shake with adrenaline.
“I just…” he trailed off, exhaling hard through his nose. “You make it too easy. Being around you. It’s like I forget how complicated it is.”
Your brows lifted gently, curiosity tugging at your features. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged, “I mean—this house. The routines. The mess. Bath time and sunblock and tantrums and grocery runs. It’s all supposed to be exhausting and a bit miserable in some capacity, right?” His lips curled faintly, staring down at his hands that were now wrapped up in an excess tea towel, “But when you’re here, it just… it’s better. Feels like I’m not doing it alone.”
You felt that—deep in your chest. A tight, warm pinch of something unsaid.
“I like the way things feel with you,” he continued, his voice raw now like it had been crafted by professionals, like the truth had worn down any resistance he had left. “Even the boring stuff. Especially the boring stuff. You make it—”
“Easier?” You offered quietly.
He nodded once, then a few times as if he thought of all the times that you had been there when it was hard, each one running through his mind. “Yeah.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy, yes—but with something tender. Something on the verge of spilling. You crossed your arms, mirroring him, your hip leaning against the island. “And that’s what’s confusing you?”
He sighed, running a hand along his jaw in thought, resting his head in his hand now. “I don’t know what I’m allowed to want with you,” he admitted, words very clear and concise as if he was placing jigsaw pieces and not wanting to force them, “You’re here because I hired you. You take care of my children. You live in my house. I don’t want to be—” He stopped himself, shaking his head, almost in a bit of disgust.
You tilted yours, stepping closer. “You don’t want to be what?”
He looked at you then, really looked. His voice was steady, if a little hoarse. “I don’t want to be the guy who takes advantage of the girl he hired to help keep his life from falling apart – it’s,” He grimaced, “It’s not who I am, and I don’t want you to get the impression of that. Really.”
Your stomach twisted. “Harry,” you said gently. “That’s not what this is.”
He hesitated, eyes flicking to your mouth, your bare legs with the summer sun-kiss on them from sitting out in the sun all day. “I want it to be more. But I don’t know how to let it be that without blurring everything.”
Your voice was quiet but certain in how you came to this conclusion. “Lines are only useful if they’re helping. But if they’re just keeping you from something good, then… maybe they need to be redrawn.”
Harry looked at you like you’d just opened a door he didn’t know he was allowed to walk through.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he said, with all of the honesty he could. “Not carefully. Not slowly.”
A small smile tugged at your mouth. “You don’t have to know everything right now. You just have to be honest.”
You were standing directly in front of him now; leaning against the island as he leaded against the countertops. The space between you now was warm, charged again.
“I think about you,” he admitted, “When I’m rinsing Leo’s cereal bowl. When I’m folding Quinn’s pajamas. When I walk into a room and you’re already there, barefoot, humming something under your breath. It’s like—this house… doesn’t feel empty anymore.”
That one hit you deep. You swallowed; throat suddenly tight at the thought of his loneliness being the culprit. It was one thing to let his mind and body talk, but knowing that it was because he just longed for the security of a partner made you feel touched.
“And that... scares me,” he added, voice low and honest as he came to that conclusion. “Because I’m not used to things feeling good and lasting.”
You nodded slowly, trying to understand where he was coming from. “I’m not asking for forever right now, Harry. I just need truth and honesty, and maybe we just…” You trailed off, shrugging, “We take this as it comes.”
The smile that crossed his face caught you off guard, it was showing his dimples that you knew were hereditary just in the way that his smile replicated Quinn’s perfectly. There was a bit of a blush on his cheeks, “The truth is, I want to kiss you again,” he said. “But I won’t. And like you said, we’ll take it as it comes.”
Your pulse thundered in your ears. You made the first move, stepping just forward until you were close enough to hear his breath in the quiet space. His breath hitched, and for a long moment, it felt like the world was suspended in that space between intention and action.
But he didn’t kiss you again. Instead, he reached for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours.
“I’ll walk you to your room,” he said, voice barely audible.
And just like that, the moment folded back into the quiet hum of the house again. But the charge—that didn’t go anywhere.
When you both padded up the stairs, your fingers still linked, it wasn’t about pretending anymore. It was about the start of something quietly, fiercely real but in the most uncommon of instances.
Harry stopped just outside your bedroom door, still holding your hand like he didn’t quite want to let go yet. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, and you watched the corner of his mouth twitch like he was fighting a smile.
“So…” he said, eyes flicking toward the door behind you, “this is your stop.”
You blinked at him, confused for a second — until you caught the playful tilt of his voice. “Are you—are you pretending this is a first date?”
He gave a dramatic shrug, leaning a shoulder against the hallway wall. “What can I say? Feels like I should walk you to your apartment. Make sure you got in okay. Maybe kiss you on the front stoop, ask when I’ll see you again,” He bit his lip, “I want to take things slow but I have to imagine it this way rather than you just already living with me.”
A breath of laughter left your chest before you could help it. “You’re ridiculous.”
Harry’s gaze dropped to your mouth, and the moment slowed, grew heavier. When he leaned in, it was hesitant, like he was asking you to meet him halfway – he was still redrawing those lines.
And so, you did.
