harry has to walk his drunk girlfriend home after girls night, but is that even his girlfriend?
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Harry swore he could have spotted (Y/N) from a mile away, even without the liquid shimmer of her dress wrapped around her form. Despite the glow of the neon lights over the entire sidewalk with the club name displayed in all caps, she still outshone every person still waiting in line to get in, the grouping of others on standby for their ride shares, and her group of friends that had been so gracious as to let him know that she was ready to go home and much too tipsy (read: drunk) to walk herself home despite her insistences.
Only when he made it close enough to hear the soft echoes of laughter and drunken conversation, sparkling heels clicking against pavement, was he spotted. It was almost heartbreaking to watch the way her jaw dropped in grinning surprise. He could feel his own lips stretching into a dimpled smile, though he attempted to temper the reaction when her grouping of friends followed her line of sight to catch his approach.
"Harry!" she bubbled, closing the distance between them on wobbly legs. Despite the even, obstacle-free length of the sidewalk, she still found something to catch under her heel to send her right into his arms.
"Woah," Harry laughed, wrapping a steadying arm around her waist with their chests now pressed flush together. Swathes of bare skin displayed by the heart-shaped cutouts stations on either side of her waist allowed him to graze his fingertips over the warmth of her. The candied raspberry liquor on her breath was especially sweet with the way her eyes sparkled up at him. "Hey, you."
"Hey yourself," she giggled, unperturbed by the lack of distance between them, "What are you doing here?" Her eyes momentarily widened as her arms clumsily looped around his neck. "Oh my god, did you come here to dance with us? 'M so sorry, H—we're just getting ready to leave!"
The silky material that made up her dress in between the sweetheart cutouts fluttered around her thighs as a faint breeze glanced between them. Goosebumps erupted over her skin though her moony eyes didn't so much as flick away from his.
"'M actually here to take y'home, love. Tara called me, said y'were trying to walk home all by yourself," he explained, tipping his head to the side only for her to mimic the movement without a thought.
"Tara called you?" she asked, voice suddenly quiet, heels teetering underneath her. "How'd she get your number?"
A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Y'called her from m'phone the last time y'stayed the weekend with me, remember? When y'didn't have service, but y'wanted to see if she'd watered your plants?"
Harry wasn't prepared for the way she practically went boneless in his arms. Her eyes went from moony to completely dreamy as she gazed up at him, her arms around his neck now shifted to card her fingers through his hair, nails drifting over his scalp.
"Oh yeah, huh," she smiled, just barely containing a giggle just short of being described as girlish, "We should have a sleepover again soon."
"Yeah?" Harry prodded, unable to help himself as he raised a single brow, dimples denting his cheeks, "Y'wanna? Y'have a crush on me or something?"
This time she really did giggle, pitched and sticky sweet, before diving into his neck in a clinging hug. Stumbling some on his own feet, Harry let out a puff of laughter before steadying the both of them, hands warm and heavy on her waist.
She was going to have a hell of a hangover tomorrow. Hopefully she'd had all the fun she wanted tonight to make it worth it.
Tara, dressed sleek and dark in a velveteen black dress, approached then. Her own eyes were glossy though they held much more clarity than the girl who was currently hanging off of him.
"Thanks for coming," she smiled, words only a tad slurred and slower than normal, "She's—Yeah, you see. There's no way she can go home by herself."
Another short breeze skimmed over the pavement, Harry bringing his hand down to his giggly girl's skirt to keep it pinned to the back of her thighs. A quiet hiccup sounded against his neck.
"No way," Harry agreed, speaking through his smile, "Thanks for calling me. Y'guys all have a way to get home?"
Tara glanced over her shoulder to the small grouping of the other girls who were half-watching the interaction. Harry was sure there had been an audience from the first moment (Y/N) had stumbled into his arms.
"Yeah; Gena's boyfriend's picking her up and then the rest of us are sharing an Uber," Tara rattled off, casting her eyes out to the street. "But, you two are good to start home whenever you're ready."
"Wait," (Y/N) suddenly chirped, pulling her head from where she had burrowed herself away in Harry's neck, "I didn't pack for a sleepover. I don't have any of my stuff, and I can't sleep in my dress."—her eyes abruptly widened, fingers tightening in his hair—"Oh my god, I cannot sleep in my makeup. I can't go home with you, H."
Tara just managed to stifle a laugh behind pursed lips. "Goodnight, guys. Text me when you make it home—whoever's home you get to," she teased, almost cracking herself into laughter.
Momentarily distracted, (Y/N) twirled away from Harry, though he made a point to keep his hands on her waist when she almost toppled face-first into the concrete before getting to hug her friend goodbye with coos of how much she loves her and how much fun she had.
Not long after she sent a tinkling wave to the rest of her friends did she spin again, back into Harry's chest. The lightness she had shared with her friends had fled as soon as she matched his gaze, canting her head with a puffed pout to her lips.
"Harry," she all but whined about the syllables, "I can't go home with you."
The pads of his thumbs ran careful, hopefully soothing circles, on the exposed skin framed by the heart cutouts of her dress. "Then, can I come home with you?"
This had been the original plan anyway, but she didn't need to worry about that right now.
She perked up at the offer, glittery lashes fluttering against her browbone. "You'd have a sleepover at my house?"
A lopsided smile took over his features. "If you'll let me."
An eager nod of her head threw her tousled hair over her shoulders before she pulled Harry in for another hug. "Yes, yes, yes," she practically cheered, "Of course, I'll let you."
"Thank you, love," he murmured, dropping a careful kiss on the line of her jaw just before drawing away from her embrace. "Let's head home then, 'kay? 'S getting a little cold, isn't it?"
"It is, huh?" she bubbled, taking it upon herself to tuck herself under his arm and right up against his side. "Has it been cold the whole time out here, or have I been too drunk to notice until now? You can be honest, it's okay."
Harry didn't even try to hold back the burst of laughter that left him at her words. His volunteered arm around her shoulders tightened, leading them away from the small club and towards her home. "I think you've been a little too drunk to notice until now, but 's alright, love. Y'had fun tonight, right?"
"So much fun," she sighed, steps slowing into lazy stumbles as she reminisced about times only hours earlier. "Those girls are my best friends, it's crazy, you know?"
The amusement on his features melted into pure affection as he glanced down at her. "'M happy y'had fun—especially with them. Are y'gonna see them again soon?"
"Maybe, I don't know," she drawled, "I think we made plans, but I really can't remember. There'll probably be something in the group chat tomorrow, maybe."
"Well, let me know, and I can plan on dropping y'off and picking y'up. That way y'don't have to worry about figuring out how you're getting home or packing to stay at my house, or anything like that."
She had her eyes trained on him only as he gently steered her out of the way of a murky puddle, the kind that would have no doubt ruined her shoes. Her starry eyes were on him only as she fluttered a blink up at him, just about making Harry forget which street to turn them down to head them down to her apartment.
"Okay," she sighed, "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
Did she even know that a pink glitter from her dress had somehow ended up on the tip of her nose? And that it was possibly the sweetest thing he'd ever seen?
"And promise me you'll be honest."
One corner of his mouth quirked up. A sly glance was sent her direction from the corner of his eye.
"Okay. I can be honest."
She coiled her fist in the fabric of his shirt, anchoring herself to him—as if there was anywhere he was going to be that wasn't right here.
"If I ask you to be my boyfriend, would you say yes?"
In his heart, Harry knew that the right reaction was not to laugh. Not to let his grin stretch wide enough over his lips that his eyes creased, lashes tangled, dimples deepened. That his chest could ache from the lack of air in his lungs. That was far from the right reaction to a question like that, Harry knew that.
And yet.
At his side, despite the fact he hadn't slowed his own steps, the girl at his side significantly stalled. She still had her fist tucked into his shirt, his arm around her shoulder, but was not as enthusiastic to keep up with his pace as before.
Stifling back any more chuckles, Harry looked down to his girl, tightening his arm around her shoulders before he dropped it to her waist. He corralled her in, looping her closer to his side and closing the distance that had opened with her slowed gait.
"Love, 'm sorry, 'm sorry," he started pleading. Though, he could admit that he may not be the most convincing given the fact that he was saying all of this through an amused grin. "I didn't mean to laugh, I promise."
"Then why did you? I wasn't trying to be funny, Harry."
At the sound of her wavering voice, Harry immediately sobered. This wasn't so funny now that she wasn't so much as pouting as she was pursing her lips to keep her chin from wobbling, that her fluttery lashes weren't something cute and flirty, but a technique to keep her tears at bay. The pretty, glossy sheen over her eyes wasn't the stars descending to her irises, but her hurt feelings coming to the surface.
"Hey," he started, pausing their journey home to tuck her out of the way and into an alcove between two late night restaurants. "Hey, 'm sorry, love. I didn't mean to, really. I wasn't laughing because—like... I don't think the idea of being your boyfriend is funny, I jus' thought your question was funny because...I already thought I was your boyfriend, love."
That wobbly bottom lip dropped, leaving (Y/N)'s mouth open in awed shock, brows pinched. Glossy eyes remained, though more from the alcohol than the tears that were now wading away.
"Huh?"
A gentle smile spread over his lips. A hand that had made a home over her waist drifted up to cradle her cheek, the pad of his thumb resting on the height of her cheekbone, the very tip feeling the tickle of her eyelashes.
"Remember?" he prompted, "I asked you a week ago. With all those roses, and the strawberries in the shape of a heart after dinner? It was Valentine's Day, baby."
Harry watched the moment that the memory returned to her. He got to see in real time as she relived the moment she had teased him, calling him "lame" as if she didn't have this same glossy sheen over her eyes though it was definitely from tears back then, before covering his face in kisses.
Does this mean yes? he'd said when he'd had a chance to come up for air.
What do you think? she'd said back, kiss swollen lips and moony eyes, You did all this just to ask me to be your girlfriend, of course I'm saying yes.
She'd spent a long weekend at his house then. Tara was on plant duty.
"Oh," she sounded, "Oh, yeah. Oh my god, I'm sorry. I'm way drunker than I thought."
"A little bit," Harry laughed, this time only a puff of air shaped by his smile. "'S alright, baby. No tears, yeah."
"No tears," she agreed, pliantly nodding, "I'm sorry I got upset—I can't believe I forgot all of that."
"But y'remember now, right?"
"I do," she nodded, a sweet smile on her lips, "I really, really do. Best weekend ever." She let out a dreamy sigh only for her features to melt into something sweetly distressed. "I'm going to be really sick in the morning, huh?"
"Probably," Harry deigned, unable to bite back his smile, "But I'll make sure y'have water and some medicine, and I'll hold your hair back."
Starry eyes, sweet smile, fluttery lashes were all trained up at him as Harry held her cheek in his warm palm. Her hand on his chest flexed, right over his beating heart, the pumps surely beating out the syllables of her name.
"Best boyfriend ever."
Harry could only manage to press a kiss to the tip of her nose—right over that pink glitter.
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I wrote this over a week but in a collective of like an hour and a half so I fear this may be rough but I really wanted to just get something out since its been so long since ive even written anything and I wanted to just try! thank u sm for reading, sorry for any mistakes, and if you have any ideas or anything u want to send please send them in!
You became his sugar baby to survive, but Harry’s possessiveness soon turns into something softer. The black card pays the bills, but it’s the unexpected love that threatens to ruin you both.
A/N: So happy you're all excited for chapter four! BUT, please remember I’m a med student with night shifts. Last night was beyond busy, just two of us on the service, so I came home, crashed, and literally just woke up after sleeping all day. Thank you for understanding!
Also, a quick reminder: I will be posting ALL THE CHAPTERS HERE.
Rating: Explicit. 🔞 content. reader discretion is advised.
Slicing through the gaps in the blackout curtains like a knife, the sharp, aggressive Saturday morning grey hit Harry straight in the eyes. Flinching, he buried his face in the leather cushion of the sofa, but the movement only sent a jackhammer of pain through his skull, a throbbing reminder of the bottle of scotch currently sitting empty on the bar.
He hadn't made it to bed. He hadn't even made it up the stairs. Instead, he had passed out right here, fully dressed, legs tangled in the throw blanket and cheek pressed against the cold leather.
Groaning, Harry pushed himself up to a sitting position, mouth tasting of stale alcohol and regret. His shirt, the black silk one she had grabbed, the one she used to pull him close, hung off his frame like a shroud, wrinkled and unbuttoned.
He blinked, waiting for the room to stop spinning. Once it finally settled, the carnage came into focus.
Last night, in the dark, the shattered crystal had looked dramatic. In the cold light of day, it just looked like a mess.
Thousands of shards of antique glass glittered innocently across the hardwood floor. The heavy crystal bowl, an eighteenth-century piece bought at auction for the price of a small car, was now just expensive dust. On the far wall, a gouge in the plaster marked the point of impact, a white scar against the grey paint.
Harry stared at it and felt nothing. No relief. No catharsis. Just a dull, hollow ache in the center of his chest that had nothing to do with the hangover.
Glancing at his right palm, he saw a dried line of dark red blood cutting across his lifeline where a shard had sliced him. He flexed the hand, letting the skin pull tight. It stung. Good.
Click.
The heavy turn of the deadbolt.
Harry stiffened. For a fraction of a second, his heart leaped, maybe she came back. Maybe she realized she forgot something.
The door slid open. But it wasn't Y/N.
It was Mrs. Higgins, his Saturday housekeeper. A stout, no-nonsense woman who had cleaned up after his parties for a decade without blinking an eye, she stepped in carrying her caddy of supplies only to stop dead.
"Good morning Mr. Styles. I..."
Her voice trailed off. Her eyes swept over the floor, taking in the twenty-foot radius of shattered glass and the overturned papers on the coffee table before finally landing on Harry. He sat there disheveled and bleeding, looking like a deposed king.
Her eyes widened. "Oh my god. Sir? Are you alright?"
"I am fine," Harry croaked. His voice was ruined. Clearing his throat, he stood up, swaying slightly. "I am fine, Mrs. Higgins. Just a mishap."
"A mishap?" She bustled forward, setting her caddy down with a clatter. "It looks like a war zone in here. Did someone break in? Should I call security?"
"No," Harry snapped. The volume hurt his own head, so he lowered his voice. "No one broke in. I dropped a bowl. That is all."
"You dropped a bowl," she repeated, eyeing the debris field that clearly indicated the bowl had been thrown with the velocity of a missile.
She didn't argue. She knew better. Sighing the sigh of a woman paid very well to deal with rich men's tantrums, she reached for the broom on her cart.
"Well, go get yourself some coffee, sir. I will have this cleared up in a jiffy. You do not want to step on this barefoot."
As she began to sweep, the sound of stiff bristles dragging glass across wood, scrape, scrape, clink, sent a sudden, irrational surge of panic through him.
She was erasing it.
She was sweeping up the violence, cleaning away the evidence of the only real emotion that had happened in this room in months. If she cleaned it up, the room would return to being perfect. It would go back to being a museum. And if it was a museum, then Y/N had never really been here at all.
Mrs. Higgins swept a pile of glass toward the coffee table, reaching down to pick up the scattered papers, the contract.
"Leave it," Harry barked.
Mrs. Higgins froze, hand hovering over the document. "Sir?"
"Do not touch the papers," Harry said, stepping forward and ignoring the glass crunching under his boots. "And do not sweep under the sofa."
Mrs. Higgins looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Sir, there is glass everywhere. It surely skittered under there."
"I said don't." His voice was low, cold, and leaving no room for argument.
He knew what lay hidden in the dust bunnies under the sofa, the brass key. He had knocked it there last night in his rage. If Mrs. Higgins swept under there, she would find it, pick it up, and place it on the hook by the door. She would treat it like a common object.
But it wasn't a common object. It was the only thing Y/N had left behind. It was the heavy, tangible proof that she had chosen to walk away, a shrine to his failure. He couldn't bear the thought of anyone else touching it.
"Clean the open floor," Harry commanded, running a hand through his messy hair. "Leave the area around the sofa. Leave the papers. Leave the table."
"Mr. Styles, I cannot leave a pile of broken glass in the middle of your..."
"You can if I pay you to," Harry cut her off. Pulling his wallet out of his back pocket, uncomfortable after sleeping on it, he extracted three fifty-pound notes and dropped them onto her cart. "Clean the kitchen. Clean the bathrooms. Change the sheets. Do not touch this room."
Mrs. Higgins looked at the money, then at Harry’s bloodshot eyes. She nodded slowly.
"As you wish, sir."
Taking her broom, she retreated to the kitchen.
Harry stood alone in the center of the living room, looking down at the contract splayed open on the table like a dead bird. He looked at the spot under the sofa where the key was hiding in the dark.
A wave of nausea rolled over him. He was safe. He had done it. He had successfully driven her away, protected her reputation, and secured her future. He had won.
Walking over to the bar, he picked up the empty bottle of scotch and dropped it into the recycling bin.
Clank.
He needed a shower. He needed a shave. He needed to go to the office and make a million pounds to remind himself that he was Harry Styles and that he didn't need anyone.
He turned his back on the mess and walked toward the stairs. But as he climbed, his hand brushing the railing where hers used to rest, he realized with a sinking horror that the silence in the house wasn't empty.
It was screaming.
The smell hit her first.
It wasn't the rich scent of expensive leather or the crisp fragrance of eucalyptus. It was the damp, cloying odor of wet towels and burnt toast, underpinned by the chemical tang of Lynx body spray.
Y/N rolled over in the narrow single bed, wincing as the springs screamed in protest. A sharp, metallic grating that tore her from restless sleep.
Staring up at the ceiling, she traced the familiar water stain in the corner, a map of a nonexistent country. Above it, a spiderweb swayed gently in the draft from the window that refused to close.
It had been two weeks.
Two weeks since she had dropped the heavy brass key on the glass table. Two weeks since she had walked out of the elevator.
For six months, her life had been a tale of two cities: Monday to Thursday, a student in a shoebox. Friday to Sunday, a princess in a Mayfair castle. Now the castle was gone, leaving only the girl in the shoebox.
A crash from the kitchen, followed by a burst of raucous laughter, shattered the quiet.
"Oi! You stepped on my charger!"
"Mate, watch where you are going!"
Josh. Her roommate.
