I had an idea and it spiraled! It was meant to be a blurb but it turned into a one shot, and it's smutty <3 I know I've been light on that lately but more is coming.
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Y/N and her newly established boyfriend had yet to be properly intimate.
Harry was a gentleman on all counts. He paid for their outings without question, he walked her to her door every single time, held every door open- car and building alike. The man knew the sidewalk rule and abided by it every time, he had his impeccable manners while talking to her, pulled out her chair when they went out to eat, he didn’t call her after midnight, and most of all- he hadn’t pushed for anything sexual.
The extent of it had been kisses that got heated enough for her to be pressed against the passenger door of his car before he’d apologized, fixing her lipstick with his thumb and told her with a slight blush on his cheeks that he’d ’gotten carried away’ and apologized for not controlling himself, but he was very enamored with her. Even if it left her with damp panties and a second heartbeat between her legs, the tenderness in which he treated her had been the stand out of it all.
It was the exact opposite of every man she had ever been with. There had been no hint of even daring to suggest a hook up, or bypass the dates to get to the ‘fun stuff.’ Granted, she had asked him what his intentions were when he’d asked her out originally and he’d seemingly honestly told her that he wanted a real relationship and connection- but Y/N had been a bit cynical.
So many times she had gone out with a man who said they were looking for something real but they’d attempt to speedrun the first date to get her alone, or see her a few times, fuck around and then suddenly ‘not feel the spark’ before moving on to another woman to do the exact same thing. Take, take, take without receiving. Literally, in some senses, considering an alarming amount of men didn’t know where the clitoris was located.
The dating scene had been fatigued for her for a long time, and despite the hopes she’d had for Harry, she hadn’t allowed herself to hope. That itself had been hard when it felt like her personal dream man had been laid out in front of her, with pretty seafoam green eyes and dimples she wanted to indulge in poking, so she had told herself that no matter how much she liked him, she would try to hold herself back.
Funny, that was. It hadn’t been that long into dating when she had realized how incredible he was. How intelligent and kind he was, how he had most of the qualities she’d put down in her journals at 3 am when she needed to dream a little bit. Harry was what she wanted, and allowing herself to want it openly had been hard- but she’d been met with a warm reception.
Being a very successful man in business with multiple companies and hats he had to wear, Harry could be seen as a bit stiff, but she’d been able to see past that because he was letting her. She’d seen him laugh and dance a little bit to music he showed her, and just because he was wearing a suit a lot of the time didn’t mean he was what she’d probably have shamefully assumed of a man like him at first glance. Harry wanted to be good, he wanted to give her what she wanted, and for once in her life, she had let go a little bit and let him.
God, she wanted to fuck him. He hadn’t budged on that, and she hadn’t pushed too hard, but thankfully she hadn’t been made to wait an excessive amount of time.
It had been 7 official dates, 3 coffee dates on their lunch at work and 2 times meeting for drinks until he’d asked her to be official. The meticulously prepared candlelit dinner at his place was where he’d gotten her favorite meal prepared, gotten her favorite eclairs from the bakery down the road, and had curated a playlist of artists she’d mentioned liking before he’d asked her on his couch if he would be able to have the ‘honor of being hers’ and vice versa.
It had been the easiest yes of her life, considering the man had put in more effort than she had thought possible. For once in her life she had felt cherished and looked after. He’d sent her money for her nails earlier in the day as well; which she had never asked for but he had said was ‘a man should look after a woman he cares about, even if they are more than capable of taking care of them selves’, and she had decided in the seat while getting her feet scrubbed and the cucumber lotion slathered onto her that she would stop at nothing to lock this man down.
Turned out he was one step ahead. He’d always been one step ahead. And it also turned out she had misjudged him, even if only just.
He had a lot of charisma that was disguised as something else; a big energy that had let her think that he had to be good in bed. That feeling had only been slightly challenged with how quickly he had calmed things down when she had wanted more a few times. In short- she had assumed that maybe the energy he put off was a facade and perhaps his one flaw would be he wouldn’t be very adventurous in the bedroom. Maybe a missionary with the lights off type of guy which, hey! It wasn’t the worst thing in the world. She could fix that.
Harry was a teachable man, considering how brilliant he was. He hadn’t been suggestive and she had sat back and had the self conversation about being willing to show him what she liked, to give him a crash course in dirty talk and how to fuck her how she liked because with everything else he had, sex was something she knew could be adjusted.
It was very, very clear, feeling his large hands on him and her bare tits exposed to the cool air of his bedroom that she had been sorely mistaken. Nipples swollen and sensitive from the way he’d sucked and let his teeth graze them, dress tossed to the side leaving her splayed out naked on his bed, he’d been unable to keep his hands off of her after she asked him if they could ‘do more’ now that they were an official item.
He’d taken the challenge very literally.
“Look at that little clit.” He murmured, brushing his thumb over the swollen nerve. Sitting on his knees between her spread, wet thighs, he looked more comfortable than she would be with hardwood digging into her knees, but it was most likely because of the distraction in front of him. “Poor thing. All sorts of worked up, aren’t you?”
Y/N let out a soft sigh, nodding her head as she bit back a moan. The smallest touches were setting her off. Harry had turned her body into a live wire. With him circling over her clit and the hot wash of his breath as he spread her cunt open for him to see, it was becoming difficult to breathe. Life, and Harry apparently, had come at her fast. So fast that her head was spinning, showing her just how dirty the proper man could really be.
“Yeah, I bet you are. I’ve been thinking about this for a long, long time. Did Y’know that?” Eyes looked up at her, dark and hungry as she shook her head in response. Words escaped her, but she managed to get out a strangled “N-No…” as he hummed under his breath.
That was in fact, news to her.
“I have been. Since the first night we’ve met. I tried very hard t’be good. To not think about you in such a filthy way, but it was difficult. Talked to you for a bit… admitted how absolutely incredible you are… how beautiful… and I knew you had to have the prettiest little pussy. I was wrong, though.” He turned his head just a bit to kiss her sensitive and slightly sticky inner thigh, letting out a chuckle when she jumped just a tad. “It’s even prettier. Most gorgeous cunt I’ve ever seen.”
It was unnerving to feel his gaze on her, to know he was well and truly up close and personal with perhaps the most vulnerable part of her, but she could see the admiration and hunger in his eyes. She couldn’t even pretend not to see it as he let his slippery thumb glide up to her mound of soft flesh above her cunt and back down to her entrance, spreading the slick around.
“Can’t believe how wet you’ve gotten for me. I won’t lie to you, my sweet girl… I’ve been dying for this to be mine.” His voice rumbled against her thigh as he laid a line of kisses, wet and slow up the sensitive skin. She’d have burn from his mustache on her thighs, surely, but Y/N didn’t care. It felt so good, her poor clit was throbbing underneath the passes of the pad of his thumb, and she wanted more.
“Please…” She croaked, lifting her hips. It felt hard to think, let alone speak, but he seemed to like that. Revel in the effect he had on her. “Please, Harry.”
“Please? Please what, sweetheart?” He murmured, pulling back from his kisses to spread her thighs open with his forearms. “What do you want me to do to my pussy, hm?”
Y/N bit her lip to bite back the scream, because what the fuck? How did he do that? How did he command her body so fucking easily that she could feel the trickle of arousal drip down her ass from the soft rasp of his voice and the intensity of how he spoke. Soft spoken, but meaning every syllable he let pass his lips.
His pussy. That was something he’d obviously been dying to say- but she hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted him to own it.
“Because, sweet, precious girl…” He sighed, spreading the lips open as he got a good look at her. “I’m not sure m’quite done admiring my pussy yet. So I think you can sit there and be the cute little thing you always are for me while I get better acquainted with her, and then I’ll give you what you want.”
It was hard not to let her hips jerk up as he tapped his fingertip over her clit, letting another breath wash over her as the heat of it made her stomach tingle. He was staring, admiring, analyzing her like she was art at a museum and that had never been anything close to what she experienced- so who was she to tell him no.
“Yeah I can… I can sit. I can wait.” Her throat felt thick as she spoke but she managed more than two words, and that was a feat in itself.
The smile on his lips was her even bigger reward.
“Thatta girl.” He praised, leaning up a bit to kiss her lower tummy- very close to where she wanted him to be. “I’ll always treat you well. Make it worth your while for letting me see what you’re letting me own, hm? Suck that pretty clit and make you stain the sheets… give you anything you want. Just need to stare a bit longer before I get her all puffy and wet… ruin her a little bit.”
She was already ruined, but she had vastly underestimated the way it would feel to have a man she desired so intensely to coo and stare at her body like it was his favorite thing.
Honestly, she had no idea how long it had been of his sweet and filthy words. His knees had to be numb as he dragged her to the edge of the bed, chuckling at her squeal of surprise as he pulled back for a moment to run his hand down her body. From her collarbone all the way to her cunt, cupping it in his large palm as she let out a strangled moan. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Seeing you spread open for me… You have no idea what that does to me, little treasure.” Clicking his tongue, he momentarily removed his hands to roll up the sleeves of his button up.
The always impeccably pressed and starched button ups, rolling the sleeves up his forearms as he began to look undone himself. The hair he gelled back tousled from her hands, a curl draped over his forehead and the 5 o’clock shadow was getting darker from when she’d first arrived. It was a brand new side to him.
“I’ve tried very hard to behave, Y/N. I’m a gentleman, and I will treat you as such… but something has clued me into the fact that it may not be what you want in this scenario, hm?” He shifted on his knees and she could hear the metallic clinking of his belt, but it was hidden from view. “I have to admit to you that I’ve never felt such unadulterated hunger in my life as I have with you. I don’t feel passion to this level. But you’ve brought something out of me, and I have to tell you that I’m becoming obsessed with you.” Lifting her leg, he planted a wet kiss to her calf. “With your voice.” A kiss to her knee. “With how you look at me, your intelligence…” he rounded up her thigh. “And now, this body.”
He audibly groaned as he spread her lips open with his fingers again, pursing his lips- and surprising the hell out of her- spitting on her clit. His eyes didn’t stray as she gasped, watching it slide down her pussy before he rubbed it into her already soaked skin. “So let me show you just how crazy you’ve made me. How obsessed I am with you. And most of all… how grateful I am that you’re letting me own you.”
Harry did more than that.
With his mouth on her, Y/N felt like she was floating. Again and again, he made her cum. Like a man starved, he’d barely pulled away from her pussy- save for letting his tongue run over her other hole which had her shuddering from the touch she wasn’t used to- and she had to wonder if he’d ever be able to be pulled away.
“You have no idea…” The usually well put together man whined against her pussy, trying to get her to cum a fourth time. It almost hurt, tingly and sharp, but she loved the pain as he sucked over her clit and sloppily spit back down over it. Webs of her arousal and his saliva stuck to his chin as he worked his fingers inside of her, the other hand keeping her down by pressing over her stomach. “No fucking idea what trouble you’ve just started.”
Y/N only hoped she could get more of it.
“It feels…” Y/N was finding it hard to breathe for an entirely different reason now. “God, it hurts but it feels so good. You’re r-ruining me. Like you said… oh, fuck.” Her hips tipped up as he curled his fingers, a deep chuckle vibrating against her clit. The sounds were pure filth. The squelch of his fingers fucking her deep and practiced, his mouth sucking on her cunt, his groans and her weak whimpers and whines as she tried to keep her head on straight bounced off his maroon walls. “H-Harry I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna fucking cum a-again and… fuck, I’m gonna make a mess.”
She’d only been able to do it twice before, and she’d done it herself. Truthfully, the reason she didn’t go for it more often was because of the mess squirting made- but that didn’t deter the older man.
If anything, it spurred him on further.
“Make a mess then, treasure.” He panted, nosing at her clit. “Make a mess all over my hand and my face. I don’t give a fuck about the sheets.” One of the first true curses she’d heard from him had her clenching around him, but more than that was seeing him so undone. Wrecked by her alone, his new fascination with her pussy. “You’re going to give it t’me now. Alright?” His hand on her stomach came down to smack at her clit, the light, sharp sting making a gasp rip from her throat.
Fuck, that was good.
“You’re almost there. I can feel it. M’not stopping. Give it to me, Y/N. Let me see what my pretty pussy can do. Want the mess, want you to soak me. Be good for me, give it.” He was commanding it, keeping the pace just as he had it as his mouth went back to her clit.
Her body liked to obey.
With a scream that startled herself, she slapped her hand over her mouth as she came. Squirting on his fingers, she felt him moan against her pussy as he pulled his mouth off her clit and rubbed it frantically instead with his hand. “Give it t’me, give it baby- yes, yes, thatta-fuckin’-girl…. That’s what I want, give me what I want, let me give it to you- Fuck.” He snarled, tongue lapping over his fingers to taste her.
Writhing on the bed, she let out a little sob as she fell back flat on the bed instead of sitting on her elbows, body jerking as little bursts of her squirted over his fingers and surely soaked his hand. Never had she heard him so unhinged as he lapped her up, thanking her in between and telling her she was a good girl, that she was perfect as his fingers slowed until they stilled inside of her, kisses pressed to her thighs and belly as she got over sensitive.
It felt a bit fuzzy as she whined at the emptiness, a brief recalling of him saying to sit still before he was back, stroking sweaty hair out of her face and a warm washcloth gently cleaning between her thighs.
“There you are.” He murmured, voice warm and smile soft as he swiped his finger over her cheeks. “M’sorry baby. Got overwhelmed, hm? No more tears.”
Y/N hadn’t even realized she’d been crying. It just felt so good, she felt so safe, and she’d drifted away. Coming back to his smiling face felt very good, especially with his tender touch. “Hi.” She peeped, reaching up for him. There was no fight from him to come down, balancing on his one hand as he gave her the kiss she wanted.
“Hello, beautiful girl.” He murmured with an amused smile. “Let me take care of you, okay?”
“Mm… ‘Kay. For how long?” She asked without meaning to, but his answer was what she wanted to hear regardless.
“As long as you let me. I take care of what’s mine.”
Please do write an angsty, make up sex oneshot (husband!H) where he’s busy promoting KATTDO era and the wife feels a bit neglected (she’s a strong woman and a professional also maybe a lawyer or a doctor or a marketing professional — but doesn’t work in show business) so she doesn’t really get the long hours !!! ANGSTY AND ROUUUUGH 🥵 and lots of dirty talking…. My soul needs it
💜 Quiet*
Summary: Harry and his fiancée hit a rough patch while he’s in NYC for his Together, Together Tour.
CW: Smut (MDNI — dirty talk (slight degrading, pet names), oral (f!rec), penetration (p in v), safe word system, soft!dom Harry, rough sex) Angst, long distance relationship, strong language use.
Word count: 5.1k
Pairing: Current!Harry x Fiancée fem!reader
Location: London/NYC
POV: fem!readers / Harry’s, third person
💌 A/N: This is SO long overdue! I am so sorry to the anon who requested this. I apologize for not getting it out sooner but I really hope you like it!! I did change a few things up since we're around tour time now! 🙂↕️💜 let me know what you think! Please share & comments because I love to hear your thoughts.
(Reader's POV)
It was quiet before the storm. Recently, it seemed like everything and everyone had been practicing to not make a sound, a notice, a movement even.
As if the world was full of quiet, cold rooms that lacked affection and warmth. The quiet was everywhere and it was overconsuming.
Quiet in the morning, only the hushed sound of the coffee machine calculated to make a single cup for one. Quiet in the evening when her food grew cold, left uneaten due to her lack of appetite. Quiet in their bed, only the soft rumble of sheets when she tossed and turned at night, missing the warm body she’d been longing for.
Everything had been too quiet, it seemed as if loneliness had occupied her whole existence. She told herself she wasn’t really lonely. She had friends, people who looked after her when Harry was away. She had her family around to help fill the void but the noise only lasted an hour or two. Then, it was back to quiet.
Even with Harry, he silently demanded quiet too. After making loads of noise on stage, listening and interacting with screaming fans — by the time he called, he grew quiet. He grew distant, maybe not by choice but by occupation. He simply couldn’t be his loud, affectionate, happy self when all his energy was drained by their early morning call (midnight for him).
She knew this.
She understood it.
It didn’t make the quiet any easier though.
It only caused her to want to make noise, an attention seeking, selfish noise that forced him to be loud. Not because she wanted to weather the storm and she certainly wasn’t prepared for it but she needed something other than quiet.
“Why’d y’go quiet on me?” Harry asked, his chin rested against his dark blue jumper. The light brown stubble on his face made him look a little older, wiser and properly spent. Through the screen, his green eyes still held the same intensity and questioning like he was curious. He had to know something was up. Probably just afraid to ask and not mess up their only few moments together.
“Just not much to say,” she shrugged, shifting her position to get more comfortable on their bed. Her body felt tired, not just from the time difference but from everything. The distance was weighing between them and time was just another current that pulled the wave higher against the shore.
Now, her favorite part of the day was failing her too. Her call with Harry usually perked up her spirits. He’d tell a funny joke or explain a silly fan story but she couldn’t fake it anymore. The awkward pauses were becoming too loud for her to handle.
Harry let the quiet flow between them, a sea-parting distance filled them in more ways than physical. She was counting down the days until she’d be visiting Harry in the States but worried filled her heart that their time would be just as quiet together as separate.
“Tell me about your day,” Harry asked softly, treading lightly on the parted sea that held their conversation.
“Not much to tell really,” she told him, the passive tone of her voice carried heavy through the call. She could tell by the way Harry straightened up on his mattress, focusing his attention.
“Nothing exciting happened, love?” She heard Harry pause, waiting for her to carry on. Instead the silence filled again. The tidal wave building.
“Not anything news worthy,” she sighed. “What about you?” She attempted to perk up, rubbing her tired eyes to focus.
“I saw a couple of girls dressed as tomatoes,” Harry chucked, attempting to lighten the mood. “Oh, and there was a whole frenzy when I played kiwi tonight,” he smirked through the screen but it fell quickly when he saw his fiancée’ face didn’t change. “But that’s the same as always,” he whispered into the air followed by a heavy sigh.
“Baby, talk to me… What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” He said after a few more minutes of silence.
“I don’t know, Harry.” She frowned, drowning in a sea of silence. After a few seconds, she spoke up again. “It’s just been really difficult lately,” she confessed. “It’s been so quiet here without you and I thought I’d be used to it by now,” she added, sounding more disappointed in herself for allowing the miles to spread between them.
Just as Harry was about to speak, she heard a knock coming from his end. His eyes flickered off the camera before he let out a sigh. His attention shifted back towards the door as another knock rang through.
“Just a second love,” Harry promised. Suddenly, her screen filled with the image of Harry’s high rental home ceiling as he fell into conversation with who she presumed was Jeff by the sound of his voice.
Tired and emotionally exhausted, she tuned out the chattering noise that filled the background as they talked schedules and whatnot. As her phone rested on her pajama top, a tension headache hit her hard. She attempted to soothe her pain with the tips of her fingers like Harry used to but it was no use.
When a couple minutes turned into a few, the same lonely feeling returned with Harry nowhere in sight. As she heard his familiar, comforting laugh crackle through the phone, she grew frustrated and envious that their precious time was being interrupted and his energy was carefully utilized elsewhere in conversation. Before she could stop herself, jealousy flooded her veins and she hung up then placed her phone on silent. It rested face down against her wooden nightstand, forgotten as she turned away in frustration.
There it was, the quiet filled the air once again.
Harry’s fiancé woke a few hours later, groggy but well rested. Her phone buzzed nonstop throughout the morning but her sleep was not interrupted. When she reached for her phone, the first thing she saw was a string of notifications from Harry.
Harry ❤️
I’m so sorry, baby. Jeff came to ask me about the schedule and we ended up sidetracked.
Missed Call
Harry ❤️
Harry ❤️
I tried to call you again but you must be asleep. We’ll talk tomorrow morning. I’m sorry it’s been tough on you. It’s been hard on me too.
Harry ❤️
I love you.
As much as she wanted to be upset, she couldn’t ignore him. She wasn’t necessarily upset at him but the situation was tough and he was having a hard time too. So, she sympathized and time went on. The quiet stayed, grew more eerie as their reunion day approached.
“You have everything packed?” Harry asked, double checking while on facetime.
“Yes, I packed two days ago. I already told you that, baby.” She exclaimed gently, a soft smile on her lips. “I won’t forget a thing.”
“Ok, just wanted to be sure,” Harry picked at his lips. A familiar nervous habit as he glanced off camera for a second. “I think… I uhm,” he began to say something but then stopped. “Jeff scheduled a private car to come pick you up from the airport. I have soundcheck when you land,” Harry explained as he packed something away.