The kiss was soft — just the brush of lips, careful and steady, the kind of kiss that lingered long after it was over. There was no rush, no battle for control. Just quiet confirmation that whatever was happening between you had already begun.
When he pulled back, he looked almost dazed, like it had completely changed his perspective. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Harry.”
You slipped inside your room, closing the door gently behind you. But long after your head hit the pillow that night, you could still feel the ghost of his mouth on yours, and you hoped that the phantom touch would haunt you just a little longer.
THE NEXT MORNING
You woke slowly the next morning, the kind of slow that only came after a long, sun-soaked day and a night full of soft, lingering touches and unspoken truths. The sheets were warm against your skin, the pillow still holding the faintest trace of Harry’s cologne – your mind may have just been playing tricks on you. Your limbs felt heavy in the best way, as if your body had finally relaxed after weeks of holding tension.
Somewhere downstairs, you heard the faint clang of a pan, followed by the sound of laughter — light and bubbling, the kind that cracked your chest open and made you want to smile without thinking. Afterall, your job was to get the kids up, get them ready for their day.
But the past couple days, you had slept in. you had been given a break from all of that.
You slipped from bed, wrapping your robe around you loosely, bare feet padding softly over the cool wooden floor. The light filtering in through the windows was syrupy gold, lazily stretching across the hallway in slanted lines. You followed the scent first — warm butter, something sweet, something citrusy, and the unmistakable richness of coffee.
When you reached the kitchen, you stopped in the doorway. Time slowed.
Harry stood at the stove, barefoot, in purple shorts and a black t-shirt that clung to his shoulders and arms in a way you couldn’t quite ignore. His curls were a little messy — like he’d run a hand through them too many times — and he had a spatula in one hand, a steadying palm on Leo’s back with the other.
Leo had his knees on the stool as he sat in front of the stove, eyes wide and focused, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he gripped his own tiny spatula like it was a sword. Quinn hovered nearby in her pajamas, as she watched them from her spot sitting on the counter.
“You see those bubbles?” Harry asked, pointing to the pan, “That means it’s almost ready. Gotta be patient. The flip’s all about timing.”
“Now?” Leo asked, eyes wide with anticipation.
Harry smiled at his son’s impatience, “Few more seconds,” He watched as the little boy struggled with keeping it together before Harry nodded at him to act, “Okay, go on.”
Leo flipped the pancake clumsily and unevenly, but it made it onto the pan — and let out a triumphant yell at he did so. Quinn squealed, clapping, and Harry laughed, tilting his head back.
It hit you, then, the vision of him there, eyes soft with pride, his children giggling around him — the warmth of domesticity seeping into every corner of the kitchen. He looked like he belonged there. Like this was his favorite version of himself.
And then… you saw them.
Tulips.
A fresh bouquet — soft pinks and whites and yellows — tucked into a simple glass vase beside the sink, where the morning light caught the edges of the petals and made them glow. Just beneath them sat two coffee mugs. Steam was curling from the tops of them as if they were freshly poured.
Harry looked up just then, catching you standing there. He stilled, biting on the inside of his cheek.
For a moment, it was just the two of you in the space between that look — his eyes raking down your robe, soft at the edges, knotted loose around your waist. Your hair falling around your shoulders. Your smile barely formed. His entire face softened at your presence. He didn’t say anything, but his mouth twitched like he might want to.
“Morning,” you finally said, voice scratchy as you just woke up.
“Morning,” he murmured, gaze still holding you like something precious.
Leo turned, squealing. “We’re making pancakes! Daddy’s teaching us how to flip them!”
“He said we’re officially his pancake assistants,” Quinn added, nodding solemnly.
You stepped further into the warmth of the room, the floor cool beneath your toes as you reached for your mug. Harry passed it to you before you could reach, already fixed the way you liked it with a caramel color indicating he added creamer. Your fingers brushed his as he passed on the mug. The touch lingered — enough to send heat curling low in your belly again, like last night hadn’t fully settled.
“Thank you,” you said softly, glancing toward the tulips.
His eyes followed yours. “We thought you might like them.”
You didn’t have words for that — for how simple it was, and yet how deeply it rooted itself under your skin.
He turned back to the stove, flipping a pancake with practiced ease, letting the kids chatter around him. You stood at the counter, sipping the warm, rich coffee, watching him — the tattoos swirling down his arm as he reached for a plate, the way he leaned down to ruffle Leo’s curls, how he facilitated when Quinn spilled a bit of batter on her pajamas.
It wasn’t just that he was handsome. It was the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The way his voice softened when he spoke to the kids to meet their needs, but also to navigate their feelings and help them understand the world around them. The way the kitchen had tulips and coffee and warmth and him in it.
You realized, suddenly, that you hadn’t felt this safe in years. He caught you looking again and smiled.
And you knew — just by the way his shoulders dropped, the easy way he moved toward you — that the night before hadn’t been a fluke; it was just built-up feelings that he had needed to express on how easy this life was. That something had shifted. That you weren’t imagining the way his hand had hovered near yours all morning.
That there was more coming. And it would be slow. And tender. And full of moments just like this one.
Fresh flowers, and all.