At twenty-three, Josh was perfectly nice. He was studying sports management and possessed the energy of a golden retriever that had just consumed an espresso. And Y/N hated him.
She hated herself for it, knowing it was unfair. But every time Josh laughed at the television at 8 AM or left his sneakers in the middle of the hallway, a physical tightness constricted her chest.
God, she missed the silence.
She missed the fortress-like solitude of the townhouse. She missed the way Harry moved through a room like he owned the air inside it. Harry didn't leave sneakers in the hallway. Harry didn't yell about chargers. Harry was a man. Josh was a boy.
Dragging herself out of bed onto creaking floorboards, she shuffled down the narrow hallway to the bathroom. The tiles were cracked and cold under her feet.
She turned on the shower, waiting as the pipes groaned before spitting out a stream of lukewarm water. The pressure was pathetic, barely enough to wash the soap off her skin. Standing under the drizzle, she closed her eyes, trying to conjure the memory of the rainfall showerhead, the steam, the heated towel rack.
She had walked away from it. She had chosen the sticky floors and the freedom. But freedom, it turned out, felt a lot like being cold and tired.
Half an hour later, she sat at the wobbly kitchen table, her laptop screen the brightest thing in the room.
Josh walked in, wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a t-shirt that read Beer Me.
"Morning Y/N," he chirped, opening the fridge to swig milk directly from the carton.
A wave of irrational nausea rolled over her.
"Morning Josh," she mumbled.
"You look rough," he noted helpfully, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Rough night?"
"Something like that."
"You should come out with us tonight. Me and the boys are going to Wetherspoons. Pitchers are two for one."
"I am busy," Y/N lied.
"Suit yourself. More cheap booze for me." Grabbing a slice of toast, he wandered back to his room.
Y/N turned her attention back to the screen.
Thank you for your interest in the Assistant Editor position. Unfortunately, we have decided to move forward with other candidates. We wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
The rejections were piling up. Despite the honors degree and the dissertation praised by her professors, the real world saw her as just another twenty-two-year-old with zero experience and no connections.
Harry could have made a call.
The thought intruded before she could stop it. Harry knew everyone. One word from him, and she would be sitting in an office at Bloomsbury right now. He would have handled it. He would have smoothed the path.
Opening her banking app, she stared at the number on the screen.
It was large. Six months of allowance saved diligently. It was enough to pay rent in this dump for two years, to buy a new wardrobe, or to book a holiday to Bali.
She hadn't spent a penny of it. Once a high score, a safety net, it now felt like a bomb.
It was the only thing keeping her alive. She had quit the café to focus on finals because Harry had told her to. Focus on your studies, he had said. Let me handle the finances. So she had.
Now she was unemployed, relying on the money of a man she had dumped. Every time she bought a carton of milk or paid the electric bill, she felt like she was stealing. It was blood money, and she was terrified of the day it would run out.
Closing the app, she looked around the messy kitchen. The sink was full of grey water and Josh’s cereal bowls; the window looked out onto a brick wall and a row of overflowing bins.
This was reality. This was the "normal" life she had screamed at Harry that she wanted.
She wanted to cry.
She wanted to call him. She wanted to tell him that she was sorry, that the light he talked about was actually just fluorescent and flickering, and that she missed his darkness. She missed his protection.
Harry hadn't just been a lover. He had been a shield, standing between her and the ugly, difficult parts of the world. Now the shield was gone, and she was exposed.
Y/N picked up her phone again, opening their message thread. The last text was from April.
I am not hungry.
Her thumb hovered over the text box.
I miss you. I made a mistake. Please come get me.
She typed the words out, staring at them. They looked pathetic. They looked like defeat.
She erased them.
Placing the phone face down on the table, she took a sip of the bitter black coffee. She hadn't bought milk because she was too scared to dip into the savings for luxuries.
She had made her choice. Now she had to live with it, even if living with it meant watching Josh drink from the carton while her heart broke a little more every single day.
The restaurant was quiet. The kind of quiet that cost three hundred pounds a head.
The air smelled of truffles and old money. In the corner, a harpist plucked at something unrecognizable while waiters moved like ghosts across the plush carpet, terrified of disturbing the peace.
Harry sat at the best table in the house, wearing a Tom Ford suit that fit like armor. He had shaved, styled his hair, and curated an appearance worthy of a Forbes cover.
Across from him sat Victoria.
Victoria was perfect. Forty-two years old, the daughter of a Viscount, and the ex-wife of a hedge fund manager, she was a study in elegance. Her blond hair was blow-dried into submission, her teeth were blindingly white, and her pearls were tasteful.
She was appropriate.
She was exactly the kind of woman a man in Harry’s tax bracket was supposed to be with, a partner whose presence at a board meeting signaled stability, a woman fluent in non-dom statuses and offshore accounts.
Harry wanted to scream.
"And then Charles said that the merger with the German firm was dragging on simply because of the unions," Victoria was saying, taking a delicate sip of her white wine. "Can you imagine? Holding up a billion-pound deal because of pension disputes. The working class is becoming so entitled."
She laughed, a light, tinkling sound like ice hitting glass.
Harry forced the corners of his mouth up. "Terrible."
"Exactly," she beamed. "So I told him to just liquidate the subsidiary and be done with it. It’s cleaner on the balance sheet."
She paused, looking at him expectantly. She was waiting for him to agree, to talk shop, to discuss the ruthless efficiency of capitalism.
"Liquidation is certainly efficient," Harry said, his voice sounding flat to his own ears.
"It is," she agreed. "Speaking of efficiency, I saw the quarterly reports for your firm. Your aggressive acquisition of that tech startup? Brilliant. Ruthless, but brilliant."
Harry picked up his wine glass and drank half of it in one swallow.
Looking at her, he acknowledged the facts: she was beautiful, smart, and successful. She spoke his language, the dialect of money, assets, and liquidity.
But she was suffocatingly boring.
His gaze drifted to her hands. Her nails were manicured in a pale, perfect pink.
Instead of admiring them, he remembered Y/N’s hands. He remembered the ink stain on her thumb from taking notes in the library, the way she gripped a pen like a weapon, the way she tapped her fingers on the dashboard when a song she liked came on the radio.
"Harry?"
He snapped his head up. Victoria was frowning slightly.
"I am sorry," Harry said. "I was miles away."
"I asked if you play tennis," she said. "The club has a mixed doubles tournament next month. I need a partner who can actually serve. My ex-husband had a wrist like a wet noodle."
"I don't play," Harry lied. He played very well, usually every Sunday with his banking friends.
"That is a shame," she pouted. "You have the build for it."
The waiter arrived with their appetizers: a single scallop sitting in a pool of foam.
Victoria looked at it with delight. "This looks divine. I love this chef. He keeps the portions so... manageable."
Harry looked at the scallop.
The memory hit him instantly: Y/N forcing him to eat a kebab at 2 AM on a street corner in Soho. The grease on her chin, her laughter when he dropped garlic sauce on his five-thousand-pound coat, her voice saying, It’s not food if you don’t need a napkin, Harry.
Victoria cut a tiny piece of the scallop and chewed slowly.
"So," she said. "I heard you’re looking into buying that property in the Cotswolds. The estate next to the Beckhams?"
"I am thinking about it," Harry said.
"You should," she nodded. "It’s a good investment. Land is the only thing that holds value these days. Besides, you need a place to escape the city. London is becoming so... crowded. Don't you think?"
She gestured vaguely to the window, to the streets below where normal people lived.
"Crowded," Harry repeated.
"Yes. Too much noise. Too much grit. I prefer the quiet."
Harry stared at her.
Y/N loved the grit. She loved the noise, the sticky floors, the mess of life. She made him feel alive because she dragged him into the crowd, not away from it.
Victoria was offering him a sterile, quiet, perfectly managed life where scallops were small, people were "manageable," and no one made bad decisions.
It felt like a coffin. It felt like death by small talk.
If this was the "appropriate" life he had sacrificed his happiness for, then he had made a terrible mistake. He didn't want the quiet estate in the Cotswolds. He wanted the argument. He wanted the passion. He wanted the girl who challenged him on literature and stole his t-shirts.
He could not do this. He could not sit here for another hour and pretend that he cared about property values or pension disputes.
Harry signaled the waiter.
"Check please," he said.
Victoria looked stunned. "Harry? We haven't even had the main course."
"I am not hungry," Harry said, pulling out his heavy titanium black card and dropping it on the table.
"Is something wrong?" Victoria asked, her smile faltering. "Did I say something?"
"No," Harry said. He stood up and buttoned his jacket. "You were perfect, Victoria. You were absolutely appropriate."
He looked down at her.
"That is the problem."
He didn't wait for the receipt. Turning on his heel, he walked past the harpist, past the maitre d', and out into the cool London night.
The air smelled of exhaust and rain. It smelled real.
He was alone, miserable, and definitely going to die in his big empty house with his millions in the bank. But at least he didn't have to talk about tennis.
The wifi in the flat was a test of patience, buffering constantly as Y/N sat on the bedroom floor.
She leaned against the radiator, hoarding its meager heat, wrapped in a crew neck sweatshirt she had stolen from Harry months ago. It no longer smelled of his expensive cologne or the unique warmth of his skin; now, it just smelled of her cheap laundry detergent.
With one final, agonizing refresh, the page loaded.
It was a grainy paparazzi shot taken from across the street, but the subject was unmistakable.
Harry.
He was walking out of that Mayfair restaurant with the three-month waiting list, wearing the charcoal suit she loved—the one with the silk lining. Even in low resolution, he looked devastating.
But he wasn't alone.
Beside him was a woman. Tall, blonde, and draped in a cream coat that likely cost more than Y/N’s entire student loan debt. She was laughing, head thrown back in an elegant display of joy.
Harry Styles, Chief Executive Officer, Vanguard Holdings, spotted dining with Victoria St. Clair, heiress to the St. Clair shipping fortune.
The caption was simple, yet it felt like a slap: New Power Couple?
A cold stone dropped into Y/N’s stomach.
It had been only three weeks.
Three weeks, and he was already out dining with heiresses, slipping back into the world of cream coats, pearls, and tax brackets that matched his own.
Victoria St. Clair looked perfect. She looked like someone who knew exactly which fork to use for the fish course and had never eaten instant noodles in her life. Y/N looked down at herself, sweatpants with a hole in the knee, toast for dinner, unemployed.
Zooming in on Harry’s face, she searched for a sign. He wasn't smiling. His expression was the unreadable mask he wore when closing a deal, but the context was clear. He was there. He was moving on.
She closed her laptop and pulled her knees to her chest, feeling incredibly, stupidly small. She had walked away to save herself, but looking at that photo, she realized she hadn't saved anything. She had just vacated the seat for someone who fit the mold.
Across the city, 9:00 PM found Harry still sitting in his office long after the cleaning crew had come and gone. Below him, the city lights of London sprawled like a circuit board, cold and distant.
He ignored the view. He ignored the merger documents on his desk. His attention was fixed solely on his computer screen.
A secure window was open. One requiring two-factor authentication and a biometric scan to access. It was the portal for his personal accounts. And hers.
He hadn't revoked his access. He told himself it was an oversight, a forgotten administrative task after the contract ended. But that was a lie.
He scanned the transaction history for Y/N’s account.
Tesco Metro - £12.50
TfL Oyster Top Up - £20.00
Pret a Manger - £3.50
Rent Payment (Theo Miller) - £600.00
Harry stared at the name. Theo Miller.
A flare of irrational, burning jealousy scorched through him. Who was Theo Miller? The landlord? A boyfriend? The guy with the nose ring from the pub?
He looked at the amount. Six hundred pounds. In London, that bought you a closet with mold on the walls and drafty windows.
Yet, the balance remained high. She hadn't touched the bulk of the allowance from the last six months. It just sat there, accumulating interest. She was living in a shoebox with some guy named Theo, eating Tesco meal deals while sitting on a small fortune.
Why? Why was she punishing herself?
Harry moved his mouse, hovering the cursor over the Transfer Funds button.
He could double it. Triple it. He could send enough right now to buy her a flat of her own, making her life easy again with a single click. His finger twitched over the mouse. He wanted to play the hero. He wanted to fix it, because throwing money at a problem was the only way he knew how to show love.
But then he remembered her voice.
I don't want a normal life! I want you!
She had rejected the money and the ease. Sending funds now wouldn't be a gift, it would be an insult. It would be a declaration that he didn't believe she could survive without him.
He couldn't do that to her. He had to respect her choice, even if watching her struggle felt like physical pain.
Closing the browser tab, the screen reverted to his generic landscape desktop background.
Swiveling his chair around, he faced the window and the city beyond. She was out there somewhere eating cheap food, living with Theo Miller, probably hating him. And he was up here in his glass tower, safe, rich, and completely empty.
He picked up his phone, scrolling past photos of potential real estate investments and art pieces until he stopped on a photo from six months ago.
It was accidental, blurry, taken in his kitchen on a Sunday morning. Y/N was wearing his t-shirt, laughing, her hand coming up to block the camera as the sun hit her hair. She looked happy.
Harry stared at the photo until the screen dimmed. He missed her so much it felt like bleeding out.
But he stayed in his tower, and he let her struggle. Because that was what she wanted.
The music wasn't just sound. It was a physical sensation. A relentless, thumping rhythm shook the floorboards and rattled the bottles on the bar, thickening the air with the smell of spilled lager, sweat, and cheap vanilla body spray.
Standing by the bar, Y/N lifted her boot, grimacing at the audible peeling sound as the sole separated from the layer of dried alcohol coating the wood. Her feet were literally stuck to the floor.
"Chug! Chug! Chug!"
Nearby, Josh stood on a stool, tilting a pitcher of something neon blue into the mouth of a girl Y/N didn’t know while Sarah cheered him on.
Y/N took a sip of her vodka cranberry. It tasted like rubbing alcohol and sugar syrup, warm and watery because the ice had melted twenty minutes ago.
She checked her phone: 11:15 PM.
In her old life, 11:15 PM on a Saturday meant sitting on the velvet sofa with Harry. It meant a glass of Pinot Noir that cost more than her rent, quiet conversations about books or politics, and the weight of his hand resting warm and heavy on her knee.
Here, it meant getting jostled by sweaty strangers in a room that smelled like a locker room.
"You look like you are at a funeral."
The guy sliding into the space next to her was cute enough, floppy hair, a nice smile, and a t-shirt that was a size too small. He smelled of vape smoke and Lynx.
"I am just tired," Y/N shouted over the bass.
"I’m Liam," he shouted back, leaning in too close. "I’m Josh’s mate from uni."
"Y/N."
"I know," he grinned. "Josh said his roommate was hot. He wasn't lying."
Y/N forced a brittle smile. Six months ago, this would have been flattering. A cute boy her age hitting on her in a bar. This was supposed to be the dream, the "normal life" Harry had insisted she needed.
"Can I get you a drink?" Liam asked. "You look like you need something stronger than that."
"I am okay."
"Come on," he insisted, signaling the bartender without waiting for her answer. "Two tequila shots! The good stuff!"
The bartender poured two shots of the house tequila, which was definitely not the good stuff. Liam handed her one, clinking his glass against hers so hard that liquid sloshed over her hand.
"To being young and dumb!" he cheered.
Y/N stared at the sticky liquid coating her knuckles.
Harry never spilled. Harry moved with a grace that bordered on supernatural. He would have handed her a glass by the stem, toasting to her eyes, her intelligence, or her future.
"Cheers," she mumbled, throwing the shot back. It burned all the way down.
Laughing, Liam wiped his mouth with his sleeve and leaned his elbow on the sticky bar.
"So," he yelled. "Josh says you just graduated. English lit, right?"
"Yeah."
"What are you gonna do with that? Teach?"
"I want to work in publishing," she said.
"Publishing," he nodded, glancing around the room as if already bored. "Sounds intense. My cousin tried to get into that. Said it pays peanuts."
He pulled his phone out of his pocket, checking a notification while she was still talking.
"Anyway," he said, shoving the phone back. "You wanna dance? This song is a banger."
He reached out and grabbed her waist.
His hand was sweaty. His grip was clumsy.
Y/N froze.
The memory of Harry’s grip crashed over her, the size of his hand, the way his thumb would stroke the sensitive skin of her hip bone, the heavy, possessive weight of his touch. It felt grounding. It felt like he was anchoring her to the earth.
Liam’s touch just felt clammy.
She pulled away sharply. "I can't."
Liam looked confused. "What? Why?"
"I have to go."
"Go? It’s not even midnight. The night is young!"
"I am not," Y/N said.
She pushed past him. She pushed past Josh, who was now wearing the empty pitcher on his head like a hat. She shouldered her way through the wall of bodies and noise, stumbling out of the club and onto the pavement.
The air outside was cool and wet. It was raining again.
Y/N leaned against the brick wall of the club, burying her face in her hands.
She was ruined.
Harry had ruined her. Not with malice or cruelty, but by being perfect. He had shown her what it felt like to be treated like a woman, to be listened to, cared for, and touched with reverence. Now, every other man on the planet felt like a child in comparison.
Looking up, she watched the boys stumbling out of the club. They were loud, messy, and exactly who she was supposed to be with.
But she didn't want them.
She wanted the silver hair. She wanted the lines around the eyes. She wanted the man who drank scotch, read Jane Austen, and made her feel safe.
"I hate you," she whispered to the empty street.
Wiping the tears from her face with the back of her sticky hand, she started the long walk back to the cold flat with the screaming roommate and the empty fridge.
The tray was heavy, loaded with flutes of cheap prosecco trying very hard to pass as champagne. Y/N balanced it on her left hand, feet throbbing in the cheap black flats she had bought at Primark only because the gallery manager insisted all temporary staff wear "sensible black footwear."
She was not an assistant editor. She was not a writer. She was "Event Staff."
It was a temporary gig. Two nights a week, ten pounds an hour plus tips. It barely covered the cost of her travel card, but it was money that didn't come from Harry’s bank account, so she took it.
The gallery in Soho was a white box with concrete floors and track lighting bright enough to perform surgery. The art on the walls was incomprehensible, a collection of red squares and twisted metal that cost more than most people earned in a decade.
Y/N moved through the crowd, keeping her head down, trying to make herself invisible.
Then the room went quiet.