“Okay,” she tried her best not to sound disappointed. She knew realistically that Harry would be busy during their in person time together too. He had 17 more shows to work through on his Madison Square Garden residency and that didn’t account for interviews, and television appearances. Harry kept a strict schedule and rarely made exceptions but she figured this time would be different.
As she sat in the quiet blacked out SUV that idled through the busy New York streets, she day dreamed about their time together getting reacquainted.
“Oh, lovie!” Harry beamed, delighted to see her, to touch her once again. He’d scooped her up in his arms, planting wet, sloppy kisses all over her face. “I missed you,” he’d breathe into her hair. Her body would automatically relax and sink into his calming scent of vanilla and sandalwood. Harry would dare to sneak her away into a private area, needing to feel every inch of his body pressed against her own. He’d be gentle, caring and never miss an inch of her skin to cover with his fingertips or lips.
But that perfectly painted picture came to a dying halt when she arrived to his soundcheck. Instead of an excited, cheerful greeting — she got very a stressed, checked out Harry.
“Hi,” his features softened as he saw her walk by the crew members and elongated wires with ease. Their reunion lasted a matter of seconds. Harry gave her a brief hug before getting whisked away with a whisper of a promise to “be back soon.”
As his partner, she knew Harry or at least she thought. Granted, this was their first tour of his during their relationship but she picked up on a few things during his European leg. There were six rules that he followed closely to keep his physique, mental health and focus in order.
1. No drinking or drugs.
2. No after parties or clubbing.
3. Train everyday except for “off days”.
4. Clean, wholesome diet only.
5. 8 hours of sleep per night.
6. No useless distractions — social media, excessive phone usage or anything that brings his attention too far away.
Harry’s fiancée was beginning to feel like she fell into the last category. It was well past soundcheck when a crew member from Harry’s team rushed her from backstage of the venue to her private car that dropped her off at Harry’s rental home. She figured he’d be back in under an hour but after two, it was cutting it close to Harry’s show time.
(Harry's POV)
Utter exhaustion clouded his head as he closed his eyes on the way back to his rental home. He only had about an hour to spare until he needed to be back at the venue for dress rehearsal, makeup and hair. Unfortunately Harry couldn’t give his fiancee the warm welcome she deserved due to an urgent meeting Jeff forgot to mention. It was some stupid miniscule topic that could’ve been an email. As soon as the meeting ended, Harry told his driver to send him back home so he could properly greet his partner before his stage appearance. As he walked through the secure area and into his home, he noticed how quiet it was.
“Hello?” He called out, placing his keys around the hook. “I’m back, love. I’m sorry that took so long,” Harry announced a little louder as he walked through the corridor. He saw his beautiful fiancee with her arms tucked around her, a defensive look on her face as he spoke up again. “I – I know it’s not an excuse but Jeff got the dates wrong for this urgent meeting and –,” her voice cut him off.
“Am I a distraction for you?” Her tone was harsh, her posture the same, playing defense.
Harry frowned, opening his mouth to respond before his phone buzzed persistently in his hand. He quickly clicked it off without glancing at the caller ID. He walked around his sofa and sat across from her, keeping his distance. “What are y’talking about, baby?” He asked, his voice gentle. “You’re never a distraction.” He wanted to say more but she began to argue, obviously frustrated and maybe even hurt.
“Then why do I get only two seconds of your time when I flew six hours to see you?” She snapped.
The question didn’t make sense to him. He knew that in the next coming days, he’d finally get a well deserved break and be able to spend time with her – quality time. He missed being with her or at least, he thought he did. He was beginning to second guess himself. Relationships while on tour weren't exactly his strongest connections but in the past, he successfully maintained them. So, he began to explain what he told his partners in the past —
“You are a priority of mine, that will never change,” but as he said it, the words fell out funny. “Work is just a lot right now, and it's important too. I have hundreds of thousands of fans demanding my attention and –,”
“No. I get you have to do your job, Harry.” She interrupted again, putting up a defensive hand to stop him. “You're busy but you could’ve told Jeff like… Five or ten minutes? Actually came to properly greet me? Instead, you just sent me here to be alone again!” Her voice slightly raised, anger that had been brewing finally spilled over.
Harry let out a breath, gathering his thoughts before he said anything rash. He pinched the bridge of his nose, a tension headache forming. “First of all, I didn’t send you here.” Harry spat out, shaking his head. “I don’t know why they didn’t just let you wait at the arena but I never gave that order.” His tone carried a slight dismissive edge as he spoke next, “I’ll be better next time.”
Harry was good at this, making empty promises. He didn’t necessarily not mean them but between his schedule demands and requirements - promises rarely followed through. It was a boundary issue on his end that he needed to work out fixing. Unluckily for him, his partner caught onto his half arse promise quickly.
“You’re just saying that,” she continued. “Ever since the tour started, the tour has been the priority, not us, not our relationship.”
Harry was hanging on by a thread now, completely sidetracked by her words. “Well, this is quite the warm welcome,” his tone was harsh as he stood up from his seat, reaching for a bottle of water to calm his nerves.
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?” He questioned, bringing the rim of the bottle to his lips.
“You’re always so dismissive when I voice a problem in our relationship.”
“Dismissive? Me?” Harry pointed at his chest, a humorless chuckle escaping his lips. “That’s real rich coming from you.” He argued back, shaking his head as he guzzled some water down.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” She rose from her spot, brows pushed together as she held herself with her arms wrapped around her chest.
“It means that this whole time we’ve been long distance I’ve been trying to connect with you and you’re barely there! You don’t tell me about your day, you’re never happy on the call anymore, you barely even fucking crack a smile or laugh at my jokes.” Harry exclaimed, his green hues boring into her own.
“You’ve been trying to connect?” She laughed, a genuine laugh. “Sorry Harry, didn’t know I was only there for your entertainment!”
“No, no, no. You don’t get to do that.” he barked, stepping a bit closer into her space. “This isn’t about me, this is about our relationship.”
“Well, maybe we shouldn’t have a relationship if we can barely connect.”
There it was, the tidal wave washing over.
Harry stared at her for a few seconds, locking in every angry, hurt emotion that ran across her skin. “So, that’s it, huh? You’re breaking up with me because I didn’t have the chance to properly greet you, is that it?” Harry’s tone grew darker and harsher than he wanted but he continued.
“You don’t get it, do you?” she asked, a small pout crossed her face.
“Guess, I don’t.”
The silence fell between them as Harry shuffled around the room.
“Fine,” her tone matched his but broke at the tail end. When he glanced over at her as he passed by, he saw the tears begging to fall from her eyes. She mirrored his movements, grabbing her belongings along with her phone. “All I wanted was for you to give me a minute's worth of proper attention, hold me for more than a few seconds, actually seem overjoyed that I am here…” she clarified as she walked past him.
“I am overjoyed! Fucking hell,” Harry cursed. “There’s nothing I want more in this world than to… to be with you, don’t y’know that?”
“Knowing and feeling it are two different things, Harry.”
His shoulders dropped, giving in.
“Just stay for the concert and we can talk afte – ,” he tried, his voice filled with a whisper of hope.
“No! I can’t have another quiet conversation where we don’t say the things we really mean.”
“Then we don’t have to talk!” Harry whipped around, his body towering over her own.
“What do you mean by that?” He could practically hear the disgust in her voice.
“We can just…” He lets out a defeated sigh, invading her space. “Wonder if we just… filled the quiet with something else?” His voice was a lot less pensive and held a suggestive tone.
“Something else?” He watched her frown before a scoff filled the air. “You think sex will fix this?” She laughed, beginning to step around him. Harry gently reached out, placing his hand on her waist to halt her.
“Fix it? God, no. Only a proper talk will do that,” he said with certainty. “But I know you really miss me and I miss you too.”
“Okay, so?” He could tell some of her resolve was peaking through. The way her body inched towards his own as she shifted her weight was telling enough.
“I don’t want to argue and I don’t want you to lose you,” Harry told her deliberately. “It’s been a really long day for the both of us, and it’s going to be a really long night.” His fingers hooked under her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “But I want to come back to you, my home, here in this space,” he gestured around the temporary home. “Can we please, start over?”
“How?” She asked, almost hesitantly.
“By me giving you what you want and what you need,” Harry's voice dipped an octave lower. He followed it up with a simple question, one burning in the back of his mind for ages – “Can I kiss you?” His fingers stilled on her chin, holding her in place. For a second, he was sure he’d either be slapped or rejected but a small smile curved on her lips. He could tell she was hesitant but desperate for his touch.
“Just one.”
“Just one?” Harry frowned, already pressing a soft, quick kiss to her lips.
Then seconds later, “See? Not nearly enough,” He said as he pulled back. “Can I have another? A proper kiss? I’m a greedy, sorry bastard.”
Their eyes locked as she contemplated.
“One proper kiss.”
Harry wasted no time, he kissed her with complete certainty. His lips covered her own, dominating at a slanted angle for a short millisecond before she began to kiss back. Her plump lips mushing together with his own — so perfectly, so needed. He felt his heart rate quicken as he naturally pulled her firm against his chest, his fingers spreading up her spine. One hand cupped the side of her flushed cheek and the other wrapped around her to keep her steady. His lips were wet, sloppy against her own, claiming her. The soft sound of their saliva mixing together echoed throughout the room as his tongue traced her bottom lip, asking. When she opened her mouth to accommodate, his composure fractured slightly. Harry kissed her harder, feral about the taste of her mouth on his. Her tongue met his in an instant - earning a soft moan from the contact. Harry’s grip on her back tightened as he pulled her square against him. He worked his tongue in her mouth, tasting all the corners he had been missing. Her tongue explored too, swallowing his involuntarily groans and escaped breaths. A shiver tingled down his back as he felt her claw at his cotton shirt, demanding him closer. For a second, he thought they would stay in this - lost in the quiet rejoining of their lips but the kiss broke.
Panting, his fiancee asked – “How much time do we have?”
“Enough,” Harry barked. His body naturally stumped back, pulling him with her. His lips fell to her neck, nipping and sucking to create a mark. At the same time, his hands fell to her waist. He pulled her body flush against his own as he felt her hands go to his hair. The sheer tug alone made him groan out in approval. He abruptly switched their position so her front was against the credenza. With his chest flush against her back, he whispered into her ear.
“This is what you want, isn’t it?” His hands steadied on the hem of her skirt, letting his fingertips brush against the back of her bare thighs. He felt goosebumps running along her skin as he touched highly over the curve of her ass. “Beg for it.”
“Please, Harry. I need you to fuck me,” her voice whined as her palms rested against the old wooden surface.
“Needy thing you,” Harry tsked, hooking his fingers around the waist band of her underwear and yanking it down her thighs. “Always wanting attention,” he spat out as Harry gripped a hand full of her ass as the other wrapped around her front. “Fucks sakes,” he cursed as he felt her cunt absolutely soaked for him. “Gonna make a mess all over my cock, hm?
“Yes, please. Take me right here,” she begged.
Harry almost gave in, his trousers were strained and extremely uncomfortable but he wanted to keep the anticipation for a few minutes longer.
“But you’re not a very good girl f’me, always talking back.” Harry purred in her ear, massaging between the folds of her vulva slowly. He felt her jolt as a gasp echoed across the room, a sound he missed for far too long.
“I’ll be quiet, I’ll shut up, please.”
“Oh, will you?” Harry smirked, “keep that pretty mouth of yours shut.”
Harry dropped to his knees, his hands drawing her hips back. He positioned her just enough that he was eye level with her bare ass. With her skirt bunched around her hips, he practically was salivating at the looks of her.
“Look at you, filthy thing. So wet f’me, pussy begging to be eaten.”
“Harry, please.” He heard her whine out as he gently spread her from the back, getting a deliberate look at her precious vulva. His breath was warm against her as he spoke.
“Can I taste you?” He barely could process words but consent was extremely important to them both.
“Yes, please, Harry.” She begged, clearly desperate. Harry didn’t make her wait any longer, he couldn’t wait any longer. Her scent alone was drawing flashbacks and he could practically taste her on his tongue. He needed to taste her. So, he did.
His tongue swirled around her entrance before flicking her clit and giving the small but mighty bud a good suck. He could feel her squirming and hear her moan out but Harry stayed focused. As much as he was prepping her, he wanted to overestimate her as much as he possibly could. It didn’t take much, she was just as touch starved as him. He kept his head angled, munching on her clit with skilled precision. His lips wrapped around her clit as he sucked then soothed her with his flat tongue. The air became thick as he continued tasting her sweet, tangy arousal. When her legs began to shake, he finally pulled back, equally as breathless as her. He quickly stood, working his belt as he whispered, his hot breath against her ear.
“That was just a taste, not finished with you yet.” His hands worked fast, stripping himself of his trousers and briefs just enough to free himself. His cock bounced in the air, thick and hard, painfully red. His hand stroked twice to relieve a bit of pressure before he lined up with her entrance.
“Colour check?” A little system they had whenever they engaged in intercourse. “Green” was good to go, “Yellow” for a pause or check in, “Red” for an immediate stop. Harry particularly valued the colour system to keep his partner comfortable and safe during all types of sex.
“Green,” she said with enthusiasm.
“Good.” Harry buried himself inside her with one smooth thrust, halting once their hips were flush together. He gave her a small chance to adjust, savoring the feeling of her walls clenching around him.
“Oh God, I missed this, missed you,” his words were soft and gentle as he whispered against her hair.
“Y’know I respect you, right baby?” He asked, propping his head up to glance into her eyes. He watched as she nodded her head, a bit confused.
“For the next while, it may seem like I don’t, okay? But I do, I need you to remember that.”
“I’ll remember,” she whispered, biting down on her bottom lip.
He felt her relax a few seconds later as his hands pressed into her sides. He positioned her to arch her back, his chest flush against her spine. Harry a few seconds to collect himself, flipped a small switch in his brain.
“Move please,” she mumbled into the quiet air.
“So demanding,” he hissed, drawing his hips back to give her exactly what she needed. He wasn’t gentle when he began to move, he bucked forward causing the credenza to squeak against the floor. His partner gasped into the open air, gripping the wood with her hands.
“Fuck, baby.” His hands helped angled her body up, hands wrapping around her clothed chest. He continued to draw his hips back, plunging back into her at a steady speed. Her moans filled the air, ragged as the intoxicating, pleasure sensation filled her body. Harry’s breath was hot against her as he pounded into her.
“Silly girl, thinking I’d leave this pussy, hm? This perfect, pretty pussy.” He praised, breathing hitched as he pulled out of her completely just to drive back in. “Don’t ever fucking say that to me again, understood?”
“Y– Yes, fuck, yes.”
“Who’s pussy is this, hm?” Harry encouraged, increasing his pace. When she didn’t answer right away, only moaning louder, Harry continued on. “Don’t go quiet on me now. Go on, whose pussy is this?” he pulled out of her completely, breathless and leaving her walls clenching around nothing.
“Yours, Harry. Just yours.”
“Good. Don’t go dumb on me now.” Harry teased, fixing their position again as her legs were nearly giving out. “Hands, please.” Harry helped gently draw her palms back behind her, making her hands interlock to steady her.
“Just like that, perfect.” Harry whispered to himself, inspecting her position. He held his large palm over her interlocked fingers, suspending her chest in the air. He caught her looking back over her shoulder, desperate for relief and a quick glance his way. “Eye’s forward,” he demanded firmly before pushing the tip of his cock against her entrance once again.
When he pushed forward, he wasn’t so forgiving. Immediately his partner cried out, overwhelmed by his sheer force.
“Attagirl, just like that. Just feel.” He instructed her as he sent an intoxicating, thought stealing pleasure her way. He could feel her pulsating around him, nearing her peak after a few strokes. Harry’s free hand left her hip and snaked around her front. His fingertips added a gentle pressure against her clit, rubbing sure circles to urge her on.
“Harry! Har –, shit! I’m gonna…” she gasped, panting as he continued at a vigorous pace.
“I know, I know, baby. Ask permission first.” He grunted out, a bead of sweat rolling down the corner of his brow.
“Can I? Can I cum, please?” His fiancée whined out, moving back against him.
“Go on, darling. Cum f’me. Milk my cock,” Harry’s words surprised himself but he couldn’t help his filthy mouth.
His head fell back as his fiancée convulsed around him. He let out a deep groan, cursing under his breath as his grip tightened around her hands.
“Fuck, good girl, my good fucking girl,” his voice was full of rasp as he pumped his hips twice more and felt that burning, bubbly feeling deep in his stomach. “Agh, I’m gonna cum,” he pulled out the second he felt himself twitch inside her.
“Yeah? Cum for me, baby. I’m your little cum slut.”
Harry’s face broke into a wide smirk as he heard her words. She pleasantly surprised him.
“My little cum slut?” His voice cracked, giving in to the pleasure. His hand moved to his cock, pumping once before he released warm, milky white cum all over her ass and lower back, close to their joined hands.
“There you go, there you go baby,” he panted, breathless as he looked at the mess between them. “Fuck, we got a little messy.” Harry helped her stand properly before grabbing the shirt off his back and wiping the mess he created off of her. “You okay?” He asked, still panting hard as he pulled his trousers up.
“I’m okay,” she smiled softly, a warm flush rising to her cheeks, fixing her clothes. “It’s just — I wasn’t expecting that.” He watched as her eyes roamed his chest and lower abdomen.
“I wasn’t either, just happened…” he shrugged, “guess we just…needed it to release some frustration.”
“Yeah,” he noticed the little shift in her voice as she cleared her throat.
“Hey,” his tone flattened to something much more subtle. He reached out, cupping her face in his hands. “I’m sorry I was a prick earlier, I should’ve greeted you properly. I’ve been stressed but it’s not an excuse. I love you and I’m really, really happy you are here.”
“I love you too but I feel like we should talk about this properly, the whole… long distance thing isn’t working.”
On que, Harry’s phone vibrated on the table urgently but he didn’t move towards it.
“We will, I promise, we will. We’ll sort it out because you are my priority and I don’t want you to feel so… alone.”
“Promise? After the show?”
“Yes, I promise with all my heart. We’ll talk.”
The quiet filled the space once again as Harry pulled her into a hug. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled against her hair.
“It’s not okay but you stink so, I’m going to say it’s okay.” she teased, trying to break free from his embrace.
“Hey,” his voice dragged out, his dimples showing as he smirked. “I always smell good.”
“Absolutely not.” She teased back, a small laugh breaking the silence. He grinned at the sound, booping her nose with his finger.
“Alright, wee, shower then head out together?”
“Okay.”
“Come here,” he pulled her close, his arm wrapping around her shoulder as he led them through the corridor.
While in the shower, Harry washed his fiancée's hair with a pensive look on his face.
“What are you thinking about?” She asked, a small smile breaking through.
“Alone is a quiet place to be.” He said slowly, massaging her scalp.
“It is.” She confirmed, letting out a sigh.
“No more of that,” her eyes locked with his. “Promise.”
Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader, established long-term relationship
POV: Harry, third person / Reader, second person
Setting: May 2026, London, Harry’s house in Hampstead
Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, emotional vulnerability, anxiety/self-doubt, public scrutiny, online hate, mentions of body/image commentary, fear of failure, soft reassurance
Summary: Harry has spent sixteen years being looked at, loved, interpreted, categorized, praised, mocked, desired, and turned into eras. Now, when he finally feels closer to himself than he maybe ever has, the public reaction makes him feel like the realest version of him is the one people want the least.
Morning comes into the room without asking for much. It doesn't arrive in a clean blade of sunlight or a sudden wash of gold, only in the slow grey spill of London through the curtains, softening the edges of furniture, turning the sheets the colour of milk, making the whole bedroom feel like it has been lifted out of time and set down somewhere quieter.
Outside, the world is beginning to stir in pieces. A car rolls over wet pavement somewhere beyond the garden wall. A bird starts up, stops, then starts again with more confidence. The house itself remains still, just you and the faint, familiar scent of him in the pillow beneath your head.
Harry is half on top of you. Not enough to be uncomfortable, never that. Just enough that his weight keeps you in place, one of his legs hooked lazily between yours, his arm folded around your middle beneath the duvet. His palm has found its way under the hem of your sleeping shirt during the night and rests flat against your stomach, warm and heavy, his fingers loose in deep sleep. He is facing you, though his face is mostly hidden. His forehead brushes your collarbone. His nose is tucked near the base of your throat. His hair, shorter now than your hands still sometimes expect, lies soft and mussed against the pillow. There are no curls falling wildly across his face, no long pieces for you to twist around your fingers, no rings pressing cold shapes into your skin when he holds you. Only him. Quiet, bare and unarranged.
You blink into the pale room and let yourself lie there for a while, not moving because he has not moved either, because mornings like this always feel borrowed once you remember what his life looks like outside the bedroom door. There is a suitcase open in the other room. You can’t see it from here, but you know it is there. Half-packed, half-ignored, full of white socks and folded shirts and the faint sense of another life waiting to begin. There are tour documents on the kitchen counter, a printed schedule on the desk downstairs, emails he keeps pretending not to check. His phone is on the nightstand, facedown and silent, as if the two of you have punished it into obedience.
For now, there is only this. The rise and fall of his breathing, the brush of his lips against your skin when he shifts, the lazy sweep of his thumb, barely awake, along the soft place just above your navel. You bring one hand up and touch his hair. Harry makes a small sound, not quite a hum, not quite a complaint either, and presses his face closer into you. “Morning,” you whisper. He answers with another sound that might be language if you loved him less. You smile into the dimness and scratch gently at the back of his head. His hand flexes against your stomach, then settles again.
“Very articulate.”
“Mm.” His voice is rough from sleep, low and warm where it meets your neck. “S’early.”
“You don’t even know what time it is.”
“Can feel it.”
“Can you?”
“Yeah.” His mouth curves against your skin. “Feels offensive.”
A laugh leaves you before you can stop it, soft enough not to disturb him. Harry shifts, one eye opening just enough to look up at you through his lashes. He looks younger like this, though you have always thought sleep takes something public away from his face. Not age exactly, not fame, but the alertness that fame has trained into him. In the morning, before the world gets a hand on him, he looks only like a man in your bed, warm and stubborn and unwilling to begin the day. You trace the shell of his ear with your fingertip. “Poor baby.”
“Don’t mock me,” he murmurs, but there is no force in it. “I’m very fragile before eight.”
“You’re fragile after eight too.”
That earns you the smallest bite to your collarbone, blunt and lazy, more affection than warning.
“Ow.”
“Deserved.”
You smile again and rest your hand against the side of his head, holding him there. For a few quiet minutes, neither of you speaks. The air gathers itself around your silence. The duvet is tangled around your legs. His skin is warm against yours, his breath slow again, and you let your eyes drift towards the curtains, where the morning light is brightening by degrees.
A week. The thought comes uninvited, slipping in softly because the suitcase is there and because the calendar has been moving too quickly and because mornings like this become more precious when you can already see the shape of their ending. You say it without thinking too much. “This time next week, you’ll be waking up in a hotel room.”
Harry’s thumb stops moving. The pause is so small that anyone else might miss it. Just a tiny interruption. A skipped note. But you feel it against your skin before your mind makes sense of it. His body remains close, but the quality of the closeness changes. He is no longer simply resting on you, he is holding on. You glance down and find his face still hidden. The room is still grey, nothing has moved except the air between you. “After your first show,” you add gently, hoping perhaps the first sentence landed strangely only because he is half asleep. “That’s wild, innit? It came around so fast.”
“Mm.”
The sound is careful. Not sleepy, not amused, absolutely not like him. You wait a second and his arm tightens around you. Your hand stills in his hair when you ask. “H?”
He doesn't answer right away, he shifts closer instead, tucking his face more securely into the warm dip between your neck and shoulder. It is such a familiar gesture that it almost slips past you as sweetness, but there is too much intention in it now, too much hiding. “You alright?” you ask further.
“Yeah.”
It comes too quickly. You look down at the crown of his head, at the softened line of his bare shoulder above the duvet. The word sits in the room, small and unconvincing. “You sure?”
“Yeah, love.” His voice has more shape this time, because he's actually trying. “Just waking up.”
You don't believe him. But you also know better than to reach into him too abruptly. Harry can be open with you in ways that still surprise him afterwards, but the first door is rarely the one he walks through. He circles, he jokes, he smooths things over with the easy, practiced grace of someone who learned very young that people prefer him charming to complicated. So you keep your hand moving. Slowly, you stroke over his hair, down to the nape of his neck, then back again. The silence stretches. Harry breathes in, long and quiet. His fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt. That's what does it for you. Not the hum or the word he did not mean. His hand. You know his hands. You know them animated in conversation, graceful around a mug, restless when he is thinking, gentle when he touches you. You know how he reaches for you when he wants comfort and how he reaches when he needs an anchor. This is the latter. There is a difference in the pressure, in the way his fingers make a small fist and release, as if he is reminding himself you are there. You turn your head and press a kiss to his hair. “Talk to me.”
He lets out a breath that moves over your collarbone. “Nothing to talk about.”
“That’s a lie.”
A faint, reluctant smile touches his mouth. You feel it more than see it. “Bit rude.”
“Bit true.”
He doesn't deny it and that worries you more than if he had. You slide your hand from his hair to the side of his neck, your thumb resting just beneath his jaw. “You went quiet.”
“M’allowed to be quiet.”
“You are.” You keep your voice soft. “But you went far away.”
Harry says nothing. You can feel the resistance in him, not against you, but against his own words. He has never liked being caught at the very beginning of hurt. Later, once he has named it, once it has been made manageable by language, he can talk. He can be thoughtful, honest, even painfully direct sometimes. But the first moments are always fragile. He treats them like they might embarrass him if he turns on the light too soon. You let the silence hold him for a little while. Then you ask, “Are you thinking about tour?”
His answer is barely audible. “Mm.”
“Are you worried?”
Another pause. Then, quieter: “A bit.”
The words are simple, but they change the atmosphere anyway. The room seems to draw closer around you, the bed turning into a small island in the centre of a life that too often belongs to everyone else. You roll carefully onto your side so you can face him better. He resists only for a second, then lets you move, though he refuses to give up the closeness. His hand stays under your shirt. His knee remains between yours. His face lowers again, this time near your chest. You look at him, at the line of his brow, at the closed eyes he is not sleeping behind. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
He swallows, you see that, see the motion travel through him while he decides. “Dunno.”
“That’s okay.”
“It’s not—” He stops, then shakes his head against the pillow. “It’s stupid.”
“No.”
“You don’t know what it is.”
“I know it’s yours.” Your fingers move lightly along his temple. “So it isn’t stupid.”
His mouth presses together. For a moment, he looks irritated, but not with you. With kindness, maybe. With how little room it gives him to be cruel to himself. “I should be better at it by now,” he eventually says.
“At what?”
He opens his eyes then. They are still heavy with sleep, but not soft anymore. There is a guardedness in them that does not belong in this bed. “Not listening.”
You say nothing, because he has found the beginning now, and you know the beginning needs somewhere to land. Harry looks away from you, past your shoulder towards the curtained window. “I know I shouldn’t look,” he says. “And I don’t, most of the time. Not properly. I’m not sat there scrolling my name at midnight like an idiot.”
Your mouth softens. He notices. “Well,” he mutters, “not often.”
That almost makes you smile, but there is too much hurt beneath it. He drags one hand out from under the duvet and rubs at his face. Without rings, without polish, without anything to distract from the nervousness in the gesture, his hand looks almost unfamiliar for a second. Plain, human, tired. “It gets back to me anyway,” he continues. “You know? Doesn’t matter if I don’t go looking. Someone mentions an article. Someone makes a joke. Team has to talk about ticket stuff. There’s always a headline, or a comment, or some clever little post with thousands of people agreeing.” He gives a short laugh. It has no humour in it. “And then suddenly I know.”
You watch him carefully now. “Know what?”
“What they’ve decided.” His eyes return to yours. There is a sharp kind of shame there, the sort that comes from admitting an injury you wish you were above. “That I’m washed. That nobody cares. That I look wrong now. That the album’s not what they wanted, that I’ve lost it, that I’m charging too much, that I’m not selling enough, that this is…” He pauses, jaw working once. “That this is my flop era.”
The phrase sounds ugly in his voice. Smaller than him, but still able to bruise. You've seen it, of course you have. Not because you seek it out for pleasure, but because the cruelty of strangers has a way of traveling. It arrives on screens, in group chats, beneath announcements, dressed up as concern or comedy or analysis. It becomes background noise until someone you love flinches and you remember noise can still wound.
Harry looks down between you. “God, saying that out loud is embarrassing.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
“It is, though.” His brows draw together. “I’m thirty-two, and I’m lying here upset because people don’t like my haircut.”
“No.” Your reply is immediate, firm enough that his eyes lift. “That’s not what this is.”
He looks like he wants to argue, but you don't let him. “You’re upset because people keep treating your body like public property and your growth like bad marketing.”
He goes very quiet, then blinks once, slowly, and some of the defensiveness leaves his face so quickly it hurts to watch. You soften your voice. “That’s different.”
For a while, he only looks at you. Then his gaze drops again, and the breath he lets out seems to empty him more than it should. “It’s all of it,” he says. “The hair, the clothes, the rings, the record, the shows. Every choice becomes evidence for someone’s argument. If I do one thing, it means I’m trying too hard. If I do another, it means I don’t care. If tickets don’t disappear in ten seconds, it’s a failure. If a song doesn’t do what people think it should, it’s proof. If I’m quieter, I’m miserable. If I’m not smiling the way they remember, I’ve changed too much.” He rubs his thumb against the sheet, catching at a loose thread. “And maybe I have.”
You let those words sit, because they aren't the problem, they are the truth. “Maybe you have,” you say.
His eyes flicker to yours. You lift one shoulder slightly against the pillow. “You’re allowed to.”
He looks away again, and the faintest crease appears between his brows. He's listening, but he's not ready to be comforted yet. “I feel like I’m failing people,” he admits.
The confession comes so quietly that the room almost keeps it. Your hand pauses against his cheek. It would be easy to rush in then, to tell him he's not failing, that everyone loves him, that the noise is wrong and cruel and temporary. All of that may be true in parts, but none of it would reach the place he is speaking from. So you don't argue with the wound. You move closer, until your forehead is near his. “I understand why it feels like that from where you’re standing.”
Harry looks at you, surprised. Hurt has made him younger again, but not in the soft morning way anymore. In the way a person looks when they've been bracing for a blow and receive gentleness instead. “You do?”
“I do.” Your thumb moves over his cheekbone, slow enough to give him time. “When the last thing was that big, anything after it probably feels like it’s being measured with the wrong instrument.”
His eyes remain fixed on yours. “You’re not agreeing with me,” he says, almost cautiously.
“No.”
“But you understand.”
“I’m trying to.”
He looks down, and you feel the shift in him again. Not relief exactly, but permission, the first loosening. Harry has always been wary of comfort that arrives too quickly. He can smile for it, thank people for it, let it pass over the surface. But he rarely believes reassurance that refuses to look directly at the fear first. You are looking, and so he keeps going. “Love On Tour was…” He exhales through his nose, searching for words. “It was mad. It was beautiful, obviously. I loved it. I loved all of it, even when I was exhausted and didn’t know what city I was in.” A small fondness crosses his face, then fades again. “It just kept getting bigger. Every leg. Every show. The signs, the boas, the noise. People made it into this whole world, and I got to live in the middle of it. I’m not ungrateful for that.”
“I know you’re not.”
“I don’t want it to sound like I am.”
“It doesn’t.”
His fingers find your wrist beneath the duvet, holding it loosely. “But it got so big that I think people forgot it was allowed to end.”
The sentence lands with a quiet force. You feel it in the space between you. The truth of it, and the grief behind it. Harry stares at your now joined hands. “Maybe I forgot too, a bit. Not really, but…” He shakes his head. “It’s hard when something becomes that loved. You start feeling responsible for keeping it alive, even after you’ve left it. And now this is different. The record’s different. I’m different. Or I feel different, anyway. I’m not trying to be difficult. I’m not trying to prove I’ve matured or whatever everyone wants to call it. I just—” He stops, and his voice lowers. “I made what I wanted to make.”
“I know.”
“I look how I want to look.”
“Yes.”
“I feel more myself than I have in years.” You watch the next thought arrive before he says it. It changes his face, opens it and wounds it all at once. “And it’s like that’s the problem.”
You can't answer immediately. Not because you don't have an answer, but because the words deserve the dignity of silence. He hasn't said he is afraid of criticism. He has said he is afraid the truest version of himself is the least wanted. You move your hand into his hair again, letting your fingers pass through the strands near his ear. He closes his eyes at the touch, but not in peace. More in the effort of holding himself together. “That must hurt so much,” you whisper.
His mouth trembles once before he presses it into a line. He laughs under his breath, quick and embarrassed. “Yeah,” he says. “It does.”
The admission breaks your heart more than any tears could have. He turns his face slightly into your palm. “I keep thinking about the people who say they miss me. Not just the shows or the old songs or the hair, but me. They say it like I’ve gone somewhere. Like I’ve ruined something they loved.” His voice is steady, but the steadiness is hard work. “And I know it’s not everyone. I know that. I’m not stupid. There are people excited. There are people who love the album. There are people coming to the shows, and I don’t want to make it sound like they don’t matter, because they do. They matter more than all the rest of it.” He takes a breath. “But the loudest voices make you feel like you’ve walked into a room and everyone’s disappointed before you’ve even opened your mouth.”
You slide your hand down to his jaw. “Harry.”
He gives you a faint look, tender and miserable. “What if I did this wrong?” he asks. “What if I was meant to understand something everyone else understood before me?”
“What?”
“That there are versions of me people like more.” He says it carefully, with an honesty that seems to cost him. “And maybe I was supposed to stay closer to those.”
Your eyes burn, but you keep your voice steady. He doesn't need your panic, he needs your presence. You reach for his hand and bring it between you, folding your fingers through his. His hand is warm. His nails catch faintly against your palm. No rings, no armor, no symbol for people to read more into it than it actually is. Just skin. “I think,” you begin slowly, “some people have gotten used to thinking of you in eras instead of as a person.”
Harry goes still. His eyes search your face. You continue before he can retreat into defending people from the truth of what they do. “And I understand why people attach memories to versions of you. I do. You’ve been in people’s lives for a long time. They grew up with you. They were teenagers with you, or they found you later when they needed a song or a show or a version of joy they could hold onto. That part is real, and it can be beautiful.” His gaze lowers, but he is still listening intently when you speak. “But it becomes unfair when they start treating those versions like things they’re entitled to keep.” You pause. “Long hair Harry,” you then say softly. “Frat boy Harry. Love On Tour Harry. The one with the rings, the one with the curls, the one in the glitter, the one waving pride flags. The one who made them feel a certain way at a certain time.” His face changes with every phrase, not dramatically, but enough. Recognition, discomfort, and a sadness too old for the morning.
“As if those weren’t moments you lived through,” you say. “As if you were a collectible and not a person changing because life kept happening to you too.”
He looks away. “I know they don’t mean it like that.”
“Maybe not.” You lean closer, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand. “But not meaning harm doesn’t mean it never hurts.”
That quiets him. Outside, the world continues without permission. Another car passes, pipes click faintly somewhere in the house. Ordinary sounds, indifferent to the fact that Harry is lying beside you with his hurt exposed. You hate that there are people who will never see him like this and still speak as if they know the full measure of him. You hate that his humanity has so often had to compete with his image. You hate, most of all, that some part of him still wonders whether being loved is something he can lose by changing too honestly.
“You’re allowed to grow out of shapes people loved you in,” you say, and his eyelids lower. You give him the words slowly, making sure they reach him. “You’re allowed to have life experiences. You’re allowed to change your mind. You’re allowed to make music that sounds different because you feel different. You’re allowed to cut your hair and take off your rings and be quieter in public and not explain every choice like your body and your art are a group project.” His lips twitch faintly at that, and you are grateful for the tiny break in the ache before you continue. “You don’t have to please anyone else more than you can live with yourself.”
“That’s hard,” he says.
“I know.”
“I’m not good at that.”
“You’re better than you think.”
He gives you a look, you correct yourself. “You’re learning.”
That, he accepts. His thumb moves once over yours. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful,” he says again, but this time the words are smaller, closer to the true fear beneath them. “People have given me everything.”
“They have loved you,” you say. “That isn’t the same as owning you.”
His face folds then, not fully, not into tears yet, but into a tiredness that looks almost like surrender. “I know,” he whispers.
“Do you?”
He doesn't answer. You move closer until his forehead touches yours. “H.”
His breath stutters once and you brush beneath his eye with your thumb before any tear has the chance to fall, not wiping anything away so much as telling him you won't look away if it does. Harry turns into you then, not with the sleepy affection from earlier and not with the anxious clutching either. He folds forward, carefully at first, as if asking permission without words, and you give it before he can doubt. You draw him against your chest, one arm around his shoulders, the other hand returning to his hair. His face presses into the soft cotton of your shirt, his hand finds your waist again, but this time there is less performance in the grip, less apology, he simply holds.
He breathes in unsteadily. “What if I grow into someone they don’t love?” he asks. He looks ashamed of the question the moment it leaves him, but you are glad it is out, glad it is no longer living alone in his body, feeding on silence.
Your hand cups the side of his face. “Then the people who only loved you when you were easy for them to recognize were loving a picture,” you claim. “Not you.” He closes his eyes at that. “And I’m not saying that doesn’t hurt. It does. Of course it does. But it doesn’t mean you go back and make yourself smaller inside an old frame.”
For a while, he says nothing. You feel the effort he makes to stay composed. Not because he thinks you will judge him, but because composure is an old habit in him, older than your relationship, older than this version of his life. He has been watched since he was sixteen. He learned early that feelings could become headlines, that exhaustion could be called arrogance, that every public crack might be photographed and given a meaning he never chose. Even here, in bed, loved and unobserved, some part of him still tries to be neat with pain. You press your lips to his hair. “You don’t have to make it pretty for me,” you whisper, and that is enough for him. Not dramatically, he doesn't sob, he doesn't fall apart in the way films like to make people fall apart. He simply lets go of one careful breath, and then another, and then his body trembles once against yours as if something long-held has finally been set down. Your hand keeps moving through his hair. “I’ve got you,” you mumble softly.
“The album?”
He nods against you, but the motion is barely there. You stare at the ceiling above him, at the pale morning light that has strengthened while the two of you have been speaking. The room is clearer now. You can make out the chair in the corner with yesterday’s jumper thrown over it, the book on your side of the bed, the dark square of his phone still lying facedown. A whole world inside that little rectangle. A world that gets to be loud but not present. A world that doesn't know the warmth of his cheek through your shirt or the way his hand has twisted into the duvet because he doesn't want to ask for more comfort than you're already giving. You hold him tighter anyway.
After a while, he speaks into your shirt, voice muffled. “It would be easier if I hated it.”
He nods. You wait. “All of it,” he says. “The record, the look, the way things feel now. It would be easier if I could say everyone was right and I’d made some awful mistake. Then at least I could fix it.” His fingers relax and tighten again at your waist. “But I don’t feel that. I love the record. I wanted it to sound like that. I wanted it to feel a bit odd and different and not polished in the way people expected. I wanted the shows to feel different. I wanted…” He stops, and when he speaks again, his voice is thinner. “I wanted to stop chasing the last version of myself.”
Your eyes close for a second. “And now?”
“Now I’m scared people preferred him.”
You let your cheek rest against the top of his head. “Maybe some did.”
He becomes very still. You continue, knowing he needs truth more than comfort dressed as denial. “Some people probably did prefer a version of you that lived at a distance from whatever they didn’t want to understand. Some people prefer memories to people. Memories don’t ask anything of them. Memories don’t change.” Harry’s breath warms the fabric over your ribs. “But you’re not a memory,” you say. “You’re here.” His hand spreads over your side, as if testing the fact of himself still in the bed. “You’re here,” you repeat, “and you don’t have to paint yourself back into old lines because people liked the colours better before.”
Harry lifts his head slowly. His eyes are wet now, still not in a dramatic way. Just enough to make the green of them clearer, enough that the sight reaches into you and twists the knife. He looks embarrassed, but you don't let him apologize. Instead, you reach up and touch the corner of his eye with your thumb, gentle and matter-of-fact. He leans into it despite himself. “Don’t,” he says, but there is no real protest in it.
“Don’t what?”
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you love me.”
You smile faintly. “Terrible thing for your girlfriend to do.”
His mouth moves into the smallest answering smile, but it doesn't last. The sadness is still there, resting under his features. “I don’t know how to be above it,” he whispers.
“You don’t have to be above it.”
“I should.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve been doing this long enough.”
He looks down. “Bit dramatic.”
“That’s not how being human works.”
He looks at you for a long moment, and you can almost see him resisting the sentence because it is too simple and too true.
“You can get used to the machine,” you continue. “That doesn’t mean you stop bleeding when it catches you.”
“It’s accurate.”
“Mm.” A weak smile. “Still a little dramatic.”
“Fine. You can get used to bad weather. Doesn’t mean you never get cold.”
“That’s better.”
“Thank you for approving my metaphor.”
“Anytime.”
He exhales. “Love.”