It wasn't a total silence, but a shift in atmospheric pressure. A sudden drop in volume that started at the front door and washed over the crowd like a cold wave. Heads turned. Whispers started. The energy in the room shifted instantly from bored pretension to electric alertness.
Y/N looked up. Her heart didn't just stop, it plummeted through the floorboards.
Harry was standing in the doorway.
He looked like a weapon in a bespoke suit. Dressed entirely in black—shirt unbuttoned at the collar to reveal the tops of his tattoos, blazer with sharp lapels, his hair was pushed back, and his rings caught the harsh gallery lights.
He wasn't looking at the art. He wasn't looking at the frantic gallery owner buzzing around him. He was scanning the room, his eyes dark and predatory. He was hunting.
Y/N froze, hugging the tray of glasses to her chest like a shield as she stood near the center of the room, surrounded by people in furs and tuxedos.
Harry’s eyes locked onto her.
He didn't blink. He didn't look away or check to see if anyone was watching. He just started walking.
Cutting through the crowd like a shark moving through water, he ignored the people stepping out of his way, the whispers, and the pointing fingers. He walked straight toward her with a terrifying, singular focus.
Y/N’s breath hitched. She felt exposed, like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming train.
Harry stopped less than a foot in front of her.
He was so close that his scent, tobacco and expensive wood, overpowered the smell of the cheap wine, creating a sudden intimate vacuum in the middle of the crowded room.
The gallery owner hovered a few feet away, looking nervous, but Harry ignored him. The guests were staring openly now, watching Harry corner a waitress.
But when Harry spoke, he lowered his voice so that only she could hear him.
"Put it down," he murmured, a low vibration she felt in her chest.
"I am working," she whispered back without moving her lips. "I can't put it down."
"You are not a servant, Y/N," he rasped, eyes furious.
"I am tonight," she hissed. "People are staring, Harry."
"Let them stare." He took a half step closer, invading her personal space completely and forcing the world to disappear. "I don't care if they stare. I don't care if they take pictures. Look at me."
She looked up at him. His eyes were wrecked.
"You look thin," he accused quietly. "Are you eating?"
"I am fine."
"You are lying," he whispered. "I checked your account. You haven't touched the money. You are living on pennies and paying rent to some idiot named Theo Miller."
Y/N felt her face burn. "Harry, stop it. Not here. Theo is Josh's first name"
"I drove across the city because I saw the shift roster for this event," he confessed, voice raw and aching. "I came here to see you. Not to see art. Not to drink bad wine. Just you."
"You can't do this," she pleaded softly. "You can't just walk in here and act like you own me."
"I don't own you," Harry said. "But I am responsible for you. And seeing you like this... serving these people... it is killing me."
He reached out.
In full view of the room, he lifted his hand, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her cheek for a heartbeat. A gesture that was possessive, tender, and told everyone watching that they knew each other. But the words remained a secret between them.
"Come home," he breathed into the space between them. "Please."
Y/N looked at him, seeing the desperation in his eyes. She saw that he had broken every rule he had ever made about privacy just to stand here and ask her that question.
"I can't," she whispered. "I need to do this."
Harry’s hand dropped. The rejection hit him hard. Stepping back, the bubble burst, and the sounds of the room rushed back in. He looked around as if remembering where he was.
He turned to the wall beside them, staring at the massive black canvas with the red dot.
"This is garbage," he announced. His voice was loud now, carrying clearly over the murmuring crowd.
"It is titled The Void," Y/N said automatically, falling back into her role though her voice shook. "It is fifty thousand pounds."
"It matches your mood," Harry muttered low enough that only she heard it.
He looked at her, a dark humor flashing in his eyes.
"If I buy it," he asked loudly, "do you get a commission?"
"No," she said. "I am just the help."
"Pity."
Harry turned to the gallery owner, who was watching with his mouth open.
"I will take it," Harry said, pointing at the black painting. "Wrap it up. Send it to this address."
Pulling a card from his pocket, he scribbled something on the back and handed it to the owner. Then he looked back at Y/N, holding her gaze one last time.
"Don't let them work you too hard," he said softly.
He turned and walked away, cutting through the crowd that parted for him, leaving Y/N standing in the center of the room with a tray of champagne and a heart beating so hard it hurt.
The next morning.
Y/N was sitting in the kitchen eating dry toast. Josh was playing FIFA on the sofa.
There was a knock at the door.
"I'll get it!" Josh yelled.
He opened the door.
"Holy shit," he said.
Y/N walked into the hallway.
Two men in blue coveralls were standing there. They were holding a massive crate.
"Delivery for Y/N," one of them said.
"For me?"
They carried the crate inside. It barely fit in the hallway. It took up the entire living room.
Josh grabbed a screwdriver. "What is it? A fridge?"
They pried the lid off.
Y/N stared.
It was the painting. The black canvas with the red dot. The fifty thousand pound garbage.
There was a small white envelope taped to the front.
Y/N pulled it off. Her hands were shaking. She opened it.
Inside was a note written on heavy cream cardstock. The handwriting was messy and all caps.
IT IS PRETENTIOUS GARBAGE. HANG IT OVER YOUR WALL. - H
Y/N looked at the painting. She looked at the note.
"What is it?" Josh asked staring at the black canvas. "Is that art? It looks like a spot."
"It is," Y/N said pressing the note to her chest.
The painting was a problem.
Physically, it was a problem because it was four feet wide and six feet tall. In a gallery, it looked imposing. In a hallway that smelled of damp carpet, it was a monolith. It blocked the bathroom door. If you wanted to pee, you had to turn sideways and suck in your stomach to squeeze past it.
"We should sell it," Josh said for the tenth time.
He was standing in front of it, eating a bowl of cereal. He pointed his spoon at the red dot in the center of the black canvas.
"I Googled it, Y/N. The guy who painted this? Some Danish dude. His stuff goes for insane money. We could put it on eBay. Or Gumtree."
Y/N sat on the floor, her back against the peeling wallpaper, staring at the canvas.
She looked at the pretentious red dot. She looked at the aggressive black void. She remembered Harry’s face in the gallery. The way he had looked at it with such disdain, only to buy it ten seconds later just to make her smile.
He hadn't sent flowers. Flowers were cliché. Flowers died. He hadn't sent jewelry. Jewelry was a transaction.
He had sent a fifty-thousand-pound inside joke.
He had sent a massive, inconvenient, ridiculous object just because they had shared a moment of snark about it. It was the most absurd, excessive, "Harry" thing he could have possibly done.
A bubble of laughter rose in her chest.
It started as a giggle, then bubbled up into a full, wet laugh. She covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking.
"What?" Josh asked, looking at her like she had lost her mind. "Why are you laughing? It’s just a spot."
"It’s not just a spot," Y/N gasped, wiping a tear from her eye. "It’s a love letter."
"A what?"
"It’s him," she said, shaking her head. "He’s insane. He’s absolutely insane. And he squeezed this giant thing into my tiny life just to remind me that he’s there."
She stood up. The laughter settled into a warm, glowing resolve in her chest. The coldness she had felt for three weeks evaporated.
Harry wasn't trying to buy her. He wasn't trying to starve her out. He was trying to flirt with her. He was poking her from his ivory tower, waiting to see if she would poke back.
"I’m going out," she announced.
"Where?" Josh asked. "To sell it?"
"No," Y/N said, grabbing her coat. She checked her reflection in the hallway mirror. She didn't look tired anymore. She looked like a woman with a plan. "I’m going to return the receipt."
"The receipt?"
"I’m going to negotiate, Josh," she said, a wicked smile spreading across her face. "Don't sell the painting. I think it really ties the room together."
The building was a fortress of glass and steel.
Vanguard Holdings occupied the top ten floors of one of the tallest skyscrapers in the City of London. It was a building designed to intimidate. The lobby was three stories high, filled with polished marble and security guards who looked like they were ex-SAS.
Y/N stood outside the revolving doors.
She looked down at herself. She wasn't wearing an interview suit. She was wearing wide-leg jeans rolled at the ankle, a crisp white tank top, and a long, structured black coat. A black baseball cap was pulled low over her hair, and a leather crossbody bag was slung across her chest.
She looked young. She looked like the kind of person who didn't belong in a place like this, which made her stand out even more.
She pushed through the revolving doors.
The air inside was cool and smelled of expensive sanitizer. The noise of the city vanished, replaced by the hushed murmur of commerce. Men in blue suits walked with purpose, checking their phones. Women in heels clicked across the marble.
Y/N walked straight to the reception desk. The receptionist was beautiful, intimidating, and wearing a headset.
"Can I help you?" she asked, not looking up from her screen.
"I am here to see Harry Styles," Y/N said clearly.
The receptionist stopped typing. She looked up. Her eyes swept over the jeans, the baseball cap, the trainers. It was a look of dismissal.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No."
The receptionist gave a small, pitying smile. "Mr. Styles’ calendar is booked months in advance. I can't just—"
"Tell him it’s Y/N," she interrupted, leaning slightly onto the high desk. "Tell him I’m here about the commission."
The receptionist blinked. "The commission?"
"He’ll know what it means."
The receptionist hesitated. There was a spark in Y/N’s eyes that suggested she wasn't a random petitioner. She looked like trouble.
"One moment."
The receptionist picked up the phone. She dialed a number. She spoke in a hushed voice, turning her chair slightly away.
"Yes... a woman named Y/N... No, no appointment... She says it’s about a commission?"
Pause.
The receptionist went pale. Her eyes went wide.
"Yes. Yes, sir. Immediately."
She hung up the phone. She looked at Y/N with wide, terrified eyes. The pity was gone. Replaced by awe.
"Mr. Styles says you are to go up immediately," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "Top floor. The private elevator is to your right. Scan this pass."
She handed Y/N a plastic card.
"Thank you," Y/N said, tucking the pass into her pocket.
She walked to the private elevator. She scanned the pass.
The doors slid open.
There were no buttons inside. Just a single panel that lit up as soon as she entered.
Floor 45.
The elevator rose. Her ears popped.
She watched the numbers climb. 10... 20... 30...
Her stomach did flip-flops. She wasn't just going up a building. She was ascending back to Olympus. She was going back to the god who had thrown lightning bolts at her in a gallery and left her with a storm.
40... 45.
Ding.
The doors opened into a sleek, minimalist reception area. It was all glass and white marble. A severe-looking assistant sat behind a desk that cost more than Y/N’s university tuition.
"You are Y/N?" the assistant asked, looking her up and down with open disapproval. The baseball cap seemed to offend her personally.
"Yes."
"Mr. Styles is currently in a meeting," the assistant said coldly. "Take a seat. He will see you when he is finished."
Y/N didn't argue. She walked over to a black leather bench and sat down. She stretched her legs out, her trainers scuffing the pristine floor. She crossed her arms and waited.
Ten minutes passed.
Then, the large double doors to the inner office opened.
A woman walked out.
She was in her forties. She had perfectly coiffed blonde hair and was wearing a tailored navy suit that fit her like a second skin. She was carrying a leather portfolio and looked every inch the successful, "appropriate" executive.
She stopped when she saw Y/N.
Her eyes raked over the younger girl, the baggy jeans, the tank top, the baseball cap. Her lip curled slightly in a look of pure disdain. It was the look of someone who recognized an intruder. A tourist.
She shook her head slightly and walked to the elevator without a word.
Y/N watched her go. That was the competition. That was the life Harry was supposed to have.
The assistant’s phone buzzed.
"He will see you now," she said stiffly.
Y/N stood up. She adjusted her bag. She walked to the heavy double doors.
She pushed them open.
Harry’s office was massive. It occupied the corner of the building, with floor-to-ceiling glass walls on two sides. London lay spread out below like a toy set.
Harry was standing by the window.
He was wearing a suit identical to the one he wore to the gallary. It was perfectly fitted, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist. He was holding a tumbler of amber liquid. He looked breathtaking. He looked rich. He looked untouchable.
He heard the door close. He turned around.
He saw her.
He froze. The glass lowered slowly in his hand. His eyes swept over her, the coat, the jeans, the cap casting a shadow over her eyes. The contrast between her youthful, cool aesthetic and his severe, corporate surroundings was jarring.
He didn't smile, but his eyes lit up. It was the first time she had seen life in them in weeks.
"You came," he said.
Y/N didn't walk further into the room. She stayed by the door, her hand gripping the strap of her bag.
"Who was she?" she asked.
Harry blinked, confused by the lack of greeting. "Who?"
"The woman," Y/N said, her voice tight. "The blonde. The suit. The one who looked at me like I was the cleaning crew. Is that her? Is that the appropriate choice?"
Harry’s expression hardened. He set his glass down on the window sill with a sharp clink.
"That was Victoria," he said. "She is a client. We are discussing a merger."
"She looked like more than a merger," Y/N accused. "She looked like a Sunday morning. She looked like someone your parents would love."
"She is a bore," Harry said flatly. "She talks about tennis and pension funds."
"So you haven't moved on?" she asked. Her voice wavered slightly, losing its edge. "You aren't... replacing me?"
Harry laughed. It was a dark, humorless sound.
"Replacing you?" he repeated. He walked toward her, stopping just out of reach. He looked at her with an intensity that burned. "Y/N, I have spent the last three weeks staring at a wall and checking your bank account every hour. I went to dinner with that woman once and I left before the main course because she wasn't you. I haven't moved on. I haven't moved an inch."
Y/N let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. The knot in her chest loosened.
"Good," she whispered.
"Good," Harry echoed. He looked her up and down again, this time taking in the outfit with appreciation rather than shock.
"Ideally, I would have sent a courier," Y/N said, recovering her composure and walking further into the room. Her trainers made no sound on the plush grey carpet. "But the item in question is a bit difficult to transport."
Harry’s lips twitched. "Is it?"
"It’s four feet wide, Harry," she said, stopping ten feet from him. "It blocks the bathroom. I have to shimmy past fifty thousand pounds of Danish angst just to brush my teeth."
Harry chuckled. It was a rusty sound, but it was real.
"I thought it matched your mood," he said smoothly.
"It matches the damp spot on the ceiling perfectly," she countered. "Josh wants to sell it on eBay."
"He wouldn't dare."
"He might. He wants to buy a used Ford Fiesta."
Harry grimaced. "Please tell him I will buy him a Fiesta if he promises never to touch the canvas again."
"I’m not here to talk about Josh’s car," Y/N said.
"Why are you here?"
"I’m here to negotiate."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Negotiate? I didn't know we had an open deal."
"We do now."
She walked around the desk. She was now in his space. She was invading his territory just like he had invaded hers at the gallery.
"I have a counter-offer," she said.
Harry turned fully toward her. The playfulness dimmed slightly, replaced by an intense, hungry focus. "I’m listening."
"I am not signing a new contract," she stated.
"Okay."
"I am not taking an allowance for 'services rendered'."
"Okay."
"And I am not living in a schedule," she said. "If I want to see you on a Tuesday, I see you on a Tuesday. If I want to call you at 3 AM because I had a bad dream, I call you. No appointments. No shifts. No walls."
Harry looked at her. He looked at the fire in her eyes under the brim of the cap.
She took a step closer. She reached up and took off her cap, letting her hair fall around her shoulders. She looked up at him, baring her face.
"But it’s real, Harry. And I think you’re bored of perfect."
Harry stared down at her. He reached out and touched her hair, as if checking she was real.
"I am," he admitted softly. "I am bored to death of perfect. But I am also terrified of the mess.”
He looked up at her, and for the first time, the confident mask cracked completely. He looked vulnerable.
"You have to understand, Y/N... I don't know how to do that," he said, his voice rough. "I have lived my entire adult life in a contract. I understand terms. I understand boundaries. I understand ownership."
He stepped closer, his hands twitching at his sides as if he wanted to reach for her but wasn't sure if he was allowed to.
"I don't know how to do 'real'," he whispered. "I don't know how to handle the chaos without trying to fix it with money. So if we do this... if you want no walls..."
He took a shaky breath.
"You have to go slow with me. You have to be patient. Because this is new to me. And I am going to make mistakes."
Y/N softened. She saw the fear behind the power. He was a master of the universe, but he was a novice at love.
"I can be patient," she whispered. "As long as you are trying."
"I am willing to do anything to get you back," Harry swore. "I will burn the contracts. I will deal with the mess. Just... teach me how to do it."
"Deal," she whispered.
Harry looked at her mouth. He looked at her eyes. He looked like a man who had been holding his breath for a month and was finally exhaling.
"You missed a term," he said.
"Did I?"
"The living arrangements," Harry said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "The painting doesn't fit in your flat. It’s a health and safety hazard."
"It is," she conceded.
"I have a wall," Harry said, stepping closer until their bodies were almost touching. "In Mayfair. It’s a very large, very empty wall. It needs something pretentious to tie the room together."
Y/N smiled. A genuine, blinding smile.
"Is that a job offer, Mr. Styles?"
"No," Harry said. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against the expensive fabric of his suit. "It’s a plea. Bring the painting back. Bring your toothbrush. Bring the chaos."
He lowered his head.
"Just bring yourself back," he whispered against her lips. "Because I can't survive another week of being appropriate."
"Deal," she whispered.
Harry didn't kiss her immediately.
He rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes and letting out a shuddering breath that seemed to empty his lungs of all the stress and distance of the last month. His hands moved up her back, large, warm, and firm. One hand slid into her hair, cupping the back of her head, holding her like she was something precious he had almost lost in a fire.
Then, he tilted his head and captured her mouth.
It wasn't aggressive. It wasn't a demand. It was worship.
His lips moved against hers with a slow, devastating tenderness. He kissed her like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth all over again. He tasted like relief. He tasted like home.
Y/N melted into him, her hands clutching the lapels of his jacket, rising on her toes to get closer. The cold, sterile office faded away. The view of London disappeared. There was only the heat of his body and the beat of his heart against her chest.
Harry groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against her lips. He deepened the kiss, pouring every ounce of his fear, his need, and his unspoken love into it. It was a promise signed not in ink, but in breath and skin.
He pulled her tighter until there was no air left between them, kissing her until her knees went weak and she had to cling to him just to stay upright.
Then, the shift happened.
He didn't pull away gently. He tore his mouth from hers with a sharp exhale, his forehead knocking against hers. His hands gripped her waist hard enough to leave marks.
"Three weeks," Harry rasped. It wasn't romantic; it was an accusation. "You vanished for three weeks."
"I had to," Y/N breathed, trying to find her footing. "I had to see if I could do it."
"And?" Harry demanded. He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye. His gaze was dark, dilated, and terrifyingly focused. "Could you?"
"No," she admitted. "I hated it."
Harry let out a rough sound, half-laugh, half-groan.
"You have no idea," he muttered. "You have no idea what you did to me."
He grabbed her hips and lifted her effortlessly, backing her up until she hit the edge of the desk. He set her on top of it, stepping between her legs to get closer. The friction of his expensive suit against her denim jeans sent a jolt of heat straight to her core.
"I stopped going home," Harry confessed. He ran his thumbs over her jawline, holding her face still so she couldn't look away. "I stayed here. I slept on the sofa in the back office."
He leaned in, his nose brushing hers.
"I haven't slept more than three hours a night since you left," he said, his voice low and gritty. "I stare at the ceiling and I wonder where you are. I wonder if you're cold. I wonder if you're with someone else."
"There was no one else," Y/N promised.
"Good," Harry growled. "Because I don't share."
He didn't wait for more words. He crashed his mouth back onto hers.
This wasn't a soft reunion. It was a collision.
He kissed her like he was starving. His mouth was hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping into her mouth with a possessive rhythm that made her head spin. It was messy, desperate, and necessary.
Y/N met him with equal force, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him flush against her. She tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging hard, needing to feel the reality of him.
Harry groaned into her mouth. He tilted her head back, exposing her throat. He buried his face in her neck, but he didn't kiss the skin gently; he bit down lightly on the sensitive cord of muscle, scraping his teeth against her pulse.
"Harry," she gasped, her back arching off the desk.
"I hated it," he murmured against her skin, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss over the spot he had just marked. "I hated every second of the quiet. Don't ever do that to me again."
"I won't," she breathed.
"I mean it," he said, pulling back. His lips were red, his hair was a mess, and his tie was askew. He looked thoroughly unraveled. "We figure it out. We fight. We negotiate. But you don't leave."
"I'm not going anywhere," she swore.
Harry stared at her for a second longer, cataloging the truth in her eyes. Then he nodded—once, sharp and decisive. The mask of control slid back into place, though his eyes remained wild.
He smoothed his tie with a hand that was still shaking slightly.
"Get off the desk," he said, his voice rough. "I'm taking you home."
Harry walked over to the intercom on his desk. He pressed the button with a heavy finger.
"Sophie?"
The assistant’s voice crackled through the speaker, crisp and professional. "Yes, Mr. Styles?"
"Cancel the board meeting," Harry said calmly. "Cancel the dinner with the investors. Cancel tomorrow morning while you are at it."
There was a stunned silence on the other end.
"Sir? The board meeting is regarding the Q3 projections. They are already seated in the conference room."
"Tell them something came up," Harry said. He looked at Y/N. He looked at her messy hair, her oversized coat, and the defiance still lingering in her eyes. "Tell them I am handling a volatile asset."
He released the button.
He grabbed his long wool coat from the rack and shrugged it on over his suit. He buttoned it once, his movements sharp and efficient.
He didn't ask if she was ready. He didn't offer his hand like a gentleman asking for a dance. He reached out and captured her hand. His grip was firm, warm, and absolute. It wasn't an invitation; it was a claim.
He pulled her toward the door.
They walked out of the inner office. Sophie was standing behind her desk, looking pale. She stared at Harry, then at Y/N in her baseball cap and trainers, and finally at Harry’s hand clamped possessively around the girl’s fingers.
"Sir," she stammered. "Should I reschedule for Monday?"
"Yes," Harry said. He didn't stop walking. "And Sophie?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Send someone to the address I am about to text you. There is a large black painting in the hallway. Have it transported to the townhouse. Carefully."
"The... painting, sir?"
"Yes."
Harry guided Y/N into the elevator, his hand moving to the small of her back to usher her in. The doors slid shut on Sophie's bewildered face.
They rode down in silence. It wasn't awkward. It was the charged, heavy silence of two people who had just narrowly avoided a collision.
When the doors opened in the lobby, the security guards straightened up. Usually, Harry walked through the lobby like a ghost—fast, focused on his phone, acknowledging no one.
Today he slowed down.
He kept Y/N firmly at his side. He walked her past the reception desk, past the marble columns, and through the revolving doors out onto the street. He didn't look at anyone else. He made it very clear that the only thing in the building that mattered was the woman wearing the baseball cap.
His driver was waiting at the curb. Harry opened the door for her, waited for her to slide in, and then got in beside her.
"Home," Harry said to the driver.
The car pulled away into the grey London traffic. The interior was quiet, sealed off from the noise of the city.
Y/N leaned back against the leather headrest, the adrenaline finally fading into exhaustion. She turned her head.
Harry was sitting in the corner of the seat, watching her. His arm was resting on the window ledge, his hand covering his mouth as if he was thinking. His eyes were heavy, dark, and unblinking.
"What?" she asked softly.
Harry dropped his hand. He didn't smile.
"I missed you," he said. It was a statement of fact, devoid of poetry.
Y/N let out a small breath, a corner of her mouth ticking up. She reached over and tugged lightly on the end of his tie, which was still crooked from their collision in the office.
"A volatile asset?" she teased softly. "Is that what I am now?"
Harry caught her hand before she could pull away, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. A ghost of a smirk finally touched his lips, bringing the light back into his eyes.
"High risk," he murmured, interlacing their fingers on the leather seat. "But very high reward."
your co-star, harry, discovers you’ve never had an orgasm before. he offers to help you for your next scene by giving you your first, for purely professional reasons.
based on -> this request
CW: actor harry (moan), fingering, p in v penetration, first ever orgasm, nothing too freaked out just two normal ppl fucking for the first time lol 18+
likes/reblogs soooo appreciated!!
WC: 6.8k
It was your eighth take of the same scene.
A scene that you’d been fucking dreading, so yeah, why not make you do it 8 times?
“Cut!” The director calls again, “I'm getting nothing. One last take and then we’re calling it for the day.”
You gulp, hard and frustrated at his words. You were trying your hardest. It’s not like you were purposely fucking it up. You just genuinely had no idea how to perform.
“Do you want me to try something different?” Harry, your co-star, asks from above you as he reads your frustrated face.
“No,” you shake your head, “it’s just me. It’s fine.”
He just nods, not questioning any further and settling back into position. Overtop of you, forehead against yours as you simulated sex for the camera.
“And, action.”
You pick up from where you left off before—the rise of your orgasm. Harry performed beautifully and the two of you melded your eyes into one another passionately, breathing heavily and sweating against each other.
And now, here it comes. The part where you’re supposed to finish.
You breathe heavier, even moaning a bit, shutting your eyes and trying to desperately recall what an orgasm looked like in porn. You moaned and grabbed him tighter and really put on a show, all for the scene to be brought to an abrupt cut! once again.
“We’ll pick up here again tomorrow,” the director said, “and be prepared to do better then. Please. For the sake of all of us.”
And he left, pushing the door of the studio open harsh and slamming it shut behind him.
You huff as Harry lifts off of you, watching you in concern as your cheeks fade red and you shake your head in disbelief. You were fucking pissed. You genuinely had no idea what else to change about your performance and were convinced it would never be satisfactory to the director. It was unfair and ridiculous.
“Don’t listen to him, he’s just tired and-”
“It’s fine,” you cut Harry off, “it’s just bullshit. Whatever.”
You couldn’t contain your huffs and puffs as you threw your shirt back on and hopped up off of the bed. He was just watching you, a small frown on his face as he took in your frustration. He desperately wanted to help make you smile.
He was also, however, still mounted on top of the bed. He really couldn’t go anywhere anytime soon. After a full day of listening to your moans and groans and kissing you all over, he was…just slightly tense. In the sense of having a rock hard erection between his legs that was ridiculously unprofessional. So, he’d stay there until he calmed down.
He was only a little embarrassed at his absurdly immature crush on you. He was always usually very professional, getting through jobs easily and never really letting personal relationships falter over the line. But with you, it was really just human nature. What was he supposed to do about it?
You were beautiful. Incredibly talented and always held yourself well. Everyone was always captivated by you. So, of course, working close to you as your love interest over the span of a multi-month filming process, meant he was the most captivated by you.
And, specifically, in this scene. The scene where your two characters finally slept together in a passionate fit of love. Heavy, sensual, and long. Very long. A huge part of the movie that needed to be absolutely perfect. Which meant the filming time was about double compared to what’s already been done. It was torture.
After a bit of waiting and a slow drop of his embarrassing erection, Harry was up and wandering the set as usual. No real direction, just slumming along sets and running over miscellaneous lines in his head. Eventually making it into his trailer to decompress. As he always did at the end of a long day of filming.
You, however, weren’t so calm. You were spiraling. Completely swarmed with anxiety from a very unsuccessful day of shooting.
You were great at what you did. Landing roles in projects most actresses would dream about, and you were always perfect. It was rare for you to ever need more than 2 takes for a scene, let alone 8 long takes. 8 failed takes. You couldn’t believe you’ve wrapped for the day with an unfinished scene. It was humiliating.
So, through scrabbled brains and wonky walking, you found yourself stomping around set until you made it to the sweet safety of your trailer. Head to the ground and twiddling with your fingers anxiously as you tried to rid yourself of your self-hatred.
You pushed into your trailer and took a long, deep sigh of relief, shutting your eyes and cracking your neck on either side. The pops rolled through your body and up to your ears like firecrackers, a true proof of your stressful day.
Pulling your hair out of its pony tail, you shook your head loose and rubbed at your scalp to release some of the pressure. It was a heavenly feeling to finally get to unwind.
And then, as you go to pull up the hem of your t-shirt-
“Hi.”
You quickly shoved your shirt back down onto you, snapping your head up with wide eyes and a thudding heart.
“Shit! What the hell? You just scared the living shit out of me,” you breathe out with a hand pressed over your pounding chest as you stare at a shirtless Harry, resting lax on a chair.
“M’sorry,” he chuckled, “I thought you knew I was in here.”
You’re confused now, staring at him with a corked brow as you continue to settle your shaky breaths. He really did scare the life out of you.
“Uh, no, I don’t usually expect my coworkers to be lounging in my trailer," it was rude; your tone. Tired and snarky. But he didn’t take it too much to heart, you’ve had a hard day.
He just looked up at you, a small smile pressing his dimple outwards and an amused raise of his lids. He was still shirtless from your scene, shirt slung along the back of his neck lazily. There’s nothing you can do except stare back, looking at him with an impatient stare that says ‘what? Can I help you?’
“This is my trailer.”
You paused. And if you weren’t already embarrassed enough from your awful performance in front of him today, now you were shrinking. Silently begging the universe to pick you up and put you back in time so that you wouldn’t have to live through this.
You take a slow look around now, realizing that yes, this is in fact not your trailer. A step you probably should’ve taken upon first arrival.
“God, I’m sorry,” you let your head fall into your hands, “I’m sorry to be rude, I’ve just had a hard day.”
He was quiet for a moment, looking up at you as if he was waiting to see if you’d continue. And when you didn’t, he took a slow and steady breath, shifting in his seat carefully.
“You know, he’s just giving you a hard time. Pushing you. It’s his job,” he refers to our director, trying his hardest to be helpful.
“Yeah, I know that. It doesn’t make it any less frustrating.”
You bring yourself to sit on the chair next to him, bringing a knee up against your chest as the other rests against the floor.
“I know you’re used to acing your scenes, but this is normal. It’s okay to need a couple takes,” he adds on, letting his legs spread outwards as his knee grazes over your leg. Subtle. So subtle that you really hadn’t even noticed the contact.
“I’m trying to remind myself of that,” you press out an uneasy laugh, “it’s just…I don’t know. This scene is just…complicated. For me.”
Your words seem to intrigue him. His body shifting up just a hair straighter as his face turns inward in wonderment.
“Complicated?”
You take a beat. Consider telling him. Consider letting him know that, yeah, you’re a full grown woman and actually haven’t ever orgasmed in your life. Not like that would be embarassing, or anything.
But your silence reaches a deep place in him. He can’t help himself when his brain digs to piece things together. He’s landed on two things throughout the duration of your silence: Either you had weirdly sensual feelings for him, or you just didn’t even know how to do the scene because you’ve never experienced it. Considering he’s pretty much totally sure you've never thought of him romantically, he stuck with the latter.
“Have you, um,” he adds in an awkward cough, “have you never…had an orgasm?”
You wanted to die.
Like seriously and truly just pass away right there. Lazer a big old hole open in the bottom of his trailer and just let it take you to another dimension.
“Um,” you swallow thick, “if I say yes does that make me the strangest woman you’ve ever met?”
No, not to Harry. To Harry, this was a bright and shiny door opened wide for him. He was practically ripping through his shorts at the new knowledge of his secret crush.
“No,” he answered quickly, “not at all.”
You smile, brief and uncompleted. Just a tiny press of your lips together to silently thank him for not further humiliating you.
“Have you not ever tried? Like, by yourself?”
He knew it was a risky question to be asking. Totally crossing a line and he was fully prepared to be shut down the moment the question left his lips.
“Of course,” you shrug casually, “I’ve tried pretty much everything. Nothing works for me.”
“Hm.”
And then he thinks. Looking at you deep and leaning back into his chair calmly. He presses his lips together into a firm line and nods softly to himself, like he’s swallowing what you’re telling him and waiting for his brain to think of something for him to spit back out to you.
“Toys?”
“Yup.”
“Fingers?”
“Yes.”
“Porn?”
“Once.”
“Vibrator?”
“Mhm.”
He was stumped. Taking a deep breath as he tried to come up with a solution for you.
And when he thought of it, he had to bite his tongue hard until it bled a bit. He couldn’t ask you that. He just couldn’t. It’s a ridiculously unprofessional thought and you’d never go for it. Not with him. Not in a million years.
“Are you a virgin?” He asks instead. Still unprofessional. Still crossing a line.
“No,” you laugh, “I’m definitely not a virgin.”
“Multiple men then?”
“6.”
“And you’ve not orgasmed with a single one?”
“Nope.”
“Close?”
“Eh,” you shrug.
“Hm.”
He sits back again. Taking an even deeper breath as he peels further back on your sex life. Well, your lack of a sex life more like. He figured you had to really have little interest in it at all at this point.
He thought long and hard. Similar to what’s been poking at him through his shorts, stuck on the thought of being the thing that robs you from this sad life.
“I can give you one.”
You choked. Taking in the words that he said way too casually. As if it was the simplest offer he’d ever given you.
“Youre not going to be able to make me finish. I just can’t orgasm,” you laugh at him, tugging your knee tighter against your chest as you adjust to the new energy in the room. Hot, shallow, tense.
“I can,” he nods, “if you’d want me to. Purely for professional reasons, of course.”
He was lying. He’d been dreaming of this since the moment he saw you. But, you didn’t have to know that. Not yet, at least. He’d wait to tell you that part until he was between your legs.
You hesitated, staring at him as he keeps him composure strong and sure of himself. There was something about the way he spoke, so confident of himself, that had you wondering.
“You’re pretty confident for a guy who just found out I’ve never came in my life,” is all you can think to say.
It was risky. Too risky for you and you were far too professional for this sort of behavior. But, then again, as his legs spread further and he kept on his calm demeanor, it was hard to ignore the tingle between your thighs.
“Well,” he shrugged again, “I just know I can give you one. So, I’d like to help you out and give you your first, if you let me. If not, just forget about it. We can pretend I never offered.”
You sat there quiet for a little while. Bouncing back and forth between the idea which was already surprising to you. But, he had made a good case for himself. Not too demanding. Not any pressure. Just…offering up his skills. Politely. Professionally.
Or at least you’d tell yourself that.
“Hypothetically,” you start carefully, “let’s say I said yes.”
He nods, inhaling and lifting his back off of the chair. He lets his elbows rest against the tops of his thighs now, hunched over a bit with his bare chest as he looks up at you, considering his options.
“Ok, hypothetically, if you say yes, I could really go any way you’d want. I can use my fingers, my mouth, or even my dick if you wanted. I don’t mind. It’s up to you.”
He was so unbelievably calm about this that it was sickening. So sick in the way that it turned you on. And you hadn’t really ever thought of Harry this way before…sure, he was very physically attractive. But anyone with two eyes could notice that. This was different. This was him, his confidence, the way he held himself. He was unknowingly dampening your panties with every passing second.
“Ok…” you nod slow, “and, hypothetically, if you don’t make me orgasm?”
He’s grinning now, deep and smirked and prominent. Like you’ve truly amused him now.
“Y/n, I’m gonna be able to make you come.”
You’re not sure what it was; the way he spoke, the way he was sitting, the low drop of his voice, but you were…convinced. Truly and genuinely. He’d put it right into your head that he was fully capable of doing a thing that’s proven itself impossible over the span of your life. You were crazy to believe him. In retrospect, it was even stupid to believe him.
“Okay.”
He forced himself to ignore the twitch of his tip beneath his shorts at your acceptance, instead widening his eyes at yours with a wide grin.
“Yeah?” He was ecstatic, and you could tell. His excitement didn’t disturb you, if anything, it had you excited too.
“For professional purposes, of course,” you preface, smiling back at him as you press your thighs together.
“Right,” he nods with a grin, “strictly professional.”
And then you stare at each other, in the awkward way that two do when they know they’re about to start playing with each other. In the way of silently not knowing who should move first or if this is a good idea or not.
“So, should I tell you like, what I like? So you have a better idea of what to do?” You ask unsurely, breaths deepening without him even starting. It was his look. His gaze. Deep and darkened from how it usually rests on you.
“No,” he shakes his head calmly, “I’ll figure it out.”
And that, knowing he’d take care of you without you even having to think, was the sexiest thing you’d ever been told in your life.
“You can go sit over there,” he gestures towards the small couch in the back of his trailer. “Get yourself comfortable, lay how you want. I’ll lock this.”
You nod at his instruction, trotting over to the little red couch that rested at the end of his long room. He follows close behind, locking the door shut on his way and closing any blinds that are peaked open.
You weren’t sure what the rules really were with this stuff. You should probably look further into it before you get started, you know, check if this is a job ending decision or not. But you don’t. Because why would you when he’s walking towards you, abs clenched and jaw tight, with the promise of your first orgasm?