The humour is small, but it changes the atmosphere. Not enough to lift the weight, but enough to remind both of you there is still ordinary love beneath it. The kind that can tease while holding a wound. The kind that lets pain exist without making the whole room bow to it. Harry settles back down, not fully hiding this time. His cheek rests against your upper chest, his eyes open and unfocused. You continue touching his hair, the movement steady and slow. After a minute, you ask him, “Do you remember after the band, when you chose to play smaller venues?”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are.” His voice carries a hint of warning, but a fond one. “That was different.”
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it, and you wait. His brows knit together. “Because I was starting over.”
“And now?”
He says nothing. You let the question stay. The first solo tour has always meant something to you too, maybe because of what it revealed about him before you knew him well enough to have mornings like this. The choice not to leap immediately into the biggest spaces available. The willingness to stand in rooms where faces were visible, where the exchange between him and the audience could breathe. It had never looked like fear to you, it had looked like instinct. Like a man returning to the point before letting the world make it complicated.
“You could have tried to prove something then,” you say. “You could have chased the biggest venues straight away just to show everyone you could. But you didn’t. You chose rooms where you could see people.” He listens, quiet. “You chose connection. And I know this isn’t the same. I know the pressure is different now, and the world is louder, and everything gets compared to everything now. But the part that matters hasn’t changed.” Harry’s hand finds yours again, “You don’t perform to a headline,” you say. “You don’t perform to a chart position. You don’t perform to some person online who decided they could measure your worth by how quickly a seat disappears from a map. You perform to people.” A faint breath leaves him at that.
The words seem to reach him physically. You see it in the way his face changes, in the small release of his jaw, in the way his shoulders settle by a fraction against the mattress. “They’re not numbers, H,” you add, softer now. “They’re people. And they deserve you present. Not apologizing.”
“The ones who come,” you continue. “The ones who bought tickets because they wanted to be there. The ones who saved up, who booked trains, who planned outfits, who are probably already nervous about what song you’ll open with. The ones who will stand in those venues and look at you like the night matters because it does.” He looks at you now, really looks. Your voice grows firmer, though you keep it gentle. “If there are a thousand people, sing to the thousand. If there are ten thousand, sing to the ten thousand. If there are a hundred thousand, sing to the hundred thousand. But don’t stand in front of people who came to love you and spend the whole night grieving the people who didn’t.”
He is quiet for so long that you wonder if you have said too much. Then he whispers, “I know.”
This time, it sounds as though he might. You stroke your thumb over his knuckles. “You love performing.”
He nods once.
“You love connecting with them.”
Another nod.
“You love taking a room and making it feel less lonely.” His gaze drops, not from shame this time, but from being seen too directly. “That’s what you do,” you tell him. “Not because every seat is full. Not because everyone agrees you’re successful. Because you mean it when you’re there.”
Harry breathes in, slower than before. “What if it isn’t enough?”
You know what he means. Enough to silence the noise, enough to prove the era is not a failure, enough to make everyone understand that he's not lost, only changed. But you answer the question he needs answered, not the one fame has taught him to ask. “Then make it honest. Honest is enough.”
A quiet line forms between his brows. “Doesn’t always feel like it.”
“No,” you agree. “It probably won’t. Not every night. There’ll be days where you check too much or hear too much or wonder if they’re right. And then you’ll go onstage anyway. You’ll go onstage, and you’ll remember the people in front of you are real. You’ll remember you’re real too.”
The words settle. Harry looks towards the window, where the grey has brightened into morning proper. The day is beginning now, whether either of you wants it or not. But he doesn't seem as far away as before. After a moment, you ask, “Do you remember what you said to Zane once?”
A pained little groan leaves him. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Don’t quote me at me.”
“I’m going to quote you at you.”
“That’s cruel.”
“It’s necessary.”
He turns his face partly into the pillow, but you can see the reluctant warmth at the edge of his expression. “Go on, then.”
“You said that if you love what you’re doing, nobody can tell you you’re not successful.”
He keeps his face hidden for another second. Then, muffled, “Very annoying of me.”
“Deeply.”
“Bit smug.”
“Wise, unfortunately.”
He huffs, almost a laugh. You nudge him gently until he looks back at you. “Do you love the record?”
His humour fades, but not all the way. He holds your gaze. “Yes.” No hesitation.
“Do you love being on stage?”
His answer comes softer. “You know I do.”
“I want you to say it.”
He looks at you for a long moment. Then, with more steadiness, “I love being on stage.”
You nod. “Do you want to sing these songs?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe in them?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want the people in those venues to feel like you’re giving them the truth?”
His eyes don't leave yours. “Yeah,” he nods. “I do.”
You let the answer rest between you. “Then that’s what you hold onto.”
“I know.”
Harry is quiet. His thumb moves over the inside of your wrist, slow and absent, as if he is soothing himself through the contact. “What I said then,” he murmurs eventually. “I meant it.”
“I think I forgot how hard it is to live by.”
“That doesn’t make it less true.”
His mouth presses into a thoughtful line. You watch him take it in, not all at once, not as a miraculous cure, but in the slow way truth sometimes enters a person who has been too hurt to welcome it. He's still tired, still tender in the places the world has touched too roughly. But he's no longer speaking from the very bottom of the fear. You can feel the shift. It's not confidence, exactly, but return.
“Tell me one thing you know.”
He looks wary. “What?”
“One thing you know. Not what they’re saying. Not what you’re afraid of. Just something true.”
He considers you with suspicion. “Is this one of those grounding things?”
“Maybe.”
“Mm. Sneaky.”
“Answer.”
He looks away, towards the window, then back at you and his eyes soften. He looks down at your hand in his, at the way your fingers are tangled beneath the duvet. When he speaks again, the words come slowly, chosen with care. “The people who come deserve all of me,” he says. “Not the scared version trying to apologize before I’ve even walked on.”
He swallows, then nods once. His eyes close when you kiss his forehead. You let your mouth linger there, against warm skin and sleep. When you pull back, his hand comes up to your face, palm resting gently against your cheek. “Thank you,” he says.
You don't speak for a second. Because there he is. Not fixed and not invulnerable and not above the noise, but there. You smile, and this time he doesn't tell you to stop looking at him like you love him. “That’s the one,” you whisper.
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
He gives you a look. “I want to.”
That quiets you. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, though you are not sure whether he is wiping away anything or simply returning the tenderness because he doesn't know where else to put it. “Sorry,” he murmurs.
This time you give him a look. “Don’t.”
“Didn’t mean to make the morning heavy.”
“Still heavy.”
“You didn’t.”
He raises his brow slightly at that.
“You didn’t,” you insist. “You made it honest.”
“A bit,” you allow.
His mouth curves faintly. “Bit much for half seven.”
“You’re very fragile before eight, remember?”
A real smile flickers then, tired but present. “Was hoping you’d forgotten that.”
“Never.”
“Cruel woman.”
“Devoted woman.”
“Mm.” His eyes move over your face, and the softness there is almost too much. “That too.”
For a moment, you stay exactly where you are. The sun warms the air around you by slow degrees. His phone remains facedown, stripped of power by neglect. The suitcase in the other room still waits. The tour still waits. The first city, the first hotel room, the first stage, the first wave of noise after silence — all of it is still coming. None of what you've said has changed that. People will still talk, they will still compare, they will still mourn versions of him that were never theirs to keep. There will still be headlines written by people who know his numbers better than his hands, strangers who can turn a haircut into evidence and an album into a verdict, fans who love him beautifully and fans who forget he is human when the screen makes him small enough to hold.
But for now, he's not out there. He's in bed in Hampstead, bare and warm, his leg tangled with yours, his hand beneath the duvet, his breath finally evening out again. For now, the world does not get a vote.
You shift to get up, because morning cannot be held off forever and coffee is beginning to feel less like a luxury than a requirement, but Harry reacts immediately and his arm tightens around your waist. “Where are you going?”
“To make coffee.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Compelling argument.”
“Stay.”
The word is simple. Not desperate now, soft. You look down at him. “For how long?”
He considers this with exaggerated seriousness, then pulls you closer until your body meets his fully beneath the sheets. “Until tour.”
You laugh, and the sound seems to please him. He tucks his face back into your neck, but this time he's not hiding. His mouth brushes your skin in a slow, absent kiss.
“That might cause some logistical issues.”
“They’ll manage.”
“You have rehearsals.”
“Cancelled.”
“You have fittings.”
“Cancelled.”
“You have an entire tour starting in a week.”
He groans. “Why are you so committed to reality?”
“Someone has to be.”
“Overrated.”
You smile into his hair and let him keep you. Your hand slides over his back, feeling the warm line of him beneath your palm. He relaxes step by step, no longer braced against an invisible audience, no longer trying to prove he has earned the comfort he is receiving. Minutes pass, maybe more than minutes, you lose count. Eventually, he says, “You really think it’ll be alright?”
You don't answer too quickly. “I think some of it will be hard,” you reply honestly. “I think some of it will hurt when it shouldn’t. I think some nights will be better than others. I think you’ll forget everything we said at least twice and need me to remind you.”
He lifts his head just enough to look at you. “You’re very sure.”
A faint huff of laughter warms your neck.
“And I think,” you continue, softer now, “that when you walk out there and sing what you actually wanted to make, the people who are meant to understand will understand. And the people who don’t will still not get to decide whether it mattered.”
“Of you?”
“Yeah.”
You cup his face. “Always.”
His eyes close for a second, and he lets the word enter him without trying to make a joke of it. When he opens them again, they are calmer, not untouched, not free of everything waiting beyond the bed, but calmer. “You are not an era,” you say quietly. “You’re a person,” you add. “A very annoying person before eight in the morning, but a person.”
His lips part, and for a moment you think he might cry again. Instead, he laughs once, soft and disbelieving, and leans forward until his forehead rests against yours again. “Love you,” he whispers.
“I love you too.”
He kisses you then, not with heat or urgency, but with the slow gratitude of someone returning from a long distance. His mouth is warm and his hand moves to the back of your neck. The kiss tastes faintly of sleep and salt and morning, and when he pulls away, he doesn't go far.
A week from now, he will wake in another bed, in another city, with a stage waiting somewhere beyond the curtains and a world full of people ready to decide what it means. There will be lights and noise and empty spaces people will count if they can find them. Full spaces people will forget to honour because criticism travels faster than gratitude. There will be songs he made because they felt true, and people who came because truth still matters, even when the world tries to turn it into a number. A week from now, he will have to remember.
But this morning, he is here. Warm and quiet and human in your arms.
He is not an era.
He is not a number.
He is not a version of himself someone else gets to keep unchanged so loving him stays easy.
A/N: Hi guys! So this is my submission to the @jarofstyles fic challenge. Also, pictures taken from Pinterest, credits to owners.
Hope y'all like it!
Pairing: Harry x Reader
Warnings: Angst, smut(p in v) Minors DNI
Word Count: 7.1k
Masterlist I Join my taglist!
Part 2
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This was it. Y/N stood in the corridor near the glass doors with her bag pressed against her side, a bit nervous. The lobby smelled like polished wood and was very clean. She was early. As there were no familiar faces, she pulled out her phone and pretended to do something before giving up and rereading the same welcome email for the fourth time, just to make sure that she was in the right place. The company logo glowed softly on the wall behind the reception desk. The branding screamed prestige. She took a slow breath. She had been given an internship opportunity at Atlas Strategy & Communications right after graduation – the prestigious internship everyone had fought for.
People filtered in. Around her, other interns clustered in small nervous groups. Some of them were already laughing too loudly. Some were scrolling on their phones. She could also see some of them pretending they weren’t anxious. She recognized the energy immediately because she was full of it too. It was ambition, but hidden behind politeness.
“Good morning, everyone!”
The HR coordinator clapped her hands gently, her heels clicking against the marble floor. “Welcome to Atlas Strategy & Communications. If you will follow me, we will head to the conference room.”
The interns entered the conference room. Y/N chose a seat near the middle of the long table, setting her notebook neatly down in front of her. As people continued walking in, she caught snippets of introductions. There were Ivy League names, business schools, marketing programs, international universities.
That was when he walked in. There was a quality about him. It felt as though he commanded every eye when he walked in. Tall and relaxed in his posture, he wore a navy blazer over a crisp white shirt. He scanned the room once before opting for a seat directly across from her. Their eyes met briefly, and Y/N was the first to look away.
“Alright. Let’s start with introductions. Name, university, and specialisation,” the coordinator said, smiling brightly.
It went around the table and when it reached her, she straightened slightly. She confidently gave her name, and the university she graduated from. “I finished my master’s in Communications and Digital Media. I focused on brand strategy and audience behavior research. It is an honour and a privilege to be here today,” she finished her introduction.
A few people gave him a polite nod before it was his turn to speak. He leaned back, looking completely at ease, and introduced himself with total confidence. That’s how Y/N found out his name was Harry Styles and that he was a fresh MBA grad in Marketing Analytics and Growth Strategy. He kept his introduction short and sweet, not wasting a single word.
She looked up again without really meaning to but this time he caught her. He just lifted an eyebrow, looking a little bit amused that she was staring. Caught red-handed, she looked away as fast as she could.
The rest of the session was just standard onboarding stuff like team setups and break times, the usual. She kept taking notes just out of habit, even though she knew most of it was already in the intern handbook. Then, finally, they got to the part everyone had actually been waiting for.
“Project groups. You’ll be working in pairs for the first month,” the coordinator announced.
As the coordinator pressed a key on her laptop, names appeared on the big screen. Y/N scanned the names quickly, only to find her name paired with… Harry. Her stomach did something that resembled butterflies. He looked up at the screen too, then back at her. A slow smile tugged at his mouth.
“Well... Looks like we’re coworkers,” he murmured once the room started buzzing again.
She tilted her head slightly. “Looks like it.”
He laughed under his breath. They were guided to a smaller breakout room with their assigned mentor. As they walked side by side, he glanced at her.
“So...You said communications, right?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. Does that mean you will make my slides sound smarter than they actually are?”
She shot him a look. “I don’t do charity work.”
“Damn. I was counting on free labour.”
She rolled her eyes playfully as he chuckled.
The mentor finally laid out the project given to them. It was a market entry strategy for a tech client. It was the full works like data analysis, and audience research, including campaign positioning. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and dove straight into a serious discussion with her. She realized then that he was actually incredibly sharp, picking up on strategies instantly and offering his own insights. With their mentor heading back to her office, the two of them started divvying up the workload.
“I’ll handle competitor analysis and projections,” he said.
“Okay, then I’ll take audience mapping and messaging frameworks.”
He looked at her with a teasing smile, “You talk like a consultant already.”
She shrugged. “So do you.”
He grinned. “Okay. Fair enough.”
By lunchtime, they had already built a rough outline of the task they were given. After drafting the first plan, he stood and stretched slightly and then turned towards her.
“Do you want to get coffee before we get buried in these spreadsheets?” he asked.
She hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, sure.”
They walked together down to the cafe across the street. The line was long and the noise inside the cafe was loud, different from the silence of their office.
“So, why Atlas?” he glanced at her, trying to make small talk.
She considered the question. “Hmm, well, I didn’t want to waste two years of grad school working somewhere that doesn’t actually build things, you know?”
He nodded slowly. “Same here. Also, the brand name looks good on my resume.”
She laughed despite herself. “At least you’re honest.”
They got their drinks and sat near the window. She noticed that there was a comfortable rhythm between them already. It was not forced or awkward, but easy and enjoyable. Which made her suspicious. When they returned to the office, their shoulders brushed briefly in the elevator. Though neither of them commented on it, it was clear that both of them noticed it. As the workday ended, she packed her bag slowly, already mentally preparing for the late nights ahead. Across the room, he looked up from his laptop.
“Tomorrow, we start destroying this project.”
She laughed. “Aren’t you a bit dramatic?”
“Dramatic? Me? Nah, I’d call it efficient,” he corrected.
She shook her head, walking towards the exit. For some reason, she had this strange feeling that this internship wasn’t going to be simple. And neither was he.
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By the end of the first month, Y/N and Harry had each other’s patterns down. They got to know one another through their routine of normal days and shared deadlines. That initial formality just kind of melted away the more they saw each other every morning. In the beginning, it was strictly business. Talking about project updates or file sharing, or sometimes an occasional comment during a brainstorm.
But then, one evening, she asked him for a hand with a messy data set she couldn't wrap her head around. The office was mostly empty since half the team had already headed home. Harry pulled his chair right up next to hers, and they sat shoulder to shoulder, scrolling through spreadsheets and tossing suggestions back and forth. Their ideas just clicked. When they finally cracked it, she couldn't help but let out a relieved laugh.
“You just saved me from rewriting this entire thing.”
“That’s my good deed for the day, you are welcome” he said lightly.
She laughed, “you're impossible.”
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It stayed that way for weeks, their small conversations layered on top of work. Their conversations started wandering everywhere, from office gossip and random interests to the deeper things like their fears and insecurities. They learned about each other in fragments. Different universities. Similar ambition. Different cities. Same restlessness.
Y/N started to see that Harry had the kind of discipline people really look up to. He was the guy who was always early, always ready, and never seemed to lose his cool. She was just as driven, but in a different way. She was focused and thorough, though pretty stubborn about doing things the right way, even when there was an easier shortcut staring her in the face. After the successful presentation of their first project, their mentor started pairing them together more often.
“You two complement each other, you push different strengths.” she said once.
As the weeks rolled by, the workload started piling up, and staying late became the new normal for them. The projects demanded it, and honestly, it felt a lot less draining when they were not the only ones left in the office. By the third month, the late nights were just part of their routine. Harry picked up on the way she would tap her pen against her notebook whenever she was deep in thought, and Y/N noticed that he would reread every single email at least three times before hitting send. They even started walking out of the building together most evenings.
In the beginning, it was just a coincidence, but eventually, it became a habit. Whenever tasks were being handed out, they were automatically paired up. And in the late hours, you’d always find them in the same spot, working side by side. By the fourth month, people around the office were starting to pick up on their dynamic.
Someone joked during lunch, “You two are basically inseparable.”
He laughed it off and she smiled politely. Neither of them denied it.
That was the month they landed their biggest project yet. It was a campaign proposal that would be reviewed directly by senior management. The pressure on them to do it well was heavy and it made the headlines tighter and the expectations higher. And it meant that they practically lived in the office now.
“You’ve been reading that same slide for the past fifteen minutes,” he said.
“Ughhh it just…” she muttered. “It refuses to sound right.”
He leaned over to look at her screen.
Their shoulders brushed again but neither moved away.
“Try cutting the first line. Go straight to the insight.”
She edited and reread it.
“…Okay. That’s better.”
“Ha! Told you.”
She glanced at him. “Don’t get used to being right.”
He smiled faintly and returned to his laptop. A few minutes later, her phone buzzed. Her mother’s name flashed on the screen.
She sighed and declined the call, and then typed something on her phone.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. Just my mum, texted her that I'd call her back after getting home. My family thinks I’m being kidnapped by corporate life,” she rolled her eyes.
“Well, it’s a valid concern,” he shrugged.
She snorted.
It was almost ten and she felt her stomach growling loudly enough to embarrass her.
He looked up immediately. “You haven’t eaten, have you?”
“I had a protein bar earlier,” she said sheepishly.
“That doesn’t count.”
“There was chocolate involved. It absolutely counts.”
He shook his head, already standing. “Oh hell nah! Come on. There’s a place downstairs still open.”
“I just... I can’t afford another distraction.”
“You’ll work worse if you’re hungry.”
She hesitated and then closed her laptop, standing up and following him.
They ate sitting on the office steps outside, plastic containers balanced awkwardly on their laps. The city was full of traffic and there was music drifting from somewhere in the distance. There were people constantly passing by.
“This is nice,” she admitted.
“What? Eating burgers on concrete stairs?”
“No. Not being alone while doing this.”
He glanced at her. For a second, something passed between them that they both seemed to be aware of. There was something she couldn't quite name, a sort of pull that tethered her close to him like a magnet. And it felt like both of them understood what was happening but didn't know what to make of it or where to go from there. And then he broke it by stealing one of her fries.
“Heyyy.”
“You weren’t eating it.” He smiled playfully at her.
After finishing their meal, they went back upstairs and worked until almost midnight. When they finally packed up, she stretched her arms over her head, groaning. Her muscles were aching.
“I think my brain has melted.”
“Same. We should go before the rest of the people start coming in for their morning shifts.”
They walked toward the elevator together. The air was cooler outside.
She checked her phone. “Ughhhh…My bus left ten minutes ago.”
He paused. “I drove.”
She looked up. “You’re offering?”
“I’m not letting you walk alone at midnight.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”
His car smelled nice. The ride was quiet at first. There was this comfortable silence, it was not at all awkward.