You were lying on your back against the soft couch, a small throw pillow behind your head and propping it up just barely enough. You were comfortable, very nervous but very comfortable.
He sat at the edge of the sofa, a hand resting mindlessly on your thigh as you two settled. His hand was cold, rugged against your smooth skin and brushing over you softly.
Thankfully, with the constant strum of music that was always going on around set, the quiet felt less intense. Muffled sounds of singing on the loud speakers crawled through the walls of the trailer and hummed around you two in a gentle blanket, breaking some of the tension that would’ve been there otherwise.
“Comfortable?” He asks, shifting his hands further up to your shorts in a non-chalant motion. Your mind barely processed the slide, but your body didn’t miss a beat. You were throbbing, a feeling that was already so foreign to you in general, let alone with your co-star Harry.
“Yeah,” you breathe out, slightly shaken.
“Hey, y/n,” he pulls your attention to his face, “don’t be nervous, ok? M’gonna make you feel good. Gonna help you with our scene…just relax.”
You nod, taking him in as he slowly starts to tug down on your shorts. He was pulling them off smoothly, leaving the thin material of your thong on along the way.
And now, this was real. This was really happening. Harry was taking your pants off in his trailer and there was absolutely no part of you that wanted to stop it. Not even for a second.
“Want you to close your eyes, and take three deep breaths,” he’s whispering now, pulling your shorts passed your ankles and letting them rest neatly next to you.
You do as he says, grateful that he suggested to keep your eyes shut. It was intimidating to stare at Harry while he sat beside you, hands up where they haven’t been before and eyes locked onto you. You were worried if you’d kept them open you wouldn’t get yourself to fully relax.
Your lungs fill and empty to their full extent three long times, and you melt into the sofa at the feeling of your body’s tension releasing. You were calm, fully at peace and absorbing into the cushions beneath you.
And then, you felt his fingers press against the cotton of your panties and your eyes snapped open.
“It’s ok,” he coos, “close them again. Just relax. Gonna get you wet for a bit and then use my fingers.”
So you did. You shut your eyes, letting your thighs fall open as his fingers pressed delicately over your clothed core. Your breath was heavier than expected, rising and falling quickly as the mix of nerves washed over you.
He used his middle and ring fingers to slide up the soft texture of your thong, smirking to himself when he felt the damp spot in the fabric that he really didn’t expect to be there. He thought he’d for sure have to get you there. But to feel you already soaking for him? He felt like he was floating.
“So wet already,” he whispered, “keep yourself relaxed. Keep breathing. Just like how you’ve been.”
He really wasn’t sure if he should’ve said that or not—the comment on your wetness. It’s not like you two had any sexual history and he wasn’t sure if the comment would embarrass you or not. It really just slipped out.
But, at the sight of your tiny smile through closed eyes and the subtle roll of your hips into his hand, he knew you liked it. He knew he could talk you through it and say what he pleased to get you going.
And when he pulled your panties to the side to reveal your dripping slit, you desperately tried to stabilize your breathing. You were so nervous that you didn’t know what to do with yourself. You even thought about snapping your thighs back together right then and forgetting the whole idea completely, but all it took was one press of his finger onto you to drop that thought.
“Shit, y/n,” he breathed out, “you always get this wet?”
You exhaled softly at his words as he ran his finger tip up your wet folds, sighing at the slick that was drenching his fingers. He’d dreamed of this feeling—your sticky arousal coated around his fingers as your hips bucked against him.
“Mm-mm,” you shake your head no, “feels good.”
He smiled at this, a little boost to his already overflowing ego.
“Gonna start slow, work your clit a bit,” his voice was lower than it was before, locked in a trance as he watched you squirm at his barely-there trance.
You just nodded, eyes still closed, feeling a little silly having him walk you through basic pleasure. But you didn’t care, not when his touch had you this sensitive and his voice had your thighs weak.
He brought his fingers to your swollen bud, watching as it hissed beneath his touch and your face squinted slightly inwards. He rubbed soft, small circles to test the waters, watching what hit you hardest and what had your breath catching.
He took his promise as a challenge—keeping an intense eye on your expressions and body language with every touch. He watched how your brows turned in when he pressed harder and how your stomach tensed when he circled in a certain direction. He was figuring you out, desperately searching for the best way to get you there.
“Feel good?” It was an empty ask, as it was quite clear that you were. If your face didn’t say so, your muffled moans and heavy breaths gave him just the smallest clue.
“Y-yeah,” you nod through heavy breaths, “really good. Faster?”
He grins at your cute ask, happy to hear you using your words and even happier to oblige. His fingers pick up their pace within a half a second, rubbing steady circles against you now and waiting to see your body react.
You squirmed harder beneath him, gentle moans slipping out now that you couldn’t hold inside.
He continued this way for a while, watching as you fell apart beneath him and reddened your cheeks with every hitch of your breath. He was patient as you fell into the pleasure, using his free hand to dance against the skin of your thighs in soothing drawings.
“Gonna use my fingers now, that ok?” He asks softly, never stopping the rhythm on your clit as he could tell you were building to something.
“Yes! Please,” your yelp has him smirking to himself again, so pleased with himself to see you stuck in a haze of his fingers.
And when he replaced the pressure on your clit with his thumb and pressed two thick fingers inside of you, he knew he had you.
Your back sprung up at the pressure, stretching your little hole as you clenched desperately around his fingers. He pushed in slow and curved, brushing against every sweet spot until he landed on the one you groaned at.
“F-fuck, Harry,” you groaned softly, head thrown back against the pillow as his girthy fingers rolled up into you.
The pressure was sickening, pressing into the same spongy spot over and over again as his thumb rubbed magic to the ball of your clit. He had you at every place you needed him, never missing a beat and zeroed in to the last millimeter. It was a talent far more impressive than what he brought to the camera.
And him? He was reeling at the treat in front of him. His wet dream sprawled out for him as he finger fucked you, basking in the sweet sounds of your moans and groans and airy words.
They were different from the ones he’d heard you force out on set. These were full, wrapped in the moment you two shared and threading out of your chest with no effort at all.
“That’s it, it feels good, huh?” He spurs on, quickening his fingers once he starts to feel your walls flutter around him.
“So good! So good, fuck,” you were breathless as he pumped in and out of you, his forearms burning but he didn’t care. Not when you look like this, weak and spasming around his skin with just the simple touch of his fingers.
Before you knew it, a deep heat brewed in the bottom of your stomach so foreign that it actually freaked you out. You were completely overwhelmed with the sensations spreading through you, pumping through your blood and racing to your brain. It was indescribable.
He felt it too. Your soaking wet insides gushing around his fingers with every curl and the way you tensed around him so tight. You were trapping him deep inside of you, walls clenching firm around his fingers in a patternless fashion.
And you were…quite vocal. More than you knew, considering you were stuck in such a blurry haze that you could barely hear your own voice. But Harry was well aware of the loud sounds swimming out of you and the way you stumbled over your own breaths. He was fucking aching beneath his shorts and silently praying to himself that you’d let him fuck you properly after this.
“You’re close, y/n, you feel that? You feel that pressure in your belly? Gonna ride it out for you until you come on my fingers,” he quickened everything, rubbing faster against your clit and thrusting into you at an unfathomable pace.
Your mind was spinning and your chest was tight, heart throbbing harsh against your bones as it echoed up to your ear drums.
“H-how will I- fuck! How will I know? H-how do I know if I came?” You can barely speak as you ask your naive question, too lodged in your pleasure to worry about embarrassment. Besides, you knew you were passed the point of embarrassment. To Harry, anyway.
He chuckled, low to himself but not in a way that had you feeling made fun of. Just a quiet knowing laugh that had your pussy clenching even tighter around him.
“You’ll know, y/n.”
Your breaths picked up, heaving at this point, as you legs vibrated and spasmed against the red velvet of the couch beneath you. Your brain was mush and your knuckles white, spinning helplessly into his touch as you thrashed against yourself beneath him.
And then, you knew.
Your mind went fuzzy as your body surrendered to the feeling, consuming you whole as you froze into the pleasure. Your body stilled, cunt locking tight around his fingers as it pulsed throughout his movements. You trembled and your voice held silent, breath stuck inside of your lungs as you unraveled beneath him.
He watched in a daze, mouth flaking apart unknowingly as he watched you pulse beneath him. It was intoxicating—to watch such a vulnerable moment in time inflicted by his own hands. Still shoved deep inside of you to extend your orgasm for as long as humanly possible.
It really was long. You were flooded in the warmth of your peak and riding through your surging orgasm like it was the most heavenly thing to ever grace your life. You were sure you’d be chasing this feeling from the moment you come down, craving the addicted tingle that’s been swarming through your body for what’s felt like hours.
As you finally come down, breaths resuming and body falling limp, Harry slows his movements before removing himself completely, careful of your sensitivity and not wanting to push it. Your slick pussy quenched at his fingers as they left you, splurging in wet sounds and clenching around the air at the loss of his touch.
“Good?” He asks calmly, as if he’s not completely bursting through his pants right next to you.
You laugh, finally opening your eyes to look at him again. He looked proud. Genuinely pleased with himself and desperately awaiting your review.
“Harry,” you shake your head through a laugh, “fuck.”
He smiles wide now, tossing his hands up softly at your lack of words.
“So? Anything? Good? Bad?”
You squint at him, shifting your legs back together with a hot face.
“What if I told you I faked it,” you shrug, slipping further back into the pillow beneath you.
“You didn’t fake it,” he laughs, shaking his head.
“You don’t know that,” you say, a twinge of a smile laced through your voice.
“I do know that. I've watched you orgasm 9 times today and all I can say is that 8 of them were definitely faked.”
You cover your face with your hands to muffle your laughter, rolling into the couch further and still basking in the afterglow of your first orgasm.
“Thank you,” you slip through a smile before peering down to the sudden shift of his arm. He was readjusting what was beneath his shorts, trying to be sly without you noticing but failing miserably.
The moment he noticed your stare he removed his hand quickly, snapping it down against his thigh in a not-so-casual manner.
“Are you-?”
“Sorry,” he cuts you off, “S’hard to not be when you’re making a girl cum for the first time.”
A soft grin finds its way to your face at his shameless honesty, and you’re even further drawn towards him. The way he held himself was intoxicating, sucking you into him with no way to stop it.
“I can help,” you gesture your head towards his lap.
He’s grinning now too, peering down at his crotch and then back up at you as if to silently ask, …really?
You smile, curving further upward as you start to daydream about what he’d look like when he came. If you’d also get turned on from watching him just as he had for you.
He takes your smile as a quiet agreement, pulling for his dick before you stop him.
“But, I wanna cum too. Again.”
You don’t know why you said it. You could’ve kept it to yourself, save the desperation and just suck his cock like you probably should’ve.
But, no. You were greedy now. Already wincing at the thought of a second orgasm and even more worked up at the thought of his hard cock giving it to you.
“Ok,” he smiled with a nod, “I can make you cum again first. What do you want? My mouth?”
You shake your head, even knowing that you should probably say yes because fucking your co-star in their trailer is definitely a terrible idea.
He’s smirking again now himself, catching onto your cryptic wish with a quick palm to his erection. Who was he to say no? This was purely professional, after all. You two consider it…homework.
“You want me to fuck you?” He knew the answer was yes. He needed to hear you say it.
“Yes,” you nod, “please. Can you? I wanna try to cum from that, you know, for the scene tomorrow.”
“Ah,” he nods along with your little play, “right. This is just good practice.”
He shifts closer to you with every passing word, absentmindedly drawn to your lips without really having to think about it.
“Mhm,” your voice lowers as he pulls closer, “good practice.”
He hover over you for a moment, lips just above yours as you both breath hot silent breaths into one another.
“I don’t have to kiss you, if you don’t want,” he tells you, so close to your face. You two had obviously kissed before in the film countless times. But this was different. The cameras weren’t rolling. Yes, he’d been touching you and he’d be fucking you soon, but kissing was intimate. It’s the kissing that could make things one big sloppy mess for the two of you.
You flick your eyes between his, still buzzing from your orgasm and hot in proximity.
“You can kiss me, if you want,” you nod as you repeat his same words back to him, watching as his lips smile just briefly before lowering themselves again.
He kissed you soft and rushed, groaning into the taste of you as if he hadn’t tried it so many times before.
Now he could fall into it, touch you where he wanted and not pretend to be calm about it. He was kissing you and no director was about to yell cut.
“All honesty,” he breathes into your kiss, "M'probably not gonna last.”
You grin, pressing your teeth to his lips accidentally at his confession.
“That's okay,” you say, “still wanna feel you inside.”
He groans, low and grumbled like you’ve broken him. Like those were five words that he’d imagined coming out of your lips for months.
“Can’t say stuff like that when I'm trying to last,” he chuckles against you, letting his hands shift around your midsection for the first time. It was chilling, his hands on the bare skin underneath your tshirt, hovering over the area in a way he held back from on film.
“Can I? Now? I’m fucking aching,” he grasps harder at your skin, desperately trying to avoid the growing pain between his thighs.
You nod profusely, “please.”
He slips his cock out of his loose cotton shorts and you peer down between your bodies to gauge what was coming your way. He was thick and heavy, dripping in precum and strained in a throb. You were practically drooling at the sight, wincing at the idea of the stretch yet craving it all the same.
He pulls for a condom from a random drawer in his trailer, and you really didn’t care why he had them. You were just relieved, over the moon even. He could just fuck you right now and not have to go run off to find a condom somehwere.
“Sure?” He asks one last time, rolling the latex down his dick with heavy breaths.
“Please,” you nod quick, watch intently as he aligns himself with your weeping hole.
You were soaking, so wet that he didn’t even use his spit at all before pressing into you slowly. You were so tight wrapped around him, suffocating his cock inside of you as his eyes rolled to the back of his head. This was pure bliss, everything he’d been dreaming about and beyond that.
You were feeling nothing short of the same, stuck in a loop of euphoria as he pushed his hips further and further inside of you. Once he bottomed out you fell sewn into a state of shock, surrendering to what’s taken you over completely.
“Harry, oh my god,” you groaned, face twisting as he nudged his cock around your depth. He was playing with you, feeling you out and testing your limits. He was nearly to your cervix, inflicting just the right amount of pain to have your head spinning.
“Shit,” he drops his head, “feel so good wrapped around me like this.”
He didn’t really stop to think of how this would change things for him. How it would bring him back here each time he stared at her beneath him while they filmed. How everytime he forced fake thrusts into her for the camera he’d be glistening in the memory of his tip kissing the inside of her belly.
He brought a hand to your clit, stimulating the sensitive area again as he felt himself already building to an orgasm. He’d make sure you came again before he did, but it would have to be quick. And, according to his breathing, very quick.
“Ohh,” you groan out at the feeling of his fingers back to your clit, the sensitive sensation rolling around with the feeling of his dick shoved inside of you through your head.
Luckily for Harry, you were so freshly taken by your first orgasm that your second one took less than half the time of the first. You were nearly already there the moment he started to pound into you, sharp and steady and a perfect pace.
He was struggling. Living through his fantasies in real life while stuck on the very important goal of helping you orgasm. He needed to wait for you to cum. Not only because he always makes sure a girl finishes before him, but also because he wanted to know what it’d be like to have your pussy stutter around him and drag out his own.
It wasn’t long before you were there. He held your hips firm in his grasp as he pressed solid blows into you over and over and over, smacking into the perfect spot every time and massaging over your swollen bead.
“Oh- fuck! Yes!” You moan out, “fuck, Harry!”
He squeezed his eyes shut to drown out your words, your screams bringing him much too close for comfort. And you were right there, he could feel it. He could definitely hear it.
You came hard after a particularly deep stroke, shaking around his cock as you clenched and engulfed his aching shaft. This was different than the first, and you maybe thought it was even better. He was shoved so deep inside of you that you could feel him pressing up into your tummy, tingling your insides and rubbing your through your high.
Harry filled the condom as he continued to fuck into you, groaning out between you two as he revelled in the feeling of his long-awaited orgasm. He’d literally been hard because of you all day.
You both whined and sighed out into one another as you tricked to the end, breath slowing as you came back down to earth. Absolutely exhausted and fucked out of your mind. You’d never felt this relaxed in your whole life.
“Good?” He asks the same question as before, out of breath and panting above you.
You smile, nodding lazily though closed eyes, “good.”
He pulls out slowly, pulling the condom off and tossing it to the can beside him. He sat back against the couch, neck tossed back as he began to catch his breath. You were resting on your back still, eyes closed and soft breaths and a cute attempt to try to stay awake.
“I think we can shoot this thing in one take tomorrow,” he breaks the silence, peering down at you from his spot on the couch.
“Maybe. If I don’t accidentally mess it up and we have to do it again,” you let a lazy grin fall to your face as you tease him, soaked up in the floaty haze of a second orgasm and a good dick.
He laughs with you, letting hand fall to your ankle without thinking too much about it.
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”
You hum with closed eyes, resting back into the sofa and stretching your limbs to get comfy. You don’t know how long you stay here—him sat up and rubbing your legs as you doze off on the couch—but it was peaceful. Unrushed. Just, happening.
And suddenly, you couldn’t wait to resume filming tomorrow.
i’ve reread this so many times now through editing that i kinda hate itttt, so im sorry if my writing is off in this!!😭😭
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Summary: Harry reunites with Y/N at his ‘Kiss All The Time. Disco, Occasionally.’ Album listening party.
CW: Smut (fingering, dirty talk, use of nicknames, p in v, quiet dominance), age gap, older!Harry.
Word count: 3.8k
Harry x fem!reader (Y/N)
A/N: Happy HS4!!! ♥️ This was a request by one of my mutuals, @sparklejumpropequeen1113 ! Thank you for being so kind & requesting this. This was so fun to write, hope everyone enjoys it! Let me know what you think!!
(Y/N’s POV)
The mess of clothes stared back at her on the floor. Y/N sat on her bed defeated, her phone glowed with the invite from Jeff. Harry’s manager reached out to her a few weeks ago to invite her to Harry’s new album, ‘Kiss All The Time. Disco, Occasionally’ listening party in London. The listening party was categorized as ‘intimate’ and ‘few family & friends’ invite only, exclusive function. Y/N was apprehensive about attending because Harry had been quiet and distant since they last saw each other. Plus, there was a number of other people who probably deserved to be in the room with Harry, not some twenty-four year old girl who was his ex-girlfriend.
Harry and Y/N shared some time together when he was visiting Italy during the summer. They met at a local, exclusive wine tasting that left them both buzzed and without many clothes. That was the first time they slept together. Many times after that, Y/N began to know Harry for Harry — not Harry as Harry Styles. They grew close but Harry’s more quiet lifestyle — late mornings, dinner dates, film nights — began to fade out. Y/N noticed as Harry would retreat from the bed to his quaint in-home studio to write.
Y/N and Harry naturally distanced themselves, both agreeing that the breakup was mutual. Italy felt more like a daydream than anything else to Y/N. That’s why shock was her more natural reaction when she received a text months later from Harry’s manager, who begged her to come to London.
Her plane was taking off in six hours, and Y/N struggled with the thought of seeing him again. Not only seeing Harry but seeing the man she was less familiar with — his famous, well-loved persona.
Y/N scrambled as she packed random outfits together in her suitcase, showered and got ready for the airport.
Before she could process her arrival to London — the flight attendant made a brief announcement.
“Ladies and gentlemen, British Airways welcomes you to London. The local time is 16:30. For your safety and the safety of those around you, please remain seated with your seat belt fastened until we park at the gate. You may now turn your electronic devices off airplane mode. Thank you for flying British Airways!”
Once airplane mode was shut off on her phone, Y/N received a group of text messages from Jeff.
“Hello, Y/N. Hope you arrive safely. I’ll have a car parked and ready for your arrival. It will take you straight to the hotel.”
“Party is at 20:30. Please don’t be late, driver will be waiting downstairs of your hotel. Wear something sparkly.”
The anxiety in her stomach began to make her chest feel tight as she exited the plane to grab her luggage. It was a strange feeling, Jeff had been aware of their history but Y/N wondered if Harry was even aware she would be coming. He didn’t reach out to her once.
After arriving at her luxurious hotel, Y/N quickly showered again — applying moisturizer, body oils and soft-glam makeup before hearing a soft knock at the door.
“Courier for Ms. Y/N,” she quickly fastened her robe and answered with a polite smile. The courier was holding a garment bag and small envelope. She quickly thanked him and closed the door. She held the heavy bag in her hand, positioned it in her closet before she opened the envelope.
“Wear this tonight. — H”
The words jumped out at her. He knew she was coming.
(Harry’s POV)
As the time approached, he became more nervous and aware of the possibility that Y/N may not even show. He fucked up, pushing the one girl away that he had the best time with. The girl who knew him for who he was, not for the fame or money. Harry had been taking it hard; acting tough in public but in private, when he was alone? He was an absolute mess. He’d drink a little too much, type out messages, threaten himself to call her but never followed through. He distanced himself because Y/N wasn’t use to that part of him, the work part.
The day they mutually agreed to end it buzzed in the back of his mind constantly. He just agreed with her because how could he sustain the relationship between Italy and London when he was so busy. Jeff advised him to call it off or be prepared for push back. So, Harry listened, but their mutual agreed breakup wasn’t hard on him — it was devastating.
He poured everything into his album, writing romantic songs that captured Italy’s dreamland and sad, upbeat melodies that captured the downfall of after. He wrote countless of songs about her.
Tonight, she’d hear them and there would be no doubt that she was his muse.
The party began, it was in a secluded warehouse that mimicked the disco scene. It was intimate but close family, friends and Harry’s team were all there — enjoying the upbeat atmosphere.
Harry scanned the room frequently, failing to find the sparkly pink dress he had dreamed to see her in. Harry received great praise for his music but his attention was split.
“Mate, have you seen her anywhere?” He asked Mitch as he passed him quickly. He earned a quick glance back and firm head shake.
“Fuck, okay.” Harry was beginning to feel defeated. His thoughts got the best of him. He makes his way through the crowd, smiling at others as he passed by.
Why would she come all this way just to not show up?
“Harry,” Jeff called out, nodded in the direction towards the entrance. Y/N was stood there, the sparkling pink dress glistening as the disco ball swirled. She looked absolutely stunning. Harry couldn’t stop a grin from forming on his lips as he made his way through the crowd.
He instantly leaned in, his hand rested against her bare back. “You came.” His voice was thick with emotion and want, he felt stuck in a daydream. Y/N was finally in his arms again.
“Congratulations on the album,” her voice was soft in his ear, her perfume was the same as he remembered. The party scene vibrated around them. A classic disco song began to play above them, ‘I Will Survive’ by Gloria Gaynor.
Harry brought her closer to him, took her hand and lead her to a more quiet space. Once he shut the door, his eyes finally took her in.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he muttered quietly.
“I’m here,” she said matter-of-factly, a small smile plastered on her face.
“Fuck, you look… s’pretty, petal,” he took a step back and take her in. “Perfect in that dress.” Harry felt like he was back in their quiet villa, not some buzzing warehouse that was catered for him.
“You look… good too,” Harry wore a custom made suit that sparkled in the light. He smirked at her comment, never took his eyes off of her figure.
“I — I shouldn’t be so selfish and let you mingle out there,” he said but didn’t move from against the door. He crossed his arms, the material of his suit stretched opened. His gaze drifted from her lips down her body and back up.
“It’s real good seeing you, petal.” He stated before opening the door.
Harry disappeared into the crowd, physically tearing his body away from her because he couldn’t stand another moment without kissing her. He ventured to the bar, downed a strong alcoholic beverage before being whisked away by a group of friends. His mind stayed with Y/N and his eyes watched as she moved throughout the space. He remained at a distance, distracted in conversations as his attention pooled to her.
As another track started, he excused himself and went to find his muse. His body pressed up against her back as he carefully leaned down, whispering in her ear.
“This one is about you,” he slurred, his lips brushing against her ear. He pulled her back slightly, his rings cold against her warm skin. “Dance with me,” he commanded.
They danced to the beat, his lyrics surged around them.
“I missed you, Y/N. Had to try hard to not reach out,” Harry admitted.
“I missed you,” he heard her whisper as the beat pulsed.
“Come home with me tonight,” he pleaded. “Just miss you s’much.” He pressed a soft kiss to the side of her neck.
Y/N seemed to relax in his embrace but it only lasted a few seconds before she pulled away. His eyes met hers in the low lighting as she turned to face him.
“Are you sure that’s what you want?” He heard her question, the hurt was evident in her voice.
“I want nothing more, Y/N. It was fucked up of me to pretend that I was okay with us… with us breaking up,” He started. “I was just scared you didn’t want this... “ He motioned to the space that buzzed around them.
“I want you, Harry. All of you. You don’t get to decide which part of you I get to have,” she said firmly. “I didn’t want to break up either, you just became so distant.”
“I was trying to protect you,” he said through the music, realized this wasn’t the place or time to have this particular conversation.
“For fuck sake’s,” he cursed, with a slight smile. “Jus’ come back with me tonight, I don’t want to be with anyone else.”
After a drunken, celebratory speech and many thanks to his team, Harry whisked away Y/N, her hand in his grasp.
The car was quiet, filled with tension between them. Harry’s hands fidgeted before he broke the silence towards the driver.
“Partition up, please. Cheers mate,” he watched as the partition separated them seconds later. The SUV drifted through the quiet inner London.
Harry turned towards Y/N, his dark green gaze dropping to her lips.
“I’m going to kiss you now.” He gives her a moment to signal him away but he finds nothing. He pressed his lips softly to hers at first, melting into the kiss. His hands found her body, pulling her close. When she began to kiss back, he let her take control — felt her weight shift as Y/N climbed on top of him. His fingers pressed into the soft skin along her hip bone.
“You have no idea how much I need this, need you,” he whispered against her lips, trailing his kiss down her neck. His touch was firm but soft, delicate with her.
“I need you, Harry,” he wasted no time, tugged roughly at the dress he had custom-made for her. He was sure he ruined the material but didn’t care. He pushed the fabric up past her hips. He looked down at her soft thighs, spread around him. Pink lace underwear adorned her skin beautifully. He pulled at the material, tugged them down so his fingers could brush against her clit. He felt her jerk slightly once he made contact.
“Oh, there she is… There’s my girl,” he purred in approval, welcoming the warmth and slickness that coated his fingers. He cursed when he realized he still had his rings on. He pulled his hand away from her, tucked them up by her lips.
“Take my rings off,” he demanded in the quiet. He watched as her mouth enclosed around his fingers, eyes fluttered slightly as he felt her wet tongue swirl around the cool, metal. “Good girl,” he praised as the rings fell to the seat.
He connected their lips again as his naked fingers found her clit, applying slight pressure as he moved in slow circles.
“Can I?” He asked quickly, needing her consent.
“Please, yes.. please, Harry.”
His fingers slowly pressed against her entrance, pushing in at a gentle pace. He cursed under his breath in a grateful manner. He watched as her body began to respond to him. He felt her fingers tighten against his suit, he watched her face relax in pleasure as he slowly pumped his fingers.
“Oh, my pretty girl… Moan for me,” he begged, curling his fingers to reach her precious g-spot. His fingers carefully practiced their movements, increasing his speed as she moaned out for him.
“More, baby, please.” She begged, it was music to his ears.
“My greedy girl, always wanting more…” he muttered as he pressed his thumb against her clit. He smirked as she rocked against his fingers, matching his pace.
“That’s it, petal. You’re right there, pretty girl.” He felt her beginning to come undone, her muscles swollen and squeezing around his fingers. The sounds of her breathing and moans echoing throughout the enclosed space.
“Let go baby, I’ve got you.” He whispered as Y/N moaned out his name, releasing all over his hold. “My perfect girl, let m’taste you,” his words slurred as he slowly removed his fingers. He instinctively brought them to his lips, tasted her climax on his tongue.
“Mmm,” he moaned softly. “Can’t get enough of you,” he said as the car slowed and idled in front of his gated community in Hampstead.
He carefully moved her off his lap, helped her with her dress before he opened the door.
“Come on,” he offered his hand, pulling her close to him in the night. As soon as got inside, Harry connected his lips with her again. The kiss was rough, passionate and almost painful as he went to bite her lower lip.
“You going to be a good girl for me, petal?” He taunted, pulling away from the kiss to lead her to his stairs. He ran up them quickly, his hand resting against the small of her back.
“So good for you, only you.” She whispered into the cool air.
He lead them both down the hallway into his master bedroom, it was minimalistic and dark. He pushed a button that turned on soft, low lightly and urged her to get on the bed.
“Have you been thinking of me?” He asked as he walked to the nightstand, took his rings off slowly. The clink of each ring hitting the glass plate echoed through the room.
“Yes,” she said breathlessly as she watched him in the low lights.
“I’ve been thinking of you too,” he replied, gaze full of love and admiration.
(Y/N’s POV)
Her body began to tremble in anticipation, she needed him more than ever. The sexual chemistry between them never was an issue in their relationship. Harry knew exactly how to take care of her. Make her comfortable, desired and completely surrendered to him.
“Harry, please…” Y/N wasn’t shy to beg but he was clearly taking his time as he undressed himself slowly. His dark gaze met her own, she watched as the smirk spread on his lips.
“You sound so pretty, petal… Begging for my attention.” The bed dipped as he pressed into it. “What do you need, baby? Use your words.”
She took a deep breath, her fingers brushed against his toned back, felt his muscles tense. “I need your cock, please baby.” She pleaded with him.
“My perfect girl,” he whispered as he shifted on the bed over her. “Let’s get you out of this, hm?” She felt him touch her with urgency, removing her dress and underwear gently.
“Look at my pretty girl,” she watched as he drank her body in. He positioned himself between her. “Need to see your face,” she heard him muttered.
“Ready?”
“Yes, baby. Please,” she said softly before he eased into her. Y/N immediately positioned her body closer to him, wrapped her legs around him. She drew him deeper, moaning out at the sudden depth of his cock inside her.
“S’good, petal. Made for me.” He whispered into her hair, beginning to move slowly with her.
“Fuck, Harry.” She moaned out, holding onto him tightly.
“Good girls don’t curse, petal.” He said firmly, rocking his hips against her.
Her legs tightened as he began to increase his speed gradually. She moaned out, basking in the pleasure. Above her, she could hear him speak but barely could process the words. The feeling was too much for her, euphoric as her second orgasm ripped through her.
“Oh, fuck,” Harry cursed, feeling her clench around him. She knew he wouldn’t last much longer. She felt him thrust into her more sloppily, his breathing rough as he approached his own orgasm. Harry let out a low groan that was music to her ears before collapsing on top of her.
The only sound in the room was their synchronized breathing. They shifted slightly, Harry rolled onto his side, careful not to disconnect their bodies yet. She tucked into his arm, their sweaty bodies tangled together.
“We aren’t ever leaving each other again,” he whispered into the side of her neck. His voice was filled with of conviction. “Can’t be without you, petal. Never again,” he promised.
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Summary: On October 31st, Harry performs at Madison Square Garden while deeply missing his girlfriend. After texting her all day with no reply, he grows worried and longs to see her. After the show, he returns to his hotel room and is surprised to find her waiting there, all dressed up for him. They spend the evening together, happily sharing how much they missed each other.
The fingers of Harry started beating rapidly on the edge of his phone as he was sitting backstage at Madison Square Garden, where thousands of fans made noise from behind its thick walls. He could feel the energy getting built up right from behind the curtains, as the minutes went by, it only became more powerful. The usual smell of hairspray, expensive cologne, and heated up stage equipment was in the air. But today, it all didn't feel quite right.
He looked up at his phone for the hundredth time this day.
Still nothing from his baby.
No notifications.
Not even one single message.
Harry sighed and ran his hand through his curly hair. He unlocked his phone and opened the chat where he saw the whole bunch of texts he had sent her this morning.
Morning, Bunny. Hope you slept well. Wish you could wake up next to me.
I miss you so damn much baby..Just thinking when I’ll be able to see you again.
Baby,are you still sleeping?
Miss you.
Everything alright?
He keeps staring at his phone every minute, but still nothing. All he can think is, What did I do to not deserve a reply? Did he offend her? Was she mad at him because he didn’t call her yesterday? What if she’s seeing the texts but choosing to ignore him?For fuck’s sake, it was driving him insane. And the worst part was that he had a show in five minutes. He had to go out on that stage and act all happy, energetic, and carefree when the most important person in his entire world wasn’t giving him any attention.
In the last few minutes before going on stage, he types one final message to her:
Bunny, I don’t know what I did wrong for you not to reply. Maybe I’m overthinking again. I’m about to go on stage. Thinking about you. I love you and miss you so much. Please call me when you get this message.
Jeff was calling Harry’s name, telling him it was time to go on stage.
Thousands of voices screamed his name, the lights blinding as they swept across the arena. Normally, the energy would have lit a fire inside him. Normally, he’d be grinning from ear to ear, feeding off every cheer, every laugh, every sign held high in the crowd.
But tonight felt different.
His smile was there, his waves were there, his little jokes between songs were therebut his mind wasn’t.
It was with her.
The show moved on around him in a blur. Fans dressed in every Halloween costume imaginable filled the arena. He spotted witches, vampires, superheroes, skeletons, pirates, and even a few giant pumpkins dancing in the crowd. Usually, he would have spent half the night pointing them out and laughing about them.
Tonight, he barely noticed.
Every chance he got during the breaks, he found himself glancing toward the side of the stage where his phone was waiting.
Nothing.
No call.
No text.
No explanation.
The uncertainty sat heavily in his chest.
By the time he reached the middle of the set, sweat was dripping down his neck and soaking through his shirt. The heat from the stage lights felt relentless, and exhaustion was beginning to creep into his muscles. Still, he kept going, running from one side of the stage to the other, singing every lyric and giving the crowd everything he had.Because that’s what he did.No matter what was happening inside his head, he never wanted his fans to feel it.They had come to see a show.They deserved to see one.
The audience sang so loudly during some songs that he could barely hear himself. Their voices echoed through Madison Square Garden like thunder, and for a few moments he almost forgot.
Almost.
Then there would be a pause between songs,his thoughts would rush right back to her.
Why won’t she answer?
Is she okay?
Did something happen?
Is she upset with me?
The questions kept repeating themselves over and over.
Near the end of the night, Harry stood at the front of the stage, chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. The crowd was glowing beneath thousands of tiny lights.He smiled softly.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice slightly rough from singing. “Seriously. Thank you for spending your night with me. Thank you for all the love you’ve given me over the years. I never, ever take it for granted.”
The audience erupted into cheers.Harry looked around the arena, trying to take it all in.
“You lot make this possible,” he continued. “I know I say it all the time, but I mean it every single time. Thank you for being here. I love you all very much.”More screaming.More applause.He smiled again, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.Because even while standing in front of thousands of people who adored him, there was only one person he wanted to hear from.
One person whose silence felt louder than the crowd itself.
He was playing “Toxic” by Britney Spears as his closing song.
The arena exploded.
Harry laughed and jogged back across the stage as the fans immediately started singing along. Purple and green lights flashed around him while the Halloween crowd lost their minds.He danced, spun, and sang every word, sweat glistening on his skin beneath the lights. The energy was electric. The crowd was unstoppable.It should have been enough.It usually was.
But even as he performed the final chorus, even as thousands of voices screamed the lyrics back at him, even as confetti began raining from the ceiling, his thoughts drifted back to the same place.
To her.
To the unanswered messages sitting in their chat.To the phone waiting backstage.To the hope that maybe, just maybe, when he got off stage, there would finally be a reply waiting for him.
The song ended.The crowd erupted into deafening cheers.Harry stood there breathing hard, smiling as he waved goodbye,and sending kisses.
The lights faded.And the very first thing he thought about wasn’t the sold-out show.It wasn’t the applause.It wasn’t the success.
It was whether his phone had finally lit up with her name. By the time Harry finally made it back to the hotel, every part of him ached.The adrenaline from the show had faded, leaving behind nothing but exhaustion. His shirt was still slightly damp with sweat, his voice was hoarse, and all he wanted was a hot shower and a few hours of sleep.
Most of all, he wanted a message from her.
The ride back had been quiet. He’d checked his phone more times than he could count.Still nothing.
His chest felt heavy.