“Are you always this intense about work?” she asked eventually.
He kept his eyes on the road. “I don’t like being average.”
She considered that.
“Well, I don’t think you are,” she said simply.
He glanced at her, surprised.
They reached her building too soon. She unbuckled the seatbelt slowly. “Thanks again. For today. And the food.”
“Anytime.”
She paused before opening the door and looked into his eyes. “We make a good team, don't we?”
He nodded. “Yeah. We do.”
She went inside her apartment with a strange warmth in her chest.
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It quickly became their thing, ordering burgers after late nights. During these breaks they would talk about anything and everything. She would tell him about her family. He would tell her about the pressure he felt to always perform and be good at everything he does. They would share vulnerabilities inbunfinished thoughts. During those days, honesty would slip through their exhaustion, bonding them closer.
She didn’t hesitate anymore before pulling her chair closer to his desk. He didn’t ask permission before stealing her charger when his laptop died. The following weeks followed the same rhythm. The dynamic between them had changed. There were now shared playlists and inside jokes about work. Even the car rides home became routine.
When the presentation day came, they stood side by side in front of a room full of people who controlled their future. She spoke first and he followed seamlessly.Their timing was perfect, their transitions smooth. They barely needed to look at each other, they completed each other's sentences, making the presentation successful. When it ended, the room erupted into polite applause. Their mentor beamed at them.
“Excellent work, both of you”
Relief washed through her so strongly her hands shook.
He leaned toward her slightly. “We did it.”
She nodded, smiling. “Yeah. We did.”
He leaned toward her slightly. “Told you we’d destroy it.”
She smiled back. “You were dramatic, but correct.”
They celebrated with takeout and coffee again that night. It was a small victory, but it meant everything to them.
“You ever think about what happens after this?” she asked suddenly.
“You mean the internship?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He shrugged. “I want to stay here. Permanently.”
“Same.”
Their eyes met.
Later, as they packed up, he hesitated.
“Listen,” he said, quieter than usual. “The internship ends in two months.”
Her chest tightened slightly. “Yeah.”
“I just…” he stopped, then shook his head. “Never mind.”
She waited, but he didn’t continue. She didn’t push him for answers either. But as she walked home alone that night, for the first time since they’d started working together, she felt this weight of something left unsaid.
By the fifth month, the internship didn’t really feel temporary anymore. Rather, it felt like a life they were living together. They were completely in sync with each other’s schedules, moods, and energy. She knew he was stressed just by the way his jaw would tighten, and he could tell she was overwhelmed the second she got too quiet. He started dropping off coffee at her desk without even asking, and she would make sure to snag him snacks from meetings. They even had each other's backs in group discussions, keeping it subtle. Behind all that professional behavior was this deep connection they both knew was there, even if they weren't ready to admit it.
The final month of the internship hit a bit differently. Suddenly, all the breakroom talk turned into a countdown, with everyone obsessing over who would get a job offer and who would be packing up. One evening, she caught him just staring out the office window instead of at his screen.
“Hey. You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said automatically.
Then hesitated.
“I just… don’t want this to end.”
Her chest tightened.
“Me neither.”
They didn’t elaborate.
From that day on, the atmosphere between them shifted. Their conversations stretched out longer than before, their glances lingered just a second too much, and even their silences started to carry a new kind of weight. During that final week, they stayed late every single night. It was not because the work demanded it, but because neither of them actually wanted to leave.
On the last Friday of the internship, the office put together a little lunch for everyone. There were speeches and photos, and people exchanged those slightly awkward hugs while wishing each other luck. Y/N stood by the window, watching her coworkers swap contact info, suddenly hit by the realisation of how temporary it all really was.
He walked up beside her.
“Six months,” he said, “Feels longer.”
“Feels shorter,” she replied.
They smiled at each other.
That evening, as they walked out of the building together one last time as interns, neither of them said goodbye.
What they didn’t know yet was that this was the end of one version of them and the start of another.
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The farewell party on their last day at the office was louder than she expected it to be. Someone had booked the rooftop bar across the street from the office. Fairy lights hung loosely from metal railings, music thumped softly in the background, and everyone seemed a little too emotional. Y/N arrived late, nerves buzzing in her chest.
Harry was already there. She spotted him immediately. He was laughing with two team members, drink in hand, jacket off, sleeves of his white shirt rolled up again.
He looked relaxed and when he saw her, his eyes softened, and a dimply smile grazed his lips.
“You made it,” he said when she reached him.
“Barely. I almost talked myself into staying home.”
“Glad you didn’t.”
They stood side by side as people kept coming up to congratulate them on the campaign. It had reached the point where their names were being mentioned together more often than they were separately. Eventually, as the music surged and the crowd shifted around them, he leaned in closer.
“I have something to tell you.”
“What is it?” She asked
“Um…I…I got the offer,” he said quietly.
Her heart jumped. “You did?”
“Yeah. Full-time. Strategy associate.”
“That’s amazing,” she said immediately, genuinely happy for him.
He hesitated. “Have you heard anything yet?”
She shook her head. “No, not yet.”
He nodded slowly. “They would be stupid not to hire you.”
She smiled faintly. “Tell HR that.”
They stayed longer at the party than planned.
Drinks turned into desserts, as their conversations turned into softer laughter. Their shoulders brushed more often than necessary. When it was time to leave, the air between them felt heavy with unsaid things.
He held his keys up automatically. “I’ll drop you.”
She didn’t argue. The drive was quieter than usual. One final time before they part ways. When they reached her building, neither of them moved to open their doors.
“So,” she said softly. “This is it.”
“Yeah.”
“You start your real job on Monday.”
“And you’ll probably get your email soon.”
“Probably.”
They sat there, looking at each other.
Weeks of late nights, shared stress, inside jokes, and unnamed moments... All of it pressed between them now.
He spoke first. “I don’t want tonight to end like it meant nothing.”
Her chest tightened. “It didn’t mean nothing.”
He reached out slowly, hesitantly, giving her space to pull away. But she didn’t.
When their lips met, it was soft at first. He was careful.Then it became deeper, and heavier, like they had been holding back for too long; they were.
She laughed quietly against his mouth. “We probably shouldn’t.”
“I know.”
But neither of them stopped. And that was how they ended up at her place. Everything after felt blurred and warm and intense, hands, whispers, nervous laughter, and behind it all, the weight of knowing it was temporary.
They stumbled into her living room a mess of limbs. As soon as she closed the door, she was pinned onto it, his lips nailing her to it with soft kisses and nips. She pulled him away from her neck before pressing her lips to his again, one hand on his jaw and another one his throat. He moans at the sudden shift, before responding with the same passion and intensity. “Where's your bedroom?”, he asked in between kisses.
“Just down the hall”, she whispered.
Harry immediately scooped her up into his arms, and her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. The light flickered shadows across the walls as he carried her to her bedroom, kicking the bedroom door open with his boot. He threw her onto the mattress with a grin, already crawling over her while loosening his tie with one hand.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted this" he murmured huskily before crashing his lips back onto hers, teeth nipping at her bottom lip."Been imagining this every night since I met you." The confession slipped out between heated kisses as his hands roamed her body, tracing the curves and contours.
“The feeling is mutual,” she said, looking at him with a glint in her eyes.
His breath hitched sharply at her words, his green eyes darkening with something feral as he pulled back just enough to study her face. His thumb brushed over her lips.
His hands gently moved down her body, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He let his fingers linger over her skin, trailing a path from her ribs to her stomach and back up. He kissed just below her ear, leaving a love bite on the sensitive skin, "I'll show you tonight just how much I've been wanting you, just how long I've been aching to touch you.”
She pulled him down and pecked him again in response as he tugged at her clothes, impatient to get her out of them. They undressed each other slowly, taking one another in with awe, the shyness and awkwardness of a first time lingering just long enough before desire took over them both.
His lips found her neck again and his hands roamed over her torso, tracing every dip and curve in her body like an addictive habit. He paused for a moment to admire the sight, drinking in her form.
"Perfect," he murmured against her jaw, her teeth grazing against her cheek."So perfect for me. You have no idea what you do to me, darling.”
Y/N was far too gone to say anything back. His voice carried an intense hunger that made her feel chosen, cherished, and wanted.
“Please,” she whimpered.
The desperation in her voice sent a shudder through him, his hands tightening on her hips as he pressed her deeper into the mattress, "Tell me what you want. Say it and it's yours. Always yours."
His fingers dug into her skin as he rocked against her, letting her feel exactly how much he wanted her. "Need to hear you say it, darling. Need to know I'm not the only one who's been fucking aching for this.”
“Want you inside me,” she said, her eyes hooded with desire.
A groan escaped his mouth, his hands flying to grip her hips. He pumped his hard cock a few times before lining it up with her entrance, pushing the head in slowly. He then leaned down to kiss her while slowly pushing the rest of his length in, swallowing the moans she let out.
“Fuck….Been dreaming about this, about how fucking tight you'd feel around me,” he groans as she mewls in pleasure.
"Christ…" his voice broke as he stills, hips trembling with restraint. "Even better than I imagined. Perfect for me." His hands cradled her face as he started to move, slow and deep, watching every flicker of pleasure cross her face. "All mine now, yeah? Say it.”
“All…yours” she whimpered, rolling her hips to meet his thrusts.
When they finally lay beside each other, trying to catch their breaths, the room was quiet. He held her close, staring at the ceiling.
“I’m leaving early tomorrow,” he said softly. “I have onboarding paperwork.”
“Okay.”
“I didn’t plan this,” he added. “But I don’t regret it.”
She turned toward him. “Me neither.”
But still, sadness settled between them.
Morning felt too bright. He dressed quietly as she sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on her sweater.
Before walking out the door, he stilled for a moment, and turned to look at her.
“This doesn’t have to be goodbye,” he said uncertainly.
She smiled sadly. “It kind of does. Different lives now.”
He nodded, jaw tight, and then he left. After he was gone, Y/N stared at the door for a long time.
Later that afternoon, her phone buzzed. She unlocked the screen only to find an email. Y/N froze. Her heart stopped.
Subject: Offer Letter – Strategy Associate Position
She opened the mail with trembling hands. They had hired her too! She was to start the next week.
Same department. Same floor.
She laughed out loud in disbelief. She wanted to call Harry and let him know, but she decided against it, wanting it to be a surprise.
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Monday came too fast.
She wore her best blazer. Her nerves were buzzing again, but it felt a bit different this time. When she stepped out from the elevator onto the floor of the office, she saw him immediately. He was standing near the coffee machine, talking to a senior associate. Then he turned and his expression froze.
“…What are you doing here?” he asked quietly when she approached.
She smiled, “I got the offer too.”
He blinked. “You’re serious?”
“ Yes.”
He stared at her, processing.
“Well,” he said finally, smiling at her,
“Looks like we’re coworkers again.”
Something that felt a lot like butterflies swarmed in her belly.
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After seeing him again in the office, Y/N felt like Harry had become someone else. Not entirely different , no. He was not exactly cold. It felt like he was more polished and everything.
At nine-thirty, he stepped into the office wearing a tailored blazer instead of his usual rolled-up sleeves. His hair was perfectly styled, and he carried himself with a new, rigid kind of confidence. When he spoke during meetings, his sentences were slow and deliberate, effortlessly commanding the attention of the entire room.
She noticed every single detail. He was still sitting near her and still collaborating on the same projects. But everything had shifted. He didn’t lean in to whisper comments during presentations anymore, and he stopped those absentminded brushes against her arm when they swapped files. The way he looked at her had changed, too. That specific warmth in his eyes that used to make those long nights feel manageable, had been replaced by a polite, polished professionalism.
They did not talk about that night at her apartment either. It shouldn’t have mattered, they had never labeled anything. But still, the absence of his friendship felt weird.
The next evening, when they packed up together out of habit, he cleared his throat.
“I’ll drop you,” he said, already grabbing his keys.
Her heart lifted instinctively. “You don’t have to.”
“I know. I want to.”
She smiled to herself.
The drive felt familiar again, the hum of the engine, and the soft music. The city lights slipped past the windows as she looked out. For a while, neither of them spoke.
“You’ve been… different,” she said finally.
He kept his eyes on the road. “Different how?”
“I don't know. More… corporate?”
He smiled faintly. “Is that a crime now?”
“No um…I just… it's just an observation.”
They stopped outside her building, and it felt like the night after the farewell party all over again. It was heavy with unspoken things. He turned to face her fully.
“About that night... I don’t want it to make things weird between us.”
Her chest tightened. “It already kind of has.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
“It's just that... We work at the same place now. People notice things. I can’t afford rumors this early in my career.”
There it was.
“So… what are you saying?” she asked softly.
“I’m saying we should keep whatever this is… separate from work, you know? Casual. No complications.”
She searched his face.
“Friends with benefits,” she said. It was not a question, she was trying to understand what he wanted.
He hesitated for half a second before nodding. “If you want to put a label on it.”
It stung. Of course it did. How could it not, when the things he said that night were anything but cold? His words had wrapped around her, warm and intoxicating, making her feel seen, wanted, and unforgettable. She told herself it made sense. They were young and ambitious. Newly hired. Maybe this was maturity. Looking out for the future was important. Maybe they both would soon realise that they want to be together.
“Okay, fine. But no pretending we don’t exist at all.”
He relaxed slightly. “Of course not.”
That night, he kissed her in the car. The kiss was slow, and familiar. It was gentle enough to blur her doubts. So she left it at that.
They started seeing each other again. He still dropped her off most nights, though he had started parking further away from the building entrance than before. Sometimes they would just sit in the car way longer than they needed to, venting about work, talking through their career goals, or admitting their fears about failing. Other times, they didn't say a word. They just kissed until the windows fogged up and everything outside that car vanished.
The hookups became a routine. He was exactly what she needed, but only ever in the shadows. He was hers behind closed doors, in the one space where she was allowed to matter to him. In private, he knew exactly how to hold her together.
Back at the office, he stayed careful. That version of him was serious and completely in control. Whenever their coworkers teased them about how well they worked together, he’d just laugh it off and effortlessly change the subject.
“She’s just competitive, you know? She keeps me on my toes” he would say casually.
It sounded harmless. But it slowly rewrote the way others saw her. In their view, she became “intense.”
Someone useful, who gets the work done.
She didn’t realise how much it hurt until one afternoon when she overheard two coworkers joking about them near the coffee machine.
“He’s definitely management material.”
“Yeah, and she’s like the work wife without the actual benefits.”
They laughed. She stood there holding her cup, forcing a smile onto her face when they noticed her. That night, when he showed up at her apartment, she didn’t open the door immediately.
“You okay?” he asked when she finally did.
“Yeah,” she lied. He didn't push her, but he kissed her like he meant it and that was that.
Weeks passed like that. She began waiting for his texts more than she wanted to admit.
He began cancelling occasionally. Apparently , there were now important meetings and networking dinners. He had a big list of reasons why he could not make it.
Every time, he promised to make it up to her, and usually, he did. Until the Friday of the partner firm visit. The office buzzed with excitement all day. The visiting team was important . They were potential long-term collaborators. She and him had been chosen to present again. They worked perfectly together. On stage, they were seamless. Their work was efficient and excellent, like always. After the presentation, people congratulated them both.
Someone joked, “You two should be the company’s power duo.”
He laughed politely. “We just work well together.”
Again, there was not even a glance in her direction. The after-party started on the rooftop again. And there was music, and drinks.
Y/N wore a deep green dress, not for him, not for anyone. She just wanted to feel good in her own skin. Harry arrived later, surrounded almost immediately by senior associates and visiting managers. She watched him from across the space. He was in his element, she could see the easy confidence and his practiced charm. He was wearing the version of him that belonged to rooms like this. She could see his growth, from an intern to someone who commanded the attention of the audience. She felt suddenly small.
Later, she stepped away toward the quieter corner near the railing, trying to escape the noise. That was when she heard him.
She knew it was him because she recognised his voice before she saw him.
“…you’re always together at work, you and Y/N.” Josh from the other department teased.
“Yeah, people keep shipping you two,” Rita, their colleague, laughed.
He chuckled softly.
“Come on, guys. She’s just intense about projects. Good teammate. That’s it.” he shrugged.
“Not your type?”
He paused long enough to make her chest tighten.
“She’s not… what I’d go public with,” he said finally, half-joking. “Let’s put it that way.”
The words hit harder than shouting ever could. That single sentence shattered everything she had been pretending not to see. She didn’t wait to hear the rest. She walked past them without being noticed and left.
That night, he texted her.
Where did you go? Are you alright?
She stared at the screen. She didn't answer; she couldn't. Her eyes filled with unshed tears.
An hour later:
Did I do something?
She turned her phone off. She had never left him on delivered, always choosing him first.
The next morning, he knocked on her door. She stayed silent inside, pretending she wasn't home.
On Monday at work, he tried to act normal.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said when he saw her near the elevator.
“I’ve been busy,” she replied flatly.
“You’re lying.”
She finally looked right into his eyes.
“Oh, and you're the one that decides it now?”
His expression changed to confusion. Before he could respond, someone called his name. He turned away. And she realised something painful and important at the same time:
He cared more about being seen than about being honest.
That night, he texted her again.
Come over.
She typed back slowly.
No.
It was the first time she had ever refused him. And it unsettled him more than he expected.
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The first time she went home without him, he barely registered it as a loss.
It was a Wednesday. It was so busy that it blurred into every other workday. They had wrapped up late again, both tired and quieter than usual. He packed his bag slowly, responding to one last email, already assuming that she would be waiting near his desk like she usually did.
But when he finally stood up and looked around, her chair was empty. He spotted her near the elevators, sliding her phone into her bag.
“Where are you…” he started.
“I’m heading out,” she said, not meeting his eyes.
“Already?” he asked, surprised.
She nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got something to take care of.”
“Alright. See you tomorrow.”
She didn’t wait for him. The elevator doors closed before he could even process it. He told himself it meant nothing. People had lives outside work. They have responsibilities, friends, family. She didn’t owe him her evenings. He had been the one who insisted on boundaries, on caution, on not being obvious. This was just her respecting that.
Still, when he drove home alone that night, the passenger seat felt strangely loud in its emptiness.
The next few days passed differently than usual.
Harry and Y/N were assigned separate projects that week. They were on different teams. Different deadlines and different meeting rooms this time. He didn’t see her as often. But their desks were close enough that he could catch glimpses of her profile when she focused on her screen, brows slightly furrowed, fingers moving fast over the keyboard. She didn’t look at him. There were no lingering glances or shared jokes anymore. There were no smiles when meetings dragged on too long.
By Friday evening, he realized something that bothered him more than he wanted to admit. He hadn’t touched her in almost a week. That night, sitting alone on his couch, he unlocked his phone and typed without thinking.
Come over.
He stared at the message.
Waited.
Ten minutes passed.Ten became fifteen. Twenty.
Finally:
I can’t.
He got no explanation or apology from her. All she allowed him were just two words that started back at him from his screen. He frowned. The irritation surprised him. She had never turned him down before. Not once. Not when he texted late. Not when he cancelled plans and rescheduled at inconvenient hours. Not when he treated their arrangement like something that fit around his life.
Y/N was probably busy, harry said to himself.
Still, he couldn’t sleep easily that night. Saturday passed quietly. No message from her. Sunday too. On Monday morning, he walked into the office already scanning the room for her without realizing he was doing it.
She arrived ten minutes later.
“Hey,” he said automatically.
“Hey,” she replied politely. Too politely. The familiarity and softness she had reserved for him was gone. Now, her voice only contained professional politeness.
“You free tonight?” he asked casually, leaning against the edge of her desk.
She didn’t even pause. “No.”
He blinked. “No as in…”
“No as in no.”
Her tone was sharp. It contained a finalty that held no room for questions.
He laughed lightly, forcing ease into his voice. “You’ve been busy lately.”
“Yeah,” she said, eyes already back on her screen.
He stood there for a moment longer than necessary, then walked away but the discomfort began to settle in his chest. It was neither jealousy nor heartbreak but something worse.
He could feel the loss of control, the way she started slipping farther and farther away from his hold. He started noticing things he had never paid attention to before. How she packed up exactly at six-thirty now, every evening, no matter what. How she avoided staying late unless absolutely necessary. How she never waited near his desk anymore. How she didn’t look at him when they passed in the hallway.
The next evening, he made a decision. He finished his work early on purpose and closed his laptop. Grabbing his keys, he waited for her, near the elevator. He pretended to scroll through his phone while looking for her from the corner of his eye. When she finally stood up, slung her bag over her shoulder, and walked straight toward the exit without even glancing his way, he felt hurt. With long strides, he caught up with her in no time.
“You’re not riding with me anymore?” he asked.
She stopped.
Turned slowly.
“No.”
She wasn't defensive or angry. She just said it like a casual matter. Somehow, Harry felt like that hurt more.
“You always used to,” he said quietly.
She gave a small shrug. “People change.”
Then she walked away. He stood there longer than necessary, watching her disappear into the parking lot. That night, he tried texting her again.
Can I come over? I miss you.
The message stayed on read. There was no reply. He stared at his screen, waiting for a reply from her. It was the first time that Harry was left on seen.
The next afternoon, he confronted her again near the elevator.
“You’re avoiding me,” he said.
She didn’t say anything.
“I’m protecting my peace.”
“Protecting your peace. Since when did I threaten that?” he scoffed.
She looked at him then and he saw a fire in her eyes. Was it disappointment, maybe? It bothered him more than he cared to admit.
She did not even dignify it with a response. Before he could ask her more questions, someone called his name from across the floor, making him turn away. When he looked back, she was already walking away.
Friday arrived heavy with rain-soaked air and overcast skies. Y/N and Harry were working late again.The office slowly emptied, the lights were dimmed.
He finished early and looked over at her. She was still typing away on her computer. He decided to wait for her. This time, he watched carefully as she packed up. After getting all her stuff together, she walked past him, without even sparing him a glance. She didn’t even hesitate. Something in him snapped. He wanted to know what this was about. He couldn’t let her slip away without so much as an answer. So he grabbed his keys and followed her outside. It had started to drizzle. She was already halfway down the sidewalk by the time he got out of the office. She walked alone in the drizzle, holding her bag close so it wouldn’t get wet. Her head was slightly lowered. Streetlights reflected off damp pavement, casting soft golden light around her. She looked small and vulnerable.
“Y/N, wait,” he called.
She didn’t stop.
He jogged forward, stepping into her path gently.
“Hey. I’ll give you a ride, don’t worry about it.” He lifted his keys from his pocket. “I’m not going to let you walk.”
A moment of silence passed as she closed her eyes, letting her head fall back. He had no idea what it was doing to her – what it took to keep herself in check.
“I have to worry about it. You know we shouldn’t be seen together.” Her words were weaker than she wanted them to be but she could see the flash of hurt on his face.
Didn’t he know this was for his benefit, too?
Silence stretched between them.
Cars passed. Rainwater dripped from nearby trees.
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, you’re the one who made that rule, aren't you? You were very clear about not wanting to be seen with me.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly.
“Then what did you mean?” she asked, finally meeting his eyes.
He opened his mouth but nothing came out.
She let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
“Why are you doing this?” he asked, frustration rising. “You disappeared without saying anything. You stopped talking to me. You keep pushing me away. What’s your issue?”
Her hands tightened around the strap of her bag.
“My issue?” she repeated slowly, turning to look at him, her expression incredulous.
She stepped closer. She stood close enough that he could see the exhaustion under her eyes.
“I heard you,” she said.
His stomach dropped.
“Heard me… what?”
“At the party,” she said.
“When you laughed about me. When you reduced me to a teammate. A convenience.”
His face drained of color.
“That’s not…”
“You said I was intense. That I wasn’t your type. That I wasn’t someone you’d publicly go with,” she continued, voice shaking slightly now.
“And then you came to my place that same night like I was still good enough in private.”
He swallowed hard.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“But you meant it enough to say it,” she snapped softly. “You meant it enough to protect your image instead of my dignity.”
She stepped back, creating space.
“I stopped riding with you because I got tired of pretending I was okay being hidden. I stopped sleeping with you because I realised I was giving you everything while you gave me convenience.”
His voice dropped. “You could’ve talked to me.”
“And you could’ve respected me. But you didn’t,” she shot back.
Her eyes burned with unshed tears, but she blinked rapidly, refusing to cry in front of him.
“I didn’t walk away because I stopped caring. I walked away because I finally started caring about myself.”
The streetlight flickered above them. He stood frozen. For once, he had no argument ready. For someone who thrived on commanding all the attention with his words, he had no defense prepared this time.
She stepped around him, walking into the darkness. And this time, when Y/N walked away, she didn’t slow down. She didn't hesitate, or look back.
Harry remained standing on the sidewalk long after she disappeared from view, chest tight, throat burning, finally understanding what he had done. The rain poured down, and he sat on the sidewalk, unmoving, letting it drench him completely.
⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐⋆⭒˚.⋆
Thank you for reading, lovelies! Feedback is appreciated. If you wanna be added to the taglist, please lmk. And if you have any requests, feel free to send them in!
the swan part three: y/n has a fever and harry just wants her to know him
wordcount: 9.4k+
cw: mentions of drug abuse towards the end!
—————
Let me know if you need anything. Have fun tonight.
(Y/N) was incapable of wiping the smile off of her face as she read the message on her phone. All she could do was pretend to scratch at her nose in hopes of covering the curl from any watching eyes.
She'd barely been listening to the girls around her as they prattled off around the table between bites of dinner. To celebrate hitting the midway point of Swan Lake's run, she and the swans had decided to spend a night off getting dinner together. It was definitely a much quieter outing compared to the nights at the bars the company had indulged in leading up to opening night.
Nonetheless, even with the much more tame and linear conversation, she had a tough time following when she was distracted by her phone. The first text hadn't come in until their entrees were delivered, but (Y/N) hadn't been able to pay attention since.
It wasn't even anything important. She had told him earlier in the week that she and some of the girls were going out to dinner, and he wanted to see if her car had given her any trouble. And that was it.
But, he had thought about her.
It wasn't much in the grand scheme of it all, but there was something about the fact that in the middle of his own evening he had thought to reach out and ensure she was doing okay. She didn't doubt that he had his own work to do still, doing paperwork or visiting one of his galleries. But she had still crossed his mind.
"(Y/N)? Right?"
Blinking up from her phone, (Y/N) locked the device before looking up at the women around her. Siobhan was looking at her with raised brows.
"Hm? Sorry, I got distracted," she muttered, taking a sip of her lemonade to reverse her dry mouth.
Siobhan repeated herself—a question about one of the reviews that had come in the week before about the show—while Sasha eyed (Y/N) with a raised brow. Her gaze tripped down to the locked phone lying face down on the table before back up to her face.
(Y/N) pretended she didn't catch the look.
"Oh, yeah," she muttered, "I saw that one. I couldn't believe they added in those videos; it's like they didn't even go to the show."
The girls around her erupted into another string of chatter then, though Sasha made a point to keep (Y/N) too occupied to reach for her phone. Even when another message came in with the vibration making her itch to grab the device.
By the time dinner was over and the checks were paid, goodbye hugs were shared between the dancers on the sidewalk. It was when (Y/N) was in her car alone that she checked her phone finally.
The message lighting the thread with Harry was one with a photo of a swan on a park pond, elegant neck curved with the beak facing the gentle water. The setting sun left an orange glow glimpsing over the lake, the tips of the swan's feathers dipped in a gilded gold.
The teasing text attached at the bottom was:
I thought your next show was on Friday?
When her car started without a problem, there was a selfish part of her, one that sat in the back of her mind tucked away, that kind of hoped she would hear the sputtering and grinding.
At least that way, she would have an excuse to see Harry again.
—————
Sitting in her car, the radio cut to silence, (Y/N) stared forward at the theater. The block letters pasted to the back door were blurry, barely readable despite already knowing they spelled out STAGE DOOR. It was scary to admit it, but she barely remembered the drive to the venue.
Her head was pounding, filled with a pressure that even the medication she took this morning couldn't relieve. Her face felt swollen despite what her reflection in the mirror told her. The only thing visibly off about her was her coloring, complete with red eyes and pale lips. Otherwise, every bit of pain she was feeling was centralized inside.
The ache in her joints and folding muscles went well beyond that of constant dancing and working. Even rolling over in bed that morning hurt like she had gone hiking in her sleep. It was even beginning to hurt to breathe, her chest aching every time she breathed in just a little too deep. All with her sinuses stuffed up and her ears plugged.
But, there was a show tonight.
The production staff was waiting for her. Kingston was waiting for her. Costuming was waiting for her.
The audience had paid good money to see the show as posted, including the dancers marked on the playbill.
She couldn't be sick. Especially not when she had felt just fine the night before aside from a few sneezes here and there. She didn't have time for a sinus infection or the migraine fueling pressure inside her skull. There was too much she needed to take care of, too many people depending on her to show up and give the show that was paid for and planned on.
(Y/N) took a deep breath and immediately regretted it before forcing herself out of her car without a second thought. She stalled where she stood on the pavement, hearing her blood rush through her ears as she attempted to collect herself.
Once the world came back into focus—or at least as focused as she could manage with the migraine hitting behind her eyes—she started towards the theater, barely remembering to lock her car behind her.
Stepping over the threshold into the backstage area, (Y/N) felt the air swirl around her as familiar faces hustled past. She attempted to smile at those who greeted her, even when she couldn't clearly differentiate who exactly was speaking to her. The trek to her dressing room was longer than she could ever remember it being before.
She flinched when she sealed herself in the quiet room, offended by the bright lighting compared to the low levels illuminating the backstage. Through squinted eyes, she rushed to turn on the lights of her vanity before flicking off the overhead bulb. The room was bathed in a much more bearable glow, the noise of the props and stage being set up left on the other side of the door.
She could do this, she thought as she looked at her reflection. Maybe she just needed a little extra powder to conceal the circles around her eyes and the clammy state of her skin. Despite the norm, she wouldn't be able to tie her hair back as tightly as usual. And most likely the bodice of her costume wouldn't be laced as tight as the other shows either.
No one would notice, though. Right?
Slumping over her vanity, she rested her head on her folded arms. The cave created by her arms granted her a darkness that helped dull her headache.
Sitting tucked away with her sweatshirt on, eyes fluttered to a close, she didn't even mind the odd position of sitting at the mirror as she felt herself grow more and more tired. Five minutes wouldn't hurt. It might even make her feel better!
Five minutes, she repeated. Five minutes then she'd pop up and get ready and join the others. Not even a nap, she thought. She would just be resting her eyes.
It took all of five seconds for the dark of her self-made cave turned into the blur of her dreams.
—————
"(Y/N)? Are you asleep?"
Jolting awake, (Y/N)'s head pounded as she made sense of her surroundings.
She was in her dressing room (decidedly not her old high school, where she couldn't remember her class schedule or locker combo, and somehow no pants on). The lights were off, only the bulbs of her vanity burning in front of her. She was still in her comfortable clothes, hair a mess, and joints stiff from falling asleep sitting up.
Ms. Ariel was standing over her, a look of confusion complete with a furrowed brow at the stern line of her mouth molded her features. "What are you doing?"
"I—" (Y/N) attempted to croak out only to be cut off by a series of coughs, "Um, I think I fell asleep."
At the sound of her raspy voice, Ms. Ariel's expression smoothed into one of concern. "Oh no. Are you sick, sweetie?"
(Y/N) opened her mouth to say something though no sound came out but a soft wheeze. So much for whatever excuse she was going to blurt out.
Clearing out her throat, she shook her head. "I'll be fine. I just don't think I can have my hair back as tight this time."
Ms. Ariel was already shaking her head, reaching for (Y/N)'s discarded tote before she even finished speaking. "No. You've got to go home, (Y/N). You can't dance like this."
"But, I'm already here," she whined, the sound of her own voice piercing her brain, "I don't need to go home. I'll be fine, I just need to warm up."
Ms. Ariel ignored her words, instead pulling out her phone. "You drove yourself tonight, right? I'll get you an Uber, you can't drive like this."
When (Y/N) opened her mouth to protest the idea, she was quickly shut down with only a scolding glare from her choreographer. Instead she nodded, rattling off her address when asked.
Though there was a river of guilt sluicing through her system imagining the audience reading a playbill with her name, the costume department readying her outfits, the rest of the dancers depending on her to lead them through the narrative—there was a boat of relief floating through at the idea of sleeping in the dark of her room once more.
"I'm sorry," (Y/N) muttered as Ms. Ariel started guiding her out back to the car park.
"Why?" she blanched, "There's no reason to be sorry. It happens to everyone—the show will go on."
(Y/N) let out a round of coughs before she was able to answer. (And she had thought that a nap would help her feel better). "I can't do my job tonight."
"You have an understudy for a reason. Let her do her job tonight," Ms. Ariel pointed out.
It would probably be nice for one of the swans to break from the ensemble for her own shining night. That didn't seem so bad when she thought about it like that.
Waving goodbye to the crew and promising to see them again soon, (Y/N) followed Ms. Ariel into the parking lot. The chilled air swirled around them, cooling the warmth that was blooming under her skin. An SUV was waiting for her, the model matching the description on the app.
"Thank you," (Y/N) smiled, weakly taking her tote bag from her teacher.
A maternal expression softened all of Ms. Ariel's features. "Feel better, okay? If you need anything, please reach out. Don't worry about the show, we'll be okay."
(Y/N) cringed around the lump in her throat as she swallowed around the emotion building around her already scratchy voice. She was always emotional when she was sick.
"I will. Thank you."
Ms. Ariel helped (Y/N) with her final act of the night as she climbed into the Uber. She waited out on the pavement until they were pulling away and (Y/N) was set to recover for the rest of the night.
More than thankful for the quiet driver tonight, (Y/N) leaned her head on the window. The cool glass felt fantastic against her skin. It took a real effort to keep her eyes from fluttering closed. She couldn't fall asleep in the back of a random car—not when she had already fallen asleep in a similar position with her back aching enough as is.
Instead, she pulled out her phone despite cringing back at the glow of the screen.
There were a few notifications decorating the pixels, though there was only one that stood out to her in the haze.
Harry Styles
If you have time, I'd like to drop off some more flowers after the show tonight. I'm excited to see you again.
Good luck.
She could only flutter her eyes to a close, her phone timing out with the thread still on screen.
—————
(Y/N) awoke with a start, sweat dripping down the back of her neck with her hair plastered to her face. She felt disoriented as she attempted to find her place in the dark.
Around her, her bedsheets were in a rumpled mess. Stray corners were wrapped around her legs while others were completely dropped off of the bed all together. Her bedroom was dark, the only light seeping in from a still open window and the streetlamps dotting the area outside.
Her head felt heavy as she swiveled to look around her room. Her things were scattered about, showing her trek from the front door down to where she evidently collapsed in bed. Her duffle, shoes, sweatshirt and pants were left in puddles leading to her bedroom—a trail she didn't really remember making in the haze of it all.
Flopping back onto her bed, she couldn't remember why she woke up in the first place. It was easier to just close her eyes, especially when the throbbing of her head came back with a vengeance. A sudden shiver ran down her spine despite the sweat covering her skin, pushing her to reach for the nearly discarded bedspread falling off of her mattress.
She was a breath away from falling back to her vivid dreamland just as her phone began vibrating somewhere underneath the covers. The sound jerked her back awake.
That was it, she remembered. That's why she woke up. Someone was calling her.
With lethargic limbs, she blindly searched around herself for the device. Truly, she was surprised it still had any charge. She hadn't plugged it in and as far as she could remember, the battery wasn't very high to begin with when she left the house.
By the time she dug her phone from the trenches of her bedding, the call had already rung out. On her screen, she saw the number of missed calls noted on her home screen.
All from Harry.
There were scattered text messages thrown in—including one from Kingston and a couple from the Swans group chat. Most were from Harry.
He was concerned, that much she could gather through her muddled head and bleary eyes. He hadn't been able to track down Ms. Ariel or anyone else before the show had started. All he'd seen was the understudy without any explanation.
Before she could open the text thread and respond to him, another call came through. She didn't even think before she swiped to answer the call.
"H—" She was cut off by her own crackled voice and a round of coughing following. "Hello?"
"(Y/N), are you okay?" he asked through the receiver, that concerned edge from his texts coming through his voice. "I didn't think Irina was supposed to come on tonight."
Falling back against the pillows, she took in a ragged, deep breath despite the searing in her lungs. "I'm fine, I think. I'm just sick," she croaked out, "I meant to text you back earlier. Sorry."
Hearing her own voice was bad enough with the ragged edges, how thick her words came out through her throat, and how out of breath she felt already, she couldn't imagine just how bad she sounded to Harry. If she stayed awake long enough after this phone call, she needed to take some medicine and drink some water. Anything to help clear her nose enough for her to be able to sleep with her mouth closed.
"How are you feeling?" Harry asked, bringing her back to the surface for a little bit longer.
"I think I have a sinus infection," she explained, rolling over in her sheets with her cheek smushed into her pillow. It wouldn't be too bad to sleep for a little while longer, she thought. She'd wake up again later and just take the medicine then.
"Oh, (Y/N)," he crooned over the line, enough to lull her that much closer to sleep. "Do y'need anything?"
"I'm fine, I think," she repeated, a slight slur to her words as she sunk deeper into her mattress. "Thank you, though."
Yeah, she could sleep some more. Especially when her bedroom was so cold and her bed was so warm.
"Are you sure? You don't sound so good, love," Harry pressed, bringing her back to attention just enough to stay awake for a few more moments. "I can bring y'some medicine or something for your throat?"
Eyes already closed, (Y/N) absently nodded her head. "Okay."
Harry paused long enough for her to see the beginnings of a dream—one where she was suddenly at the theater again but no one had her costume for some reason.
"Okay?" he sounded.
"Yeah. Sounds good."
There was more to conversation, she knew that, but the words were lost as she fell asleep. If there were goodbyes shared, they were only incorporated into her dream.
—————
"That's so funny, Kingston," (Y/N) laughed, barely covering her body from the prying eyes of the company. No one had noticed she forgot her costume—yet. She needed to get to her dressing room ASAP, but Kingston needed to stop talking to her first.
"It was crazy how Stephanie just did that, I was so surprised," Kingston said, getting comfortable as he shifted his weight foot to foot in front of (Y/N).
They only had so much time before the show, she needed to get dressed right now!
(Y/N) woke with a gasp as her phone vibrated under her head. Despite how deep her dream felt, it only took the single call for her to be pulled back to the surface of consciousness.
Blinking awake, she reached for her phone. A call from Harry lit up the screen. She vaguely remembered talking to him before, but she couldn't determine if the call was a part of her dream or something that actually happened.
"Hello?" she whispered, her throat too swollen for anything louder.
"Hey, were y'sleeping?" he murmured. All she could do was hum an acknowledgment, the sound coming out more crackly than she meant. "Well, 'm here with medicine and some food for you if you'll let me in."
She sat up, her blood rushing through her ears at his words. So, that hadn't been a dream when he had offered to come by with things for her.
Interesting.
Now wasn't necessarily the opportunity she would have chosen when it came to inviting him over to her place, but it was the one that she was being presented with. She would have to roll with it as long as she was able to think through the muck cobwebbing her thoughts and lethargy glueing her muscles.
"Okay, yeah. I'll be right there."
Hanging up the call, she forced herself out of bed. Her skin felt clammy, the neckline of her t-shirt damp against the back of her neck. Her hair had to be forcibly removed out of her face with the way stray hairs were pasted to her temples. She felt sticky and gross, but the idea of possibly trying to shower off the feeling made her feel even more exhausted than she already was.
She moved through her apartment on hesitant feet, the cool hardwood under her soles sent a shiver up her spine. She barely remembered to flick on the lights when she made it to the door. Her clammy hands fumbled with the lock before pulling open the door.
On the other side was Harry, still in his signature suit though he was now missing his jacket and the remaining pieces were mussed and wrinkled. His hair was a mess, pushed away from his face with curls gone astray. In his arms were a paper bag, full and crinkling in his grip. His eyes were flooded with concern as they took her in, the straight rod of his shoulders released at the sight, sloping in relief.
"Hi," he breathed, "How are you feeling?"
(Y/N), moving out of the doorway to let him in, nodded her head, swallowing around her thick throat. "I'm okay. I kind of forgot you were coming over," she laughed, "I thought it was a dream. So, sorry everything is a mess and I left you out there."
"'S alright," he said, eyes not straying from her to notice the aforementioned mess. "I brought some medicine—I wasn't sure what would help, so I got almost everything. And some soup. And socks."
She let out as much of a laugh as she could at his hesitant list. Much more than she thought he would go out of his way for.
"Thank you," she smiled, fumbling with the door once more before the lock clicked in place. She made an effort to keep from slumping into the wood, already aching for her bed now that she had crossed the whole apartment and stood up for longer than two seconds. She had almost forgotten how horrific being sick was.
"Are y'hungry now?" he asked, edging towards her open kitchen.
(Y/N) didn't answer as she drifted towards the living room on heavy feet, heading towards the couch where the knotted blankets from this morning's sulking still waited for her. She meant to give him some kind of response, but by the time she had huddled under the quilts, her eyes fell closed and there was nothing else on her mind but getting some more sleep.