Maybe she’d fallen asleep.
Maybe her phone had died.
Maybe something had happened.
The possibilities had been driving him crazy all night.
Dragging his feet down the hallway, Harry finally reached his hotel room. He slipped the keycard into the lock and pushed the door open.
The room was completely dark.
Only the faint glow from the city lights outside filtered through the curtains.Harry sighed and stepped inside, dropping his bag by the door.
“Great,” he muttered to himself. “Perfect end to the night.”
He kicked off his shoes and started toward the bed. But the moment the soft glow of the lamp hit his eyes, his breath caught sharp in his chest. There she was, Bunny, curled on the edge of the massive bed in nothing but dressed as a Bunny, the hem riding high on her thighs, her dark hair spilling loose and a shy, teasing smile curving her lips. Relief flooded him so fast it buckled his knees, a ragged laugh bursting out as he dropped his bag and crossed the room in three strides. "Bunny... fuck, baby, you—how?" He pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her neck, inhaling the warm vanilla scent of her skin as laughter mixed with the sting of tears he hadn't expected.
Her fingers threaded through his hair, grounding him as the words tumbled out between kisses pressed to her temple. "I missed you so much it hurt," she whispered, voice thick with the same ache, her body pressing closer as if to prove she was real. "The show, the distance every night I watched clips and wished I was there, Harry. You looked so beautiful up there, but I needed this, needed you." He laughed again, softer now, the tension draining from his shoulders as he cupped her face, thumbs stroking her cheeks while their foreheads touched. The air thickened between them, charged with the months apart, his cock already stirring against her hip as her hands slid down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt with deliberate slowness. "I missed this too," he murmured”So fucking much baby..”
They lingered in that embrace, the laughter fading into murmured words that spilled out like confessions long held back. "I missed you so damn much," Harry whispered against her ear, his hands roaming her back possessively, feeling the curve of her waist beneath the fabric. "The show was insane, but texting you with no replies it killed me. Thought maybe you'd forgotten." She tilted her head up, her eyes sparkling with playful affection as she pressed closer, her breasts soft against his chest. "Never, Harry. I wanted to surprise you, make it special after all those lonely nights. I missed your voice, your hands... everything." Her fingers traced his jaw, and the emotional thread between them tightened, the separation's ache giving way to a tender urgency that made his pulse quicken.
You have no idea how much I've thought about this pussy," he growled softly, tugging the corset up to expose her breasts, nipples already pebbled, before sliding down to part her thighs and press his mouth to her slick folds. Bunny arched with a gasp, her hands threading through his hair as his tongue licked slow and deliberate over her clit, tasting her arousal while his fingers teased her entrance, the wet sounds mingling with her moans. "That's it, love let me hear you. Tell me how much you missed my cock," he murmured between strokes, his own erection straining against his pants as he savored her trembling response, the reconnection deepening with every shared breath and touch.
Her thighs quivered under his palms as he delved deeper, tongue thrusting into her wet heat with insistent strokes that matched the rhythm of her rising moans. "Harry oh god, I've missed this so much," Bunny gasped, her voice breaking on a whimper as she rocked against his mouth, fingers tightening in his curls to pull him closer. The taste of her flooded him, sweet and heady, and he groaned low in his throat, the vibration pulsing through her clit as he sucked it firmly between his lips, one finger sliding inside her tight pussy to curl against that spot that always made her unravel. His cock throbbed painfully in his pants, but he held back, savoring the way her body responded to his control the soft dominance in how he pinned her hips with his free hand, guiding her pleasure even as exhaustion from the show faded under the rush of having her here, real and trembling for him.”Mhmm,my little bunny dressed as one f’me hm?”Harry’s voice sending a shiver into her back.
Bunny's thighs trembled around his head as she moaned louder, her voice breaking on his name while her fingers tightened in his curls, urging him deeper. "Harry fuck, I missed your cock so much, missed feeling it stretch me open and fill me up until I can't think," she gasped, hips rocking against his mouth as his tongue flicked relentlessly over her swollen clit, two fingers sliding into her dripping pussy with a slick curl that had her walls clenching tight. The taste of her coated his tongue, sweet and musky, and the way she writhed beneath him sent a fresh surge of blood straight to his aching erection, pressing hard against the zipper of his pants. He groaned into her folds, the vibration making her cry out again, her breasts heaving as she arched higher, nipples brushing the cool air.
He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his lips glistening, voice rough with that soft command she always melted for. "Good girl keep talking, tell me how empty you've been without me." His free hand worked his belt open one-handed, freeing his thick cock to the cool room air, the head already slick with precome as he stroked himself slowly. Bunny's gaze dropped to it, her tongue darting out over her lips, but he didn't give her time to reach, instead leaning in to suck her clit harder while pumping his fingers faster, curling against that spot that made her whole body shake. The emotional weight of the reunion lingered in every touch the way his thumb stroked her hip soothingly even as he devoured her, the soft praises he murmured between licks blending with the raw hunger to reclaim every inch of her.
She came with a broken whimper, pussy pulsing around his fingers, thighs locking as pleasure crashed through her, and Harry worked her through it with gentle laps until she tugged him up by the hair. He rose over her then, cock nudging against her slick entrance as he kissed her deeply, letting her taste herself on his tongue. "Since u have been a really bad girl keeping me worried about you,not caring about your boyfriend..I don’t think i should care about you getting off or not.Hm bunny does that annoys you?Too bad love.”he breathed against her mouth, pushing in slow and steady, the tight heat of her drawing a low groan from his chest as their bodies finally joined again after so many nights apart.
“Har-please no.I was trying to be good for you..”
“You beg so beautifully baby.Beside all i can’t leave my little bunny all worked up.Take off your underwear only leave the bunny ears and go on fours.Now.”
Can we do a breeding kink one shot with the use of the word mama
I’ll do a blurb for now but this has been on my mind… so I will do a full length thing with it at some point.
Check out our Patreon for early access and 300+ exclusive writings and series!
Warnings- breeding kink, unprotected sex,
Y/N knew that he wanted another baby.
In fact, that was something he mentioned daily. Multiple times. Their daughter was three, toddling about and cute as a button so she could see the appeal- but she liked to give him a bit of a hard time.
Harry had been smart enough to wait until ‘terrible twos’ had passed before he started asking, but it seemed like he was feeling it more every day. Of course she wanted it too- he wouldn’t be so insistent on bringing it up if he knew she didn’t- but she really loved to hear him beg.
There was nothing like him cornering her in their laundry room while their daughter was down for a nap, his grabby hands running over her soft stomach as he nuzzled his face into her neck, cock pressing into her from behind as he murmured in that low tone she loved so much about how much he wanted another baby.
It was even better when her dress was flipped up around her waist, his trousers were around his ankles and he was pressed up against her as his cock thrust into her with a slow, deep pace that had her knees feeling like jelly.
“C’mon, mama.” His voice mumbled into her jaw, close enough to her ear for her to feel the vibration of it. The tickle of the feel had her shuddering as he cuffed her throat. “Just let me give it t’you. You did so well last time, mm? Gave me a perfect baby… Want more.”
Y/N didn’t have it in her to play coy when he was so deep in her pussy that she could feel his sac against her ass. There was no way she could pretend she didn’t want it just as bad when she squeezed around him, knowing she was getting him more wet as the tip of his cock dragged against the spot he had claimed as his own.
A broken meal left her lips as she arched back into him, the sound vibrating against his palm as he ground into her with a deep, satisfied groan leaving his lips following by a breathy chuckle. “Yeah? That felt like a yes, pretty girl. Want t’be filled up with me?” The pace was kept, the delicious drag of his fat cock making her brace against the washing machine with bated breath.
“Y-Yeah.” The admission he wanted spilled off her tongue as her eyes hooded, the squelch of his cock pushing back into her cunt hitting her ears. She always got stupidly wet when he talked to her like this, and he took full advantage of it. “Want it. Want it, please.”
“That’s what I wanted t’hear. Silly girl playin’ all these stupid fucking games, pretending you don’t get all creamy around my cock the second I mention knocking you up… Make me beg for it every time when we both know you love it when I finger my cum back into your greedy pussy because you hate wasting it…” His laugh was a puff against her cheek as he picked up the pace, giving her throat a little squeeze.
“Just stand there and let me do my job, Mama. Let me keep giving you babies and spoiling you. That’s the only thing I want t’do for the rest of my life.”
Alone in the silence of a hotel room, Harry is forced to confront the unbearable weight of four years he never even knew existed. As grief gives way to fury, one truth becomes impossible to ignore - he's already lost enough time with his daughter, and he refuses to lose any more.
Word Count: 9.4k
Ch. 1 - 10 (x)
Silence became the loudest thing he had ever lived inside. Somehow, in the wake of everything, the noise of absolutely nothing outsung the sound of anything he’d ever heard before.
It pressed in on him from every corner, dense and ringing as if the air around him had weight. After all of the yelling - all of the tears, sharp insults and edged words - the relentless noise in his head, he longed for it. No cicadas humming. No trees bristling. No stark reminders that the world kept spinning while his had halted completely. Pure, uninterrupted quiet. All he needed was time to himself. Time to digest. Time to process. Just get to the car, he thought, clinging to it like a lifeline.
But when his back hit the leather seat, it wasn’t familiar. The smell wasn’t his. The steering wheel didn’t feel right in his palms. It was a car that he didn’t recognize, just like the life that didn’t belong to him. Rented, temporary, and untethered. The driver’s side door came to a close and the silence sealed itself in around him, complete and utterly merciless. He’d gotten exactly what he asked for and realized it wasn’t what he wanted.
Everything operated strangely after that. Time felt like it moved differently all night - hours felt like minutes, minutes felt like hours. Stretched before collapsing on itself. It warped the weight of what had been dropped in his lap. It bent the air inside the car as it sat there, idle and unstarted in the driveway. The eerie blanket of completely quiet made it feel obscured, like tasting static.
The radio remained off. His fingers didn’t drum the steering wheel. He didn’t roll the windows down or hum to himself to keep his mind busy while he sat at a red light, the way he always did. Another small habit to keep his thoughts from turning inward. There was nothing to fill this space that was only built to hold silence. Twenty seven minutes of unbearable silence.
Every so often, his hands froze before his fingers flexed involuntarily, as if his body needed proof it was still alive or useful - as if sensation had to be forced back into them. They were the same hands that waved to a sea of faces under stadium lights. The same hands that wrapped around microphones, steadied the neck of a guitar or used to meet the curve of Anna’s waist like it was reflex. Hands that never held his own child during her first few moments on earth. That truth followed him all the way back to the hotel. Heavy and relentless, settling deeper into his bones with each stretch of another mile. So he drove in silence.
The drive ended the same way it started - finding himself sitting somewhere he didn’t want to be. Time had somehow fused itself together. Or stopped completely. He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t remember if he’d been driving for 15 minutes. 30, maybe. An hour, perhaps. All the same. The time on the dashboard clock was telling him it was half past 10pm. He didn’t bother to look at the time when he’d pulled out of Anna’s driveway. In fact, he didn’t remember pulling out of the driveway at all. No memory of putting his foot on the gas or shifting back into drive. Did he even stop at red lights? Miles disappeared beneath him without asking to be remembered. The noise in his head was so busy he couldn’t seem to recollect how he’d gotten here.
Harry stared through the windshield for a long moment after pulling beneath the hotel's awning, hands still wrapped around the steering wheel long after the engine had gone quiet. The silence wafting in the car clung to him as stubbornly as the ache in his chest. He wasn't sure what he was waiting for. Permission, maybe. Or the impossible hope that if he sat there long enough, he'd wake up and discover none of it had happened. He closed his eyes for a second - lids wound tightly shut as he sucked in a deep breath. When he opened them, he’d be somewhere else.
In bed, where he could just get up and abandon this bad dream amidst disgruntled sheets. The morning light filtering through curtains. Disheveled sheets twisted around his legs after another restless night. Maybe even a text from Mitch asking what time they were leaving. Or scolding him for running late. Coffee. A quick, hot shower. Anything but this. Anything but a world where he'd learned, in the span of an evening, that he had a four-year-old daughter he'd never known existed.
His lungs emptied as he opened his eyes. Nothing was different. A sharp rap loud rap of knuckles against the passenger’s side window splintered the silence, instead - jerking his shoulders almost on instinct. There was a moment he nearly forgot where he was, the soft glow of the hotel exterior lights lulling him into recollection.
A navy-blue name tag caught his eye first, faintly lit by the warm glow pooling beneath the maroon-colored awning. His gaze followed upward until it reached the face behind the window - the valet, who couldn't have been older than twenty-three. Sandy hair in messy curls peeked out from beneath a neatly fitted cap. A polite, practiced smile settled easily across his round face. It was the kind of smile worn by someone who greeted hundreds of strangers every week. There was an openness to the kid that only belonged to people who still believed every interaction was ordinary. A luxury Harry yearned for as he rolled down the window.
"Evening, sir." he said through the glass, cheerful enough that you could almost ignore the fact it was forced.
Harry blinked. It took him a second longer than it should have to remember how to respond. The words reached him, but they seemed to arrive from somewhere impossibly far away. He looked at the earnest kid for a beat whilst his expression remained blank, as though he'd forgotten where he was. Like he had no idea what came after someone greeted you.
The smile lingered for another second before uncertainty crept in around its edges. It faltered minimally, the corners of his mouth tightening as his eyes flicked over Harry's face, searching for some sign of recognition or response. A faint crease formed between his brows, confusion settling in as he hesitated, clearly unsure if he'd been heard at all. The valet shifted his weight, brow lifting a little more noticeably now, his polite composure wavering just enough to reveal his uncertainty. Harry watched as his body leaned in towards the car, fingers flexing on the edge of the window.
“Do… you want me to park the car, sir?”
“Right.” Harry nodded quietly as if the valet pulled the thought right from his head. “Yes - yeah, thank you.”
His fingers, slim and fable, fumbled loudly as they fished the set of keys out of the cupholder beside him. Amidst it all, he could feel the weight of the valet’s stare heavy on the crown of his head. When he looked back up and offered the keys over the passenger seat, the young man offered another polite smile. It was smaller this time, gracefully touched with the careful patience people reserved for strangers who looked like they'd had a difficult night. Harry wondered if it was that obvious.
“No problem!” The valet chirped, wrapping the keys in his palm before scurrying to the driver’s side of the car.
Harry nodded absently, already somewhere else again by the time he pushed open the driver's door. He was met with the whipping of humid Georgia air, which wrapped around him as he stepped beneath the hotel's awning. For a brief moment he simply stood there, watching the valet slip atop the leather seat and situate himself behind the wheel of the rental car. It struck him then how effortlessly the kid had known what to do next. It felt like a luxury Harry could no longer afford, and he wallowed in that thought as he watched the tail lights of the car blur into nothing.
The heavy glass doors opened before he reached them, releasing a rush of chilled air that chased away the thick Georgia humidity still clinging to his clothes. Inside, the hotel gleamed.
Cream-colored marble stretched endlessly beneath his feet, polished to such a high shine it reflected the warm glow of crystal chandeliers overhead. Gold accents caught the light at every turn. They framed oversized mirrors, lined the concierge desk, traced the edges of towering floral arrangements that looked as though they were replaced every few hours. Somewhere out of sight and deeper in the lobby, a pianist drifted lazily through an old jazz standard. Every note dissolved into the soft murmur of conversations and the faint clink of crystal glasses from the hotel bar.
The details reached his eyes but never quite settled in his mind, sliding past him without any meaning. He could've been walking through the grandest hotel in the country or the lobby of another airport Hilton for all he cared. His body moved forward because it knew it was supposed to, not because his brain had told it to.
People lingered everywhere.
A couple leaned shoulder to shoulder over drinks, laughing quietly between themselves. A businessman wheeled a carry-on toward the elevators while absently loosening his tie. A young family crossed the lobby with a sleepy little girl draped across her father's shoulder, her tiny hand curled around the ear of a well-loved stuffed teddy bear. Harry's gaze caught on them. Only for a heartbeat.
Long enough to watch the father instinctively adjust her weight against his chest without waking her. His own chest tightened. Four years. Four years of moments that ordinary. Four years of reaching for a child who already knew exactly where she belonged. His feet kept moving. He lowered his head before anyone could catch his expression.
"Mister Styles," a voice greeted warmly, the Southern drawl softening each syllable. "Good evenin'. Welcome back."
The younger brunette from earlier, the one who'd spent the afternoon swiveling lazily in a creaky desk chair trying to invent ways to entertain himself during the lull between check-ins, had long since gone home. In his place sat a woman pushing sixty, if he had to guess. Her silvery hair was gathered into a loose twist at the nape of her neck while thick-rimmed glasses rested low on her nose. She looked up from her computer, her face immediately brightening the moment she recognized him.
Harry slowed just enough to acknowledge her. But, involuntarily, his chin just dipped in an automatic nod. The corners of his mouth twitched into something that could’ve passed for a smile if someone wasn't looking too closely. He could've stopped. Could've asked how her evening was going. Thanked her. Wished her a good night the way his mum had spent years insisting decent people ought to do. The words were there somewhere. He knew they were, he could feel them. He just couldn't seem to reach them right now. Instead, he kept walking.
His lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze drifting somewhere beyond the concierge desk, beyond the lobby, beyond the hotel itself.
A father.
The words appeared again without permission. Not a singer. Not a son. Not a brother. Not the same man who'd sat at the kitchen island in Anna's parents' house, entirely sure that he fully understood the shape of his own life.
A father.
The title felt impossibly foreign and horrifyingly familiar all at once, like trying on a coat that should've belonged to him years ago. A bellhop maneuvered an empty brass luggage cart around the corner, offering Harry an easy smile as he passed. Harry nodded back automatically.
I'm someone's father.
The thought struck harder that time. Not someday. Not one day. Already. For four years. And somehow, impossibly, the rest of the world continued exactly as it had before. The all too familiar, mundane habit of trudging down another hotel hallway. Loitering impatiently in front of the elevator while awaiting its descent, pressing the button again as if it’ll somehow expedite its trip to the lobby floor.
He could hear the elevator mechanics grinding together faintly before the doors opened up. In the split second that existed before the doors parted, he hopelessly prayed that it’d be empty. The idea of ascending to the 15th floor with company made the knot in his stomach twist a little harder.