"(Y/N)?"
A groan of acknowledgment left her though she made no move to get up from her spot.
There was no response from Harry for a moment, only the crinkling of the paper bag. The silence was perfect for her to drift off. Just a couple of minutes, she compromised. Before Harry would even notice.
"Are y'running a fever, love?"
Swimming back to the surface, she squinted her eyes open just to see Harry crouching right before her. His brows were in a furrow, the dim light from the streetlamps outside spilled into her apartment behind him, haloing around his form. The curls of his hair were in disarray around his face, a shadow of stubble covering his jaw.
"Huh?" she sounded, mouth falling open as she took in the shadowed sight of him. Even in the dim light, the green of his eyes still shone like a beacon to her.
Instead of repeating himself, his lips thinned as his eyes scanned over her. He lifted a hand hesitantly, looking at her before asking, "May I?"
She weakly nodded. The back of his hand was then laid across her forehead. His touch was a balm against her, so warm against the cold sweat that coated her skin. She couldn't help the way her eyes fluttered to a close.
There was a part of her that wanted to whine then he took his hand off of her forehead, a hum of disapproval coming from him. She didn't have it in her to open her eyes, leaving her unsure if he was still there with her or if he had disappeared to do whatever else was on his agenda. The next time she heard him was when the gravel of his voice broke the silence.
"Here," he said, cueing her to crack her eyes open to see his offered hand with a dip of blue pills in his palm. In the other was her water bottle she must have left somewhere out here when she stumbled home. "Something to help your fever. Y'haven't eaten, have you?"
(Y/N) shook her head as she took the pills from his hand and the offered water. Tossing the medication in her mouth, she didn't think before she was reaching for his hand to hold her steady as she sat up. The bundle of blankets shifted around her as her fingers curled around Harry's palm, anchoring her as she gaped down enough water to soothe her sore, dry throat.
"Better?" he asked, his voice decidedly smoother as his hand pulsed around hers.
She quietly nodded, settling back into her nest as she blinked at him. "You brought food?"
"I did, yeah. Y'like chicken, right?" he smiled, the curl of his lips lifting her almost as much as the feel of his thumb caressing her hand.
"I think," she sighed, succumbing to the warmth of her blanket fort and the relief of the water on her throat. Though she kept her hand in his.
Using his grip on her hand, Harry tugged her back up, keeping her awake and away from the soft folds of the blankets and the crooked throw pillows she was attempting to huddle into. "Gotta stay awake a little while longer, yeah? Just long enough to eat and drink some more, then we can sleep again."
A pout settled on her lips at his orders. "No."
"No?" he repeated with a laugh, his features brightening as he looked at her, "I promise it'll be worth it. It'll also help to see if the medicine works for you, right?"
She truly didn't care if he was making sense and had good points. She wanted to sleep and he was taking that luxury from her.
He canted his head as he watched the wheels turning in her head. "(Y/N). Please?"
It was hard to deny a voice like that, lilting around her name in his accent. Looking at her with the lilypad green of his eyes. His hand in hers, so soft and comforting.
She gave in as she settled herself upright against the cushions of her couch. Only a single blanket remained around her shoulders while the rest pooled in her lap, coiling around her like rose petals.
"Thank you," Harry smiled, squeezing her hand one last time before standing to his full height over her. "Try to stay awake and keep drinking your water. I should be able to make everything really quickly, okay?"
"Okay," she nodded her head, gaze following him as he started towards the kitchen.
Without the television on and her phone discarded in her room, (Y/N)'s entertainment became the cooking show that Harry was putting on for her. Unfamiliar with her kitchen and the quirks of her appliances, she became an uncredited producer as she answered the questions that streamed from him over and over.
Her apartment began to fill with the smell of bright lemon and smoky spices, tiny pasta simmering away in whatever broth Harry was cooking up. Every breath in helped open her nose, something she was grateful she was awake for. Even if her blinks went on a couple seconds longer than she was sure they were supposed to.
It was quite the sight to see Harry stumbling around her kitchen, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up to his elbows. Now she was able to see the sketchbook of tattoos that decorated his skin, the cross on his hand now having a family of other drawings. Through her bleary gaze she had a hard time catching each piece of ink, but she really did like what she could see of the mermaid on his forearm. A perpetual furrow had clipped his brow, his lips being rolled between his teeth before being puffed into a pout in an amusing cycle. The sight was officially her favorite show.
By the time he finished, (Y/N) had moved into dozing territory, something he shook her from with a gentle call of her name and the depressing of the cushion next to her as he took a seat.
"Awake?"
"Yeah, yeah," she mumbled, nodding her head despite the clear dredge of sleep on her face.
"Right." He looked at her over the steaming bowl of promised soup, an amused dance in his eyes. He carefully handed it to her, warning her of the temperature as she set it in her blanketed lap. "'S chicken and pastina with lots of lemon and a little bit of spice. 'M hoping it'll help clear up your sinuses," he explained, eyeing the way she stirred the combination.
"Are you having any?" she asked, looking at his empty hands despite all of the work he put into this.
"Maybe later," he compromised, his expression settling into something serious as she scooped her first bite. "I want to make sure you're feeling alright and get what y'need first."
A quiet smile molded her features. "Okay," she murmured, looking down at her dinner with new affection.
Thankful for the clearing of her nose, (Y/N) was actually able to taste the soup when she brought the spoon to her mouth. Just as promised the warm broth was spiced with crushed pepper flakes and something smoky sprinkled over the shreds of chicken. Citrus spikes of lemon were bright over her taste buds, opening her nose even if it seared just a bit going down her throat. The pastina was tender and soft, the little star shapes floating around the enriched broth. The closest she was going to get to the faux-snow she should be twirling through on stage at the moment.
"This is really, really good, Harry," she smiled, taking down another spoonful through her swollen throat, "Are you sure you're not going to have any?"
His features melted into something warm and round then, a small smile curving his lips. The ghost of a dimple touched his cheek. "'M alright. 'M happy you like it."
"Thank you," she hummed, leaning into him without thinking. Her foggy mind didn't have any qualms about her resting her head on his shoulder, cheek squished against the broad line as her eyes fluttered to a close.
This had been all she wanted since she woke up that morning: a soft pad of blankets, something warm in her hands, and someone there with her. She hadn't realized she wanted that someone to be Harry.
He stayed as her steady pillar while she finished her soup. He was as attentive as ever, refilling her water, adding another blanket to her shoulders when she shivered and telling the same quilt off when she began to sweat under the layers. He kept her awake even as the cold medicine began to kick in leaving her drowsy and mumbly the longer she was forced awake. It had been years, when she still lived with her family, that someone had taken such good care of her without a single complaint. Not even when she fell asleep for a few moments on his shoulder, long enough for a bit of drool to pool on his shirt.
(Come morning, she hoped the cold medicine would wipe that memory and leave it in a dreamy haze. That way she could at least deny it all to herself as nothing more than an embarrassing dream).
"Done?" he asked when she dropped her spoon into the empty bowl, only a few stray pastina stars remaining.
"Yeah," she sighed, sinking into the nest of blankets for the time being. At least for the moment she was terribly cold, though she figured that might change soon.
Harry took her bowl from her lap, his fingertips brushing her own for a breath. "Let me clean up and I'll get y'some more water, yeah?"
She sunk into the cushions now that she didn't need to sit upright for food. Harry didn't stop her as she laid out on the sofa, head falling onto a lumpy throw pillow with her blanket nest in disarray around her. She only nodded her head to his proposition before her eyes fluttered to a close.
The cold medicine did its job as it eased her into a lazy state of mind. If she didn't know any better, she would think she was coming into another fever with the tangled trains of thought and lethargic bones.
But that somehow made it easier for her to reach out to Harry when he passed to get her water bottle. She didn't think before she reached for his wrist, right over the anchor inked into his skin with her manicured nails gleaming against his tan.
"Wait."
From where she was laid out under her pile of blankets, peering up at him through a bleary, sleep-squinted gaze, she saw the way he naturally reverted back to the furrowed brow and thinned lips.
"What's wrong?"
She smiled at his line of questioning. Of course he would be ready to remedy anything for her that quickly.
"You're so nice to me, Harry." She squeezed her hand around his wrist.
A small smile cracked the concern coating his features. "Thank you," he breathed, staying right where he was as long as she had her hand on his wrist.
"Come here," she mumbled, tugging on his arm until he was crouching before her just as he'd done earlier.
His eyes met her's, the clear green bright against his dark lashes. He canted his head. "What's wrong, (Y/N)?"
She shook her head against the pillow. "Nothing. Just stay here for a little."
It was clear he wasn't going to fight her, even with his insistence that she needed to keep drinking water and all of the medicine he no doubt had laid out on her kitchen counter. He instead melted into softer lines, his shoulders sloping as he lowered himself to sit with his legs crossed underneath him. (Y/N) shifted her hold on his wrist to slide over the strength of his hands until their fingers were tangled together.
"I was going to try to go on tonight," she sighed, savoring the feel of his hand in hers, "Sorry I made you miss the show."
Harry dropped his gaze to their joined hands, watching as her fingers caressed over the lines of his skin. "I—um—I was worried when they skipped the prologue and started without you."
"I'm sure Irina is doing amazing," (Y/N) lazily smiled, wishing he'd look up at her again so she could see his eyes.
He nodded absently, still looking at where her thumb was drawing along the side of his hand. "Sure," he drawled, "But..." He paused for a moment, rolling his lips between his teeth. "But, I go to see you. You're... wonderful."
It could be the cold medication or the side effects of her high fever, but she swore there was more threaded within his words. That he truly believed her to be full of wonder—something to be awed at. A swan on a lake at sunset with gilded feathers. A clear night sky, every star winking into existence. A snowy day with large flakes gliding on the wind, the ground powdery and sparkling.
Her chest warmed just so even with goosebumps rising on her skin. In a different state she may not have felt it all so deeply, but she would soak in it while she could.
"See," she sighed, pulsing her hand in his, "This is why I don't believe all that stuff."
His brows pinched together once more, finally granting her wish of meeting her gaze. "What do you mean?"
She snuggled deeper under her blankets though she ensured she never lost his hand. Her confession caught up with her a bit, or at least the reason why she'd never brought it up before. "I... Nevermind. I don't want to hurt your feelings."
Her words didn't appear to ease him at all. "No, 's okay," he insisted, "What were y'thinking?"
The drowsy side effect of her cold medicine began closing in around her now that she was warm and full. It made everything easier as her eyes fell closed, her lips decidedly looser.
"Some of the girls told me what happened a couple of years ago. Everything with your... ex," she started, unconsciously frowning at the memory, "That it was a weird time for everyone. When she left, I guess some people thought you had something to do with it, and that everything with you guys got really complicated." She sighed then, cracking her eyes open with a smile on her face. "I didn't really believe it all, though. I don't see you like that."
She expected him to give her a matching smile. To look at her with the same softened look she hoped she was giving him. Instead, she saw the lines of his face still taut and clean. His hand in hers stayed soft and pliable, disjointed from the set of his jaw.
"Oh. 'M sorry that they shared that with you," he said, voice low and quiet as he peeked at her through his lashes, "How... How long have you known?"
It took her a moment to cast back her muddled mind far enough to pinpoint the day. "When we found out about the casting. Me and some of the swans went to dinner that night."
"Oh." His brows were tightly knit, eyes downturned once more. He didn't seem particularly eased by her information.
A silence sat between them, layering over her blankets and the warmth of his hand in her palm. It was easy to sway deeper into the drowsy feeling dripping through her veins. Hopefully when she woke up she'd feel better.
Maybe there would still be some soup for her to have. And those socks Harry brought her.
A small pulse was given to her hand. "Do y'want me to stay?" he murmured.
(Y/N) didn't even think before she nodded. Only a breath later, hand still in his, she was asleep.
—————
Sunlight beaming through the open curtains was what woke (Y/N) the next morning. Though her nose was still stuffed and her throat more swollen than what was comfortable, she could say she felt a bit better. The pounding behind her eyes had vacated—thank goodness. It was much easier to accept the morning when she didn't cringe away from the light, even if her bones still felt stiff and muscles heavy.
Sitting up, she found herself in bed. Many of her memories of the previous night were foggy and disjointed, seen through the lens of both cold medicine and her high fever. The blankets she vaguely remembered huddling into on the sofa were now nested around her on her bed, the duvet and other bedding forgotten in the process. She didn't even remember making it to her bedroom. Her hair was a mess but pulled away from her face into a sloppy bun, her clothes sticking to her from the layer of sweat on her body, the proof of a broken fever. On her bedside table was her trusty water bottle, full and chilled, right next to a duo of blue pills waiting for her.
A tired smile bloomed on her features. Harry.
Though muddy, she remembered the way he came to her aid so quickly. She didn't even have to ask him—call him herself—before he was there with food and water and every medicine he could get his hands on for her. Just to sit at her side and hold her hand as she surely made next to no sense with whatever it was she talked his ear off about.
Was he still here?
She listened to the silence around her. Only the squeaking of her mattress springs as she shifted and stretched broke the quiet barrier.
Taking a moment to down the medication and over half of the water before she crept out of her bedroom, (Y/N) wasn't sure what she wanted to see when she peered into her living room. Harry had already done so much for her, it felt selfish to hope that he had slept over just to see her in the morning. But, it was hard to say that she didn't want that.
She didn't have to go far before she stopped on the edge of her furry pink rug. There, right on her sofa, was Harry. He was more than rumpled, clad in clothes he'd been in the night before. His shoes were discarded in a messy pile on her rug. Only one remaining quilt was bundled at the end of the sofa with that lumpy throw pillow showing an indent of where he laid his head. Though now he was sat up, knees spread wide with his elbows propped on his knees as he knuckled at his eyes.
It was a bit silly the way she felt a giddy flutter in the pit of her stomach. Seeing him felt a lot more real than those murky memories.
"Good morning," she chirped.
Harry startled at the sound of her voice, almost jumping out of his skin as he whipped his head up to look at her.
Blinking the rest of the sleep out of his eyes, he looked at her dazedly. "Morning," he graveled, clearing his throat before continuing, "How are y'feeling?"
"A lot better, thank you," she smiled, "How are you feeling? In my experience, that couch isn't very comfortable."
A short laugh fell from his lips as he stood to the full of his height, stretching with his hands running streaks through his hair. "At least 's cute," he offered, a small smile on his tired face.
Before she could answer, a round of coughing took over, her eyes watering at the sting in her throat. Before she could recover, Harry was already heading towards her kitchen once more—the counters of which are completely spotless. A stark contrast to what was going on the day before as far as she could remember. Taking in the rest of her living room, that seemed to be the consensus. The entire place was cleaned up as much as it could be by someone who didn't live there.
"Y'saw the water I left out, right?" he asked, light reaching his eyes as he slipped back into his nursing role.
"I did, yeah. Thank you—again," she said, tracking him as he immediately went towards the leftover soup he'd seemingly packed away after she fell asleep.
"Are y'hungry?" he asked, already reaching for the pot he'd cleaned and readied after last night. "There's some leftovers I can heat up for you."
A grin poked at her lips. "Soup for breakfast?"
He seemed a bit sheepish as he looked down at his breakfast plans. "Sorry, 's all I brought for you. I feel too bad to go through your cabinets more than I have already. I could put an egg on it?"
Even though it hurt, she couldn't help the loud laugh that escaped her. A cute idea, she thought. A fried egg just floating on top of her soup.
"I think I can manage with just the soup. As long as you have some with me this time."
A short smile curled his lips as he went about turning the heat of the stove and stirring through the broth. (Y/N) excused herself to the bathroom then, only to return later to see Harry ladling out the servings of their new breakfast soup. The same smoky citrus scent permeated through her apartment, already helping her sniffly nose.
This time, Harry brought his own bowl to share with her, taking what seemed to now be their spots on the sofa.
"Sure y'don't want an egg?" he teased as she stirred her pastina.
"Let me think about it," she countered, smiling down at the floating stars. "Really, thank you for last night. I haven't been sick like this in a while, I forgot what it was like to not be able to take care of myself."
Swallowing down his spoonful, Harry gave her a small smile. "Of course. 'S no problem at all. 'M happy you're feeling a little better."
"You didn't have to come out here and stay and all of that, though," she pressed, attempting to come off more casual than she felt as she scooped out another bite, "It means a lot, Harry. I think you probably cut at least two days off of my suffering just by being here."
He nodded down at his soup, a sheepish blush touching the tops of his cheeks and the tips of his ears. "You're welcome, (Y/N)."
Her apartment was filled with the sounds of clicking silverware and drops of broth splashing back into the bowl. It wasn't until she started eating that she realized just how hungry breaking a fever had made her. With each spoonful her limbs warmed, and she could breathe just that much easier. She had been right: the leftovers were even better than the night before.
She had made it halfway through her helping before she caught Harry almost done with his own.
"Pretty good, huh?" she said, bumping his shoulder as a streak of broth dripped down his chin.
"Yeah," he nodded, wiping at his chin though he looked particularly impressed with himself nonetheless. "I might be onto something with this."
"Did you even have any last night?"
"No," he said, taking another bite, "I was too busy taking care of a delirious ballerina."
Another bright laugh came from her; the sound only hoarse this time without the round of coughs. "I was pretty out of it last night, huh?"
"I could barely understand you half of the time," he shared, amusement laced through his words.
"I'm scared to know," she started, scraping down the last of the pastina, "but what did I say?"
Dimples were deep in his cheeks as he looked at her, raspberry lips stretched into a grin. How pretty he was, even first thing in the morning. Even after he'd taken care of her the way he did for hours on end.
"After I thought y'fell asleep, y'woke up really suddenly and asked me if I knew where your costumes were. It was very hard to tell you that I didn't have them." He set his empty bowl on the low coffee table (next to a vase of familiar dried flowers), giving her the full of his attention, canting his head as he matched her gaze. "When I first got here, you told me you didn't realize that our phone call was real; you thought it was all a dream. Right before y'fell asleep the first time, you"—there was a momentary stall in his voice, lasting not even a second as he suddenly rerouted—"barely made any sense. If I didn't know any better, I'd think y'were drunk."
Her cheeks warmed already at the moments he listed off, but she had to know what he was planning on saying before switching gears. "No, what were you going to say?" she questioned, canting her head with her own soup bowl next to his before her. "Was it really that weird?"
His smile fell just enough for the dimples to become nothing more than small dents. "I don't..." he shook his head, "I know y'don't feel better yet, I don't want to start—It was nothing."
The amusement that had lit up his features when he listed off her offenses had vanished, leaving him with those same tight edges that he'd looked at her with last night. He rolled his lips between his teeth, keeping his mouth closed.
There was only one thing she could imagine that could only come out when she wasn't in her right mind. Something that might suck the air out of Harry's levity. Her apartment suddenly didn't feel so sunny and warm any more.
"Harry?"
He didn't hesitate before he met her eyes.
"You can tell me," she pressed, "Especially if I hurt you."
A beat of silence passed.
Harry dropped his gaze from hers before he spoke, "Y'said y'heard some things about me. From a few years ago."
She cringed at the admission, cheeks warming. That was what she had been dreading, though expecting nonetheless.
"The rumors?" she whispered, already knowing the answer.
A humorless smile curled his lips. "Yeah."
Her features tightened at the single word. "Did I say anything after? Or did I just fall asleep and make you deal with it."
He let out a puff of laughter then, though she didn't feel very funny. "Y'said y'didn't believe any of it."
The set of her shoulders released then, her lungs able to expand just enough for an actual calming breath. She may have spilled the beans, but at least she attempted damage control.
"I don't. I never really did."
Only one corner of his mouth upturned at her affirmation. Though that only lasted for a beat before it vanished.
"Can I tell y'something?"
She gave a wordless nod.
"My ex—Elle, she struggled a lot. She was the one that introduced me to ballet and the company and everything. It was something we got to bond over, and—um—I liked coming to see her and watch everything that went into the show. It was really special for a while." He didn't speak higher than a murmur, his words careful. "Things were really good for a while after we moved in together. But—uh—then she... Sorry it jus' feels weird sharing this when 's her story."
"It's okay," (Y/N) urged, realizing he was going to share with her the truth everyone had been swirling rumors about for years. "You don't have to if you don't want to. You know how I feel already."
"I know," he said, a slight smile being offered to her though the curl didn't last long at all. "I jus' want you to know. Everyone is allowed to choose what they want to believe about me or what happened between us, but I want you to know that it was never like that."
Cautiously, (Y/N) closed the gap between their spots on the sofa, thighs touching over the lump of quilt thrown over their laps. "Only tell me whatever you want. You don't owe me anything."
When he didn't speak up right away, (Y/N) figured that was the end of the story she would get. And she would be okay with that, if this was the end of it. For everything Harry's done—nursing her through the night, doing so much for the company, his patronage over the years—he didn't owe anyone any kind of explanation. She didn't doubt that he wasn't like the rumors.
After a few minutes, he spoke up again, "Towards the end, I got frustrated with her a lot, but I would never—could never—put my hands on her. Or... intimidate her, scare her. No matter how upset I got, I never wanted her to be hurt, or be the one hurting her, just anything.
"I knew when we started dating that she had issues with... drugs before we met. She'd been clean for a couple of years before we met and for years before we got engaged. But, I don't know if she was depressed or if she'd been dancing for too long and it was starting to catch up with her or if it was just whoever she started hanging out with, I don't know, but she changed. It got really out of hand really quickly. At the worst of it, I don't think she was even eating or sleeping. I don't know how she even showed up to rehearsal. Soon enough I only saw her when she was on stage or if she actually slept at home. Other times, I had to track her down if I wanted to know if she was alive."
(Y/N)'s bottom lip was being chewed to a pulp the longer Harry spoke. His words were beginning to fall out like a stream of consciousness, rambling from his head without a filter instead of the careful word choices he started with. A story the first time it's been told aloud. This was far from the story the girls had shared with her. Supposedly everyone was able to pick up on how tense Harry was, but not drug abuse by someone who was their friend? It turned her stomach.
"The—um—The last time I saw her, we got into a fight," Harry started again, shaking his head at the memory, "She brought people to our place, and everything was trashed by the time I came home. There was coke, and.. other things, all over my bathroom and things were missing. My house didn't feel like mine anymore when I saw it. I got so upset. I loved her so much, but the person I loved never would have brought someone into my home that could possibly hurt me or take things from me. I felt violated"—he let out a humorless laugh at the admission, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe his own experience—"I realized that night that I didn't know who she was anymore. She needed help but I knew she wasn't going to. I just couldn't take it anymore."
Harry's voice grew watery then, thin and high. He took a moment to collect himself, the air in her apartment heavy as if all of the city were listening into this story. All she could do was hope he could feel the warmth of her body at his side, the weight of her presence that affirmed he wasn't alone. Today was a different day than what he'd gone through before.
He cleared his throat before continuing, even though that rasp remained when he continued, "I called her mum that night. She made the trip down, picked her up, and that was the last time I saw Elle." His hands were a knotted mess in his lap, fingers wringing and wrapping around each other over and over. "That last I heard was from her mom, maybe, a year ago. Elle had gone to rehab a couple of times but was finally doing really well. She doesn't dance anymore but she's really happy now with her family out of the city. It was nice to hear."
Finally lifting his head from where it fell to stare at his hands, Harry looked at her with tight features. He tried his best to give a smile, but it turned out stoney at best. Completely stiff and hollow.
"That's it," he concluded, his shoulders slumping as he looked towards his feet, "'M sure it's different than what you've heard, but I hope 's a better story."
His voice was deceptively light, lilting without the weight of what was hanging between them. The headache (Y/N) thought she had left behind the previous day was making a steep return, centered right behind her eyes.
She moved cautiously to lay her head on his shoulder with her eyes shuttering closed. The light traces of his signature cologne permeated the air around them, taking her back to the theater. While she had so many memories centered around the boards of the stage, leaping and twirling to the most magical of stories, Harry's were always edged with something else. How he could be so involved with the company even after everything, she couldn't believe it.
"I'm so sorry, Harry."
Shifting at her side, he drew her in that much more to his warmth. He opened his side up for her to envelope herself into him with his arm pressed against her back, palm flat against the sofa cushion behind her. She could feel the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed.
"'S alright, (Y/N). It happened a long time ago." His voice was low and rumbling, that lilt from before gone. There was no reason to feign levity now.
"No," she protested, a pinch forming between her brows, "It's not fair. The kind of stories people are telling after you went through something bad enough already. You're being blamed for everything, and it's not fair. I'm sorry."
Harry paused, moving hesitantly until his cheek was pressed to the top of her head and his arm shifted until he had it looped around her waist. "I—um—I know she made her own choices and she wasn't ever going to get better until she wanted to. It was hard for a while at the beginning, feeling like I should have done more for her. So, when I started hearing some of the rumors and stories people were telling, I... I didn't have it in me to deny any of it. No one seems to know what was actually going on with her either, and I didn't want to be the one to put her business out there for people she didn't want to know.
"It's easier not to correct anyone, even if I know 's not the truth."
There was a lightness to the way he spoke now. Not so much as light-heartedness or any kind of amusement reaching him, but there was something missing from him. Something heavy that no longer tugged him down like an anchor.
Everything seemed that much easier for him.
"I'm sorry you felt like you couldn't defend yourself, Harry," she murmured, pulling her head away from the bed of his shoulder only to take him into her own arms. Arms looped around his middle, Harry stiffened for a split second at her touch. She could feel his eyes on her for a lingering moment before relenting to the give of her touch. He let her tuck herself into his chest, the crook of his neck now occupied with her face. His own arms were a tight cage around her, hands splayed against the planes of her back, the hold just tight enough for his fingertips to leave small dents in her flesh.
"You're a good person, Harry," she murmured.
A heavy silence settled around them, punctuated only by the feel of his lips pressing into her hair.
"Thank you," he whispered, voice thin and rocky, "Y'don't know what 's been like to be able to enjoy ballet again." His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "To enjoy everything again. With you."
(Y/N) squeezed him tighter.
—————
the butterfly is a classic character in the ballet, le papillon
ty sm for reading! so sorry for any mistakes but id love to hear how you think the next and final part w go now that we know h!
prompt: harry styles drops a new album. the surprise single is a song about y/n y/l/n.
in this: angst, yearning?, zarry love triangle?, 5hsosmix references for fun
this is definitely just part one :) more coming, pls lmk what u think
it was unfortunate having harry styles as an ex-boyfriend.
it was brief, forgettable, complicated. really. completely utterly unexpected and childish. a summer thing. blink, and he was gone.
really—reaaaaaallly—you were over it.
that’s what you told yourself in bathrooms and back seats and long lines at airports where no one quite recognized you but everyone kind of looked twice.
that’s what you told everyone.
god. life was strange.
and new york was too busy, even for the busiest of minds.
you knew to leave when zayn started rambling about pennsylvania—about land and quiet and the way nothing asked anything of you out there. you didn’t want quiet. the australian boys never complained about los angeles, though there was so much to complain about. too much sun. too many cameras. too many distractions.
you kept in contact with some of them. not all. and never really at the same time. it felt safer that way—like keeping all your windows cracked instead of open. a text here. a like there. an “i’m proud of you” sent at 2 a.m. and never acknowledged again.
it was a simple routine. anxiety-ridden, sure, but not impossible. acting made it easy to steer conversations differently. you learned how to answer questions without answering them. how to smile like you were in on the joke even when you weren’t sure what the joke was. you had press training. and a therapist. so, life was different now.
everything was different.
different apartments. different hair. different friends who only knew the polite, sanded-down version of that summer. you dated, you didn’t date. you pretended you didn’t flinch when his name came up in interviews, in playlists, in grocery store speakers and car radios.
you didn’t keep the photos. therapist suggestion. and you never really had any use for them, anyway. if you ever needed proof—real, tangible, incriminating proof—of the two of you existing in the same space, smiling like idiots, you could find it in the corners of pinterest and google.
what took more time was everything else.
the messages. the letters. the gifts.
they were nice. fucking of course they were. well-written. academic, even. he loved references… footnotes in the margins of affection, little citations of poems you’d mentioned once, films you watched half-asleep on his couch. he knew all your favorite things. remembered them and was proud of himself for it. wrote them down like they were facts worth preserving. you felt bad about leaving them in some storage box in new york.
“that’s a waste of money. you could leave it at mine,” zayn pointed out over the telephone, voice crackly and distant, like he was pacing somewhere with bad reception. he was only four hours away, trapped in some strange part of vegas, but still, you cared for his company.
“your apartment doesn’t have extra room for storage,” he added. “could barely fit a cup of tea on that table. who moves to la for peace of mind, anyway?”
you huffed, nudging the coffee table with your foot. he wasn’t wrong. nothing fit. not furniture. not silence. not memories.
your friendship with zayn didn’t make much sense. you didn’t have much in common or see eye to eye on things. he disappeared when things got loud; you leaned into the noise until it swallowed you whole.
but you couldn’t help liking the fact that he and harry didn’t like each other. it was petty, maybe. childish. but comforting. a small, selfish sense of relief. you didn’t speak about him often, but it was nice knowing you could. and that you could be an asshole about it.
“i have a life here, zayn. you’d know if you had one,” you quip, smiling despite yourself. “plus, we’re set to start production after supergirl comes out…”
you trail off, gesturing vaguely at nothing. all these technical things kept you present, right in the middle of hollywood. call sheets. fittings. table reads. being lois lane. franchising. contracts that stretched five, seven, ten years into the future…
it was the hamster wheel of production—fast, relentless, impossible to step off without consequence.
no chance you were falling off.
it was the hollywood dream, after all.
“hold on,” you say, pulling away. “i’m getting a call.”
“right,” zayn hums. “call me before the residency’s up. i want to see you.”
your manager, lenny, hardly ever called when you were free from press and script obligations or cancellations.
“i’ll see you, z,” you hum.
you brace yourself before you answer.
he doesn’t say hello.
“the song,” lenny blurts, breathless. “the surprise single. it—it’s your name.”
your mouth goes dry in a way that feels dramatic even to you.
“what?” you ask, stupidly.
“it’s directly about you,” he continues, words tumbling over each other. “talking about missing you. wanting you back. references to your movies and—” a pause. “it’s very public.”
“what the fuck?”
who releases a single on a fucking tuesday?
everything about it is irritating immediately.
“we were barely in a public relationship,” you point out, already pacing. then, because irritation loves company, “we were barely in a relationship. you know he told jade we were just friends?”
“well, if it’s any comfort, he calls you his best friend and his lover in this. so that’s sweet.”
is it?
you stop walking and stare at your reflection in the microwave door. you look fine. really normal, in fact. as if you weren’t someone whose life is not about to become a tiktok think piece.
you want to strangle him. not harry—lenny, maybe. no. harry. definitely harry.
this would get in the way of your entire life, and he knew that. he knew you’d see it and that you’d mind. he knew it would follow you into press junkets and late-night couches and “lightning round” questions meant to feel spontaneous and fun and silly.
so, that song—
he knew you wouldn’t have answers unless someone called. unless someone swept through their contact list and unblocked the other.
it wouldn’t be you.
that part almost makes you laugh.
of course it wouldn’t be you. you are a real adult with a color-coded calendar. you have a franchise to protect. you have contracts with clauses and media training waiting at every turn.
you do not impulsively respond to public longing set to guitar.
he does, though.
he has to.
you picture him in a studio somewhere, earnest and open-throated, thinking this is romantic. thinking this is brave. thinking this is a love letter.
he’s likely sitting there nodding at himself, convinced he’s done the mature thing. the evolved thing. the artistically pure thing.
your anger flares.
you can almost hear him explaining it—soft voice, thoughtful pause, hands gesturing and those perfect fucking eyes.
it just felt honest. i didn’t want to hide it. sometimes you have to be vulnerable, y’know?
he couldn’t say something vague and classy that lets you pretend this mess wasn’t related to you?
no—he had to be clear. efficient.
your phone buzzes almost immediately. then again. then again. a text from your publicist. a missed call from your agent. three messages from people you haven’t spoken to in weeks and another three from ones you haven’t seen in years.
“i’m not calling him,” you say out loud, though nobody had asked you to.
lenny laughs, a bit entertained. “it’s undoubtedly strange. i could have someone here reach out to his team—”
“no.” you say, adamant. “this has nothing to do with us.”
“it’s only your first name,” lenny jokes.
“every one has a name,” you try to contest. ouch. you’ll have to iron that put in media training.
lenny laughs, a little entertained despite himself. “it’s undoubtedly strange. i could have someone here reach out to his team—”
you began to think technically. “if it helps, i won’t really be in the public eye for a while. there’s a gap, and when i am back everyone seems way more excited about the dc things anyway.”
“i’ll send you his new number.”
you close your eyes. it always changes. over the years you learned that the hard way—blocking and avoiding strange new voicemails, unfamiliar area codes, texts that start polite and end too familiar. you blocked him on instagram. muted his name where you could. you don’t see him anywhere but headlines and the radio now.
he is longggggg gone.
or he was.
“i don’t need it, len.”
“no,” he agrees easily. then, after a beat, “but someday, you might want it.”
. . .
going to zayn’s vegas shows was a low blow. you knew that.
you didn’t pretend otherwise. you booked everything with a kind of calm that only comes from bad intentions wholly and 100% accepted. whatever it was harry wanted from you, he wasn’t going to get it.
it was a little mean, dragging zayn into it. you could admit that. but it was also stupidly entertaining, and zayn, to your mild surprise, embraced it. zayn sang like nothing was wrong. like everything was fine. you clapped. you laughed. you let yourself be seen.
at first he was cautious. asked all the real questions. worried and tracked the emotional aspect, about whether it would reopen things he’d worked hard to bury. he never liked squabbling, especially over small things like a song or a tweet or a girl.
these things had nothing to do with him.
but part of him missed the old way.
the mess. the petulance. the way people used to fight in public and mean it. and seeing as they were brothers—were always going to be brothers—he assumed no real harm done.
play stupid games, win stupid prizes. he said with a shrug, a rush of the younger, more carefree version of him washing in for a brief moment. it was fair. harry got his song. zayn got his spectacle.
and the media lost its mind. completely, cartoonishly out of control.
if harry wanted to be the innocent, sweet prince the world loved, he certainly got it. always the tortured artist. the wounded romantic. writing songs about lost love and youthful ignorance.
you knew to turn off your notifications but couldn’t help it. your name looked different everywhere. somehow it only sounded gentle in your ex’s mouth. even you had a knee-jerk reaction to it now. fucking everyone had something to say.
you needed a walk. a break. a change of temperature.
you stepped into the hotel hallway like a lost teenager, stupid board games swinging from your hand, already regretting it.
another difference between you and mr bradford: you hated vegas.
you had absolutely no interest in gambling or specialty foods or water fountains, so there wasn’t anything calling out to you here but zayn. despite the time of night, you hoped he’d stay up for a bit of fun.
it was dark. not unlit, just dim in a way that made distance feel longer. the energy in this city was sharp, electric, always asking for something.
you never liked vegas. zayn never liked board games. an even exchange.
harry answers the door.
harry.
not zayn. not an assistant. not anyone neutral enough to buffer this.
harry.
barefoot, leaning slightly into the doorframe like he’s been there a while. he’s changed since the hallway. showered. hair still damp, curls looser, less intentional, which somehow makes it worse. black t-shirt, soft and worn, sleeves pushed up just enough to show his forearms. rings back on.
familiar. disarming. super fucking annoying.
he looks surprised to see you. genuinely.
then something else slips in behind it—interest, relief, something complicated and unexpected.
you shift the boxes higher in your grip like armor.
harry’s eyes flick to them. then back to your face.
“board games,” he says, lightly.
“don’t,” you warn, immediately defensive.
harry smiles despite himself. it fades when he realizes you’re serious.
“i didn’t know you were coming up,” he says.
“i didn’t know you were answering the door,” you shoot back.
his eyes drop to the box. then back to your face. the corner of his mouth twitches.
“he’s asleep,” harry says. “completely out. wouldn’t wake for a fire alarm.”
“oh.” you should’ve expected that. “he said he was tired, but—”
“show wiped him,” harry adds quickly. “he barely made it to the bed.”
you nod, awkward. fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. how long has he fucking been here?
harry shifts, leaning more fully into the doorframe, but he doesn’t block you. doesn’t invite you in either.
“winds are bad,” he explains, unnecessarily. “la keeps cancelling flights. i’m stuck.”
that part made sense. but the rest of it didn’t.
“you chose to stay with zayn?”
harry lifts a brow, slow and deliberate. there’s something maddeningly handsome about the way he does it, like he knows the effect and is bored by it.
“well,” he says lightly, “he was my friend first.”
“well, he’s my friend now—”
“since when did that become a thing?”
“i—”
you stall. it annoys you that you don’t have an answer ready. it happened somewhere between harry’s disappearance and zayn’s rebellion. between tours and divorces and complications and changes.
zayn had changed. he’d been brighter after the breakup. reckless in a way that felt earned. aspirational, even. like someone who’d survived something and decided to celebrate instead of sulk. you’d liked that version of him. maybe more than you’d meant to.
harry watches you, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. he notices your pause. he always does.
“i always forget,” he murmurs, “how unpredictable he can be.”
you bristle.
“i’m not accusing you,” he adds, too fast. then, after a beat, “i don’t think.”
well, that’s too bad.
“did you know i’d be here?”
“i had an idea,” harry says. calm. almost gentle. he’s always been good at this: letting things stretch, letting other people unravel first. patience was his goddamn superpower. “just didn’t know how long you’d stay.”
“could’ve asked zayn,” you point out.
“could’ve,” he agrees easily. “but we’ve got more important things to talk about than you.”
it lands exactly where he intends it to. a clean, deliberate nick to your ego. it works, but you don’t give him the satisfaction. your expression stays clean. neutral.
his green eyes wash over you again—too slow to be polite. too familiar to be innocent.
“i’m guessing you heard the song,” he says.
“i heard of it,” you correct.
“semantics,” harry hums. “but i’ll take it.”
harry already has the world. whatever the song does or doesn’t do, it won’t be because of you.
sunrise slides through the open windows, pale and careful, settling on his uneven skin. it finds the familiar places first—his cheekbones, the line of his jaw, the tired shadows under his eyes he used to joke about when you’d both been up too late, talking in half-sentences on uncomfortable hotel beds. he looks worn now. not broken. just older in a way rest doesn’t seem to satiate.
after all this time, you still can’t help but stare.
“i’m sure it’ll do great,” you say finally.
his smile comes slowly, a small tilt of the mouth you’ve seen a thousand times.
“you think?” he says.
the sun climbs higher, filling the space between you with light and old warmth. neither of you reach out. neither of you leave.
lauren and jade had told you a million times. then a million more after his sudden, inconvenient re-emergence back into your life. everything about harry was a bad idea. anyone who could abandon someone like that—so suddenly, so cruelly, so quietly—was trouble.
he was either completely senseless or a goddamn war strategist.
you’ve always believed it was the latter.
harry liked pressure points. he liked watching people squirm. he liked watching a room shift because of all he didn’t say. even back then. especially back then. now it was hollywood he was needling, pushing, daring to react. the spectacle of it all. it had nothing to do with you.
the harry you knew—really knew—was never careless. he was the boy who stayed up too late reading interviews with writers he admired, underlining sentences in library books he never checked out. the one who listened more than he spoke, who asked questions that lingered. the one who loved small rituals: coffee the same way every morning, notes scribbled in the margins of lyrics, socks folded into neat little squares.
you remember how he used to sit cross-legged on the floor, guitar resting against his knee, playing the same progression over and over until it felt right. how he’d stop mid-song to ask, “does that sound like a lie? does that feel real to you?”
you think of nights on the floor, his guitar out of tune because he kept rewinding and rewriting and recording. messy hair, cold takeout you both forgot about, dog-eared books splayed open beside you, stupid gossip.
the world had been small. ordinary. yours.
“who are you staying with?” harry asks suddenly.
he looks at you as he says it, then almost smiles at himself, like he knows it’s none of his business and went on anyway. “you always hated vegas,” he adds, softer. “used to take hours to convince you to come anywhere near here.”
you shrug, a small movement. “i don’t live that far anymore.”
he breaks eye contact, runs a hand through his hair.
"is that really all it takes?"
you watch him carefully. you keep the eye contact. the glare.
“distance was never the problem,” you say.
harry’s eyes drop to the floor, then lift again. there’s something there—regret, maybe—but it’s too late and you’re done translating.
“i didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says.
you raise your eyebrows.
“i thought leaving would make it cleaner,” harry continues, slow, careful, almost practiced. “like ripping off a bandage.”
you laugh softly. not amused. you step back, the moment loosening its hold. right now wasn’t time for this. you were almost completely sure there was never a right time for this. there were good, real things waiting for you back home. good, real things that had nothing to do with harry styles.
“i’m not that person anymore,” harry says quickly. desperately.
“take care of yourself,” you say, and mean it.
his mouth opens, like he might say your name. he doesn’t.
you turn and walk away before nostalgia can talk you into staying. before the room can warm any further.