The empty carriage felt like the first break he’d caught all day. He wondered, if someone else was packed in here beside him, what they would think of him slamming the button to the 15th floor four separate times before manically hitting the ‘close doors’ option on the bottom of the panel. He was the only one in here, and he desperately needed it to stay that way.
The elevator climbed in complete silence, save for the occasional mechanical hum as it eased past another floor. He held his breath with each floor that passed, saying a silent prayer that the carriage didn’t grind to a stop to give refuge to another hotel guest.
Harry stood alone beneath the recessed lighting, his reflection staring back at him from every pane of brushed steel that lined the cab. He caught glimpses of himself from every angle. Staring back at him, he had resorted to nothing but bloodshot eyes, shoulders pulled tighter than usual, curls fallen haphazardly across his forehead. He hardly recognized the man looking back.
A soft chime announced the 15th floor. The doors parted with practiced ease, revealing a hallway washed in muted amber light. Plush burgundy carpet swallowed the sound of his footsteps as he wandered toward his room, the corridor stretching endlessly ahead in perfect symmetry. Every identical door looked as temporary as the last, each one housing strangers with lives that would remain blissfully untouched by his own. He wondered if anyone else behind a closed door was burdened with problems that mimicked his own.
"Oh my God... did you just see who that was?" a voice whispered, not nearly as quietly as its owner had intended.
It was a bleak reminder and a harsh reality check. He wants to just disappear, which is almost impossible given who he is. The concept of this hotel hallway becoming another place where he has to be ‘Harry Styles’ felt like a burden too heavy to carry. He isn’t even sure who that person is right now. The fame has never felt more insignificant. Usually fans remind him of his career, his accomplishments. Tonight, none of that mattered because the only identity he can think about is the one no one else knows. The one he couldn’t even bring himself to say out loud.
Another answered almost immediately. "Just leave him be. It's late."
Yes, Harry thought wearily. Just leave me be. Tonight, more than any other, he couldn't bear the thought of being perceived. If someone stopped him now - asked for a photograph, an autograph, exchanged the kind of harmless small talk he'd spent years navigating with practiced ease - he didn’t think he could manage to survive it. That carefully rehearsed smile. The genuine gratitude. That outward version of himself that belonged to everyone else. He wasn't certain he could keep the thoughts from spilling out.
I have a daughter.
The sentence had begun living just beneath the surface of everything, scratching relentlessly at the back of his throat, begging to be spoken aloud if only to prove it was real. Still, he could feel their eyes following him from somewhere behind. Curious. Hopeful. Wondering if they'd made the right identification. He kept his head lowered. Shoulders squared. Body angled just enough to signal what his mouth wouldn't.
Please don't.
The familiar weight of being watched had never felt heavier. By the time he reached his door, relief had settled so deeply in his chest it almost hurt. His key card slipped into the lock. A flash of green. A quiet mechanical click. It was the first thing all evening that had gone exactly as expected.
He threw one foot inside, then another. The door swung shut behind him with a muffled thud, severing the warm glow of the hallway in a swift, single motion. Darkness swallowed the room whole, wrapping around him before his eyes had the chance to adjust. Harry stood motionless just inside the doorway. He drew in a long breath through his nose, but it left him slower than it entered, collapsing from his lungs in something that sounded dangerously close to surrender.
Only then did he reach for the wall, fingertips trailing blindly across cool textured paint until they found the light switch. Instead, he stood motionless just inside the doorway, allowing the darkness to swallow him whole. It settled over his shoulders like another layer of clothing, concealing the room from view and, for one fleeting moment, asking nothing of him.
His trainers remained laced tightly to his feet. The middle button of his shirt still fastened atop his chest. The mint green suitcase sat picked through at the foot of the bed, reminding him of how he picked it apart earlier in the day for the right clothes to wear. Reminding him of how he’d gone to Anna’s with entirely different expectations of the outcome.
He couldn't bring himself to move. Every action between leaving the Wilson’s driveway and arriving here had happened on instinct alone. Pressing the auto start button to the rental car. Merging onto the highway. Handing his keys to the valet. Smiling (if he could even call it that) at the eager looking concierge. Riding in the elevator. Walking the endless hallway to his room. Each one had been another task.
Another distraction. Another excuse to put off the moment when there would be nothing left to occupy his hands, leaving only his mind to address its thoughts. His thumb brushed absentmindedly over the light switch, soon followed by a gentle click. Warm light spilled across the room all at once. Each bulb above him chased the darkness into the corners, exposing the familiar anonymity he'd stupidly hoped wouldn't be there.
The air conditioner hummed steadily beneath the window, its mechanical drone occupying the silence without ever quite interrupting it. Crisp white sheets stretched taut across the king-sized bed, untouched, every corner folded with impossible precision. It was not the same restless, anxiously distraught pile of sheets he’d left behind hours earlier.
His wedding suit lay abandoned across the ottoman where he'd thrown it off the night before, the jacket slipping lazily over the edge as though it had collapsed under its own weight. Beside the bathroom door, his suitcase sat lopsided and half-unzipped, one polished dress shoe still tucked neatly inside while its mate rested several feet away where he'd carelessly kicked it off after the reception.
Aside from a freshly made bed, nothing had changed. The room looked exactly as he'd left it, only now it felt painfully unfamiliar. Like it belonged to the blissful, unassuming version of himself who had walked out of it hours earlier. The version who still foolishly believed he understood the shape of his own life. Who understood exactly who he was and what he wanted.
The physical world remained frozen while his internal world became irrevocably altered. The room hadn’t changed. Georgia hadn’t changed. He was changed. Harry let his eyes drift slowly from one corner of the room to the next, taking inventory of everything except the thoughts he'd spent the last few hours outrunning. There was nowhere left for them to hide.
He threw his wallet on the TV console, missing it entirely and wincing a bit as it landed on the carpet with a thud. His eyes rolled next to his suitcase, where they pondered the idea of sifting through it for a clean pair of sleep shorts. The effort required to unzip it, to pull out a change of clothes, to begin the ordinary routine of ending a day suddenly felt impossibly disproportionate. There had been a version of him this morning who would've showered without thinking. Hung his clothes neatly in the wardrobe. Set an alarm. Maybe answered a few texts before bed. That man had completely checked out just after sunset.
Harry wandered farther into the room without any real destination, his fingers absently grazing the edge of the dresser before finding the back of the desk chair. He pulled it out just enough to sit, only to think better of it. The bed looked inviting until he glanced at it, then it became suffocating. Even the silence intertwined with the whirr of the air conditioning seemed restless, pressing against his ears with a weight that made the room feel smaller than it was.
His gaze fixated, instead, on the wedding suit draped carelessly across the ottoman. Twenty-four hours ago, that suit had been arguably the most important thing hanging in the room. He'd worried about wrinkles. Whether the tie sat straight. Whether Anna would look at him. It held the faintly remaining scent of a shared cigarette. Deeply engrained in the fabric were memories of a few shared laughs, sobering questions, the slight hint of potential.
Now it looked absurd. Fabric. Thread. Buttons. The longer he looked at it, the more he felt his stare harden and burn with resentment. How could something that had consumed so much of his attention that morning suddenly feel so meaningless? He couldn’t even bring himself to look at it anymore.
His eyes drifted toward the mirror above the dresser before he caught himself. He wasn't ready to look. Instead, he found himself staring through the window, beyond his own faint reflection mimicked sloppily by the room lighting, to the parking lot several floors below. Cars came and went beneath pools of amber light. A couple crossed toward the entrance, their laughter muted by the glass. Somewhere in another room, someone let out a burst of laughter loud enough to carry through the walls before it disappeared just as quickly.
As cruel as it felt, the world had continued without asking his permission. His life, however, had not. And he’d be remiss to recognize that the life he’d known before would likely never look the same again. Which made his jaw tighten. The anger returned as suddenly, and profoundly, as it had left.
Absent-mindedly, his thumb slipped beneath the leather band of his watch before he'd consciously decided to take it off. The buckle came undone with practiced ease, the same familiar movement he'd repeated thousands of times over the years without a second thought. He turned it over once in his palm, glaring down at the shiny silver before setting it carefully atop the dresser.
The face still ticked. Second after second. Minute after minute. It hadn't stopped. Time never did. It didn’t wait for anyone, and it passed threateningly. Whether he wanted it to or not.
His eyes lingered on the sweeping hands longer than they should have. With a lump in his throat, he carried on watching them continue their slow, indifferent path around the dial. The longer he looked, the more it frustrated him how completely unmoved it was by the fact that his entire world had come undone somewhere between one rotation and the next. It was sickening how such an inanimate object was seemingly taunting him from the palm of his hand.
Four years. The number sounded manageable for a moment. That is, until he tried to hold it in his mind. Instantly it became impossible. Four years wasn't a number - it was time. Time measured in ordinary Tuesdays and hurried breakfasts. In bedtime stories read for the hundredth time because children never seemed to tire of hearing the same ending. In scraped knees that healed, baby teeth that loosened, red marks carefully and quirkily marked against kitchen walls to count growth spurts. Four years wasn't something you counted. It was something you lived.
Or, in his case...Something he'd missed.
His throat tightened again. Constricting and releasing in short spurts. Somewhere wrapped within those four years, Charlie had learned to laugh. Someone had discovered that ticklish spot that sent her into breathless giggles. She'd learned to clap, to wave, to point at things she wanted but couldn’t yet find the words for. Someone had witnessed every one of those moments. Someone had laughed with her. Cheered for her. Picked her up after she'd fallen. Soothed her back to sleep after a bad dream. It just hadn't been him.
His fingers curled instinctively against the edge of the dresser. He wondered what her voice had sounded like before she could pronounce words properly. Like how she pronounced the word ‘yellow’ or ‘spaghetti’. He thought fondly of the idea of her babbling endlessly in that language only babies seemed to understand. Did she reach for Anna the way every child instinctively reached for the person they trusted most? Eventually his thoughts brought him somewhere else. To a place where he considered a moment - one brief, confusing moment - where she'd looked around the room in search of someone she couldn't quite name. The thought stopped him cold and invited a queasy feeling to the pit of his stomach.
He closed his eyes to try and ward it off. No, he decided, she wouldn't have. How could she ever know to miss someone she didn’t even know existed? That realization alone hollowed him out in an entirely different way. It wasn’t because she'd forgotten him, but because she'd never been given the chance to remember him. He was likely never even a forethought.
His gaze returned to the watch as it continued ticking, unaffected and completely unrelenting. He found himself thinking now about every hour he'd spent crossing oceans. Every late-night interview. Every encore. Every airport terminal. Every hotel room that blurred into the next. He'd measured his life in departures, seas of people as blurred faces, boarding passes, vacations, unmoored responsibilities. Meanwhile, somewhere between Georgia and New York, a little girl had been measuring hers in birthdays and firsts. He’d fallen short of his biggest responsibility of all, and he didn’t even have a clue.
The watch suddenly felt heavier than it had any right to. He picked it up again, turning it over in his hand. Four years. One thousand, four hundred and sixty-one days. Thirty-five thousand and... he stopped counting. The mathematical gymnastics were meaningless. No equation in the world could accurately calculate the gravity or magnitude of lost time.
Tucked away in his pocket, deemed as an afterthought for the bulk of today, his phone buzzed. It twitched against his thigh, the thin barrier of fabric between his phone and his bare skin buzzing faintly. Like it needed to urgently remind him of its imperative existence.
Upon fishing it out reluctantly, Harry only stared at the lock screen. He squinted against the sudden wash of harsh blue light as if it had done something to offend him. Notifications sat stacked one atop the other, ordinary and absurd in their urgency and completely forgotten. A handful of ignored emails. A slew of unanswered texts. One from Gemma, another from Jeff. Someone else following up about a call he’d forgotten he was supposed to take. Someone else asking when he was flying home which, in turn, elicited a bitter laugh. As if, at this point, he had any idea. As if he had even thought that far ahead. The world, of course, still needed things from him. Then he saw his mother’s name.
Landed. I’ll call you when I get home. Love you. X
Something inside him lurched so violently it absolutely terrified him as his thumb froze over the screen. For one unbearingly gruesome second, he was no longer trapped in his thoughts within the four walls of a hotel room in Georgia. In that fleeting moment, he was just a little boy again - caught in limbo between needing his mother and not knowing how to explain what hurt. The muscles in his throat constrained again with a force that made him swallow hard once, then again. Neither time seemed to help. The message on the screen blurred slightly before he blinked it clear. His own mother didn’t know.
No one knew. Not a single friend. Not Gemma. Not his mother, who had grown quite attached and poured love into Anna once with the easy, open affection she tended to give people she believed might become family. His mother had no idea she had another granddaughter.
Harry seemingly lowered himself squarely into the desk chair before he even realized he’d moved at all. Everything felt off kilter as the room seemed to tilt strangely around him. The carpet felt soft beneath his feet, the air conditioner kept humming on as though nothing about the shape of the universe had shifted. His phone remained firmly gripped in his hand. Anne’s message still glowed menacingly back at him. Innocent, unaware, and all too unbearable.
How was he supposed to tell her? The question struck with such tenderness, such sudden brutality, that it nearly ripped through the anger entirely. How was anyone supposed to make that kind of call?
How was he supposed to answer that call, which he knew would come sooner rather than later, and segway into this revelation. Small talk about the wedding, a few lighthearted jokes about the airport, a recap of an otherwise eventless few hours aboard a plane. She’d ask in a tone that masked any trace of meddling how returning Anna’s ring went. Which, ultimately, he’d answer with the ground-altering sentence, Mum, I have a daughter, that would elicit a deafening silence on the other end of the phone. How would he find answers to the questions she’d surely ask him? Likely to be questions he still had unanswered as well. How could he fathom that discussion without imagining the hurt in her voice when she realized she had missed four years too? Four years of birthdays. Four years of photographs. Four years of tiny dresses and first words and sleepy morning curls. Four years of getting to know someone that was just as much a part of her, too.
He could only picture his mother going eerily quiet. That, to him, was the worst part. Not crying or gasping. Just meet his declaration with a devastating stillness of a mother trying to be strong for her son while something inside her quietly cracked. His hand tightened around the phone until the edges bit into his palm. And then, beneath the grief, the anger came back. It crept up on him slowly at first before crashing down all at once. His mother should have known. He should have known.
There should have been a phone call. A message. A letter. Fucking something - anything. There should have been one single moment in the last four years where Anna looked at their daughter - looked at a face that held a strong resemblance to his own adolescence - and decided he deserved to know she was alive. That there was a father out there that belonged to her the same way she belonged to him. A father that would’ve given up anything if it meant gaining her instead.
His thumb moved instinctually before he could stop himself, feverishly moving to open his messages. Before he could even recognize what he was looking for, he found his fingers busy typing Anna’s name. As a result, the old thread appeared like a bruise he’d forgotten how to stop touching. He hadn’t deleted it, and he hated that about himself.
For years, he’d convinced himself it meant nothing. That it was only there because deleting it felt dramatic. Because he wasn’t the kind of person who scrubbed someone from his phone like they had never existed. He had kept it because some part of him had never been brave enough to let the last proof of them disappear. He had kept it with a deeply buried, silent hope that one day they’d be answered.
The most recent messages sat at the bottom, exactly as he remembered them. A missed call. Another one two days later, sent directly to voicemail just as the first had. Then the text.
Can we talk?
Three stupid words. Still green. Still unanswered. Followed by another hauntingly green bubble.
I don’t want to leave things that way. When you’re ready to talk, I’ll be here.
Both messages still sat there, frozen in time with all the humiliation of a hand extended into empty air. Like so many times before, Harry stared at them until his vision sharpened around the edges.
He remembered sending each text message. Remembered standing outside a studio with one shoulder pressed to a brick wall, the city moving loudly around him while he watched the screen like it might change if he wanted it badly enough. He remembered trying to call her first. Once. Then again. He recalled the physical feeling of disappointment upon being immediately sent to voicemail. The hesitance of leaving a message, but quickly hanging up instead. He didn’t know what to say. He’d nearly convinced himself to try for a third time, so sure that the first two didn’t count because his hands had been shaking and he hadn’t known what he would say if she answered
But she hadn’t. The calls never went through. The messages never turned blue. Maybe it was denial, or his brain creating something out of reflex to shelter his fragility, but he had told himself she’d changed her number. Eventually, he had forced himself to come to terms with the fact that she had blocked him. He’d let that explanation settle where the wound was because it made sense in the cruelest way. Anna had wanted him gone. Anna had shut the door. And, in turn, Anna had made sure there was no vessel for him to knock anymore.
But now, staring at the old green texts, that assumption curdled into something sharper before taking on an entirely new shape. She had known then. She knew when he called. She had known when he reached, however clumsily he did it, back toward the wreckage of them. She had known there was something more than heartbreak sitting between them, something alive and growing within her. A beautifully devastating fuse of him and her. Yet, still, she had stayed unreachable.
No, worse. She had willingly, intentionally, made herself unreachable.
Harry’s jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. In light of recent events and a crushing new reality to be faced, it woefully dawned on him that a changed number was not an accident. Silence that complete, that calculated was not passive in any capacity. Disappearing that thoroughly took effort. It took planning and willful, precise intention. It took waking up day after day and deciding that the father of his child would remain exactly where she’d left him - behind the slammed door of a once happy home.
The phone lowered slowly into his lap while his anger pulsed through him - nowhere clean to go. It was too tangled with disbelief. Too tangled with grief. Too tangled with the memory of Anna’s face in the yard, pale and stricken and defensive, as if he had been the one who’d forced the truth out of hiding by daring to ask the wrong question.
How had it taken until tonight? The thought struck him again, wider this time, expanding beyond Anna until it filled the room and swallowed him whole. How had she managed to get by this long without this being known? How had he managed to live four years on the same earth as his daughter, growing and existing right under his nose, and he never caught even a whisper of her?
He rattled off all the things he’s done throughout the course of his career - the larger half of his entire life - and found himself circling. He had been photographed buying coffee. Photographed leaving gyms. Photographed outside hotels, inside airports, walking too close to someone, standing too far from someone, wearing a shirt people decided meant something it didn’t. Strangers online from far and wide could (and have) build entire mythologies out of a ring on his finger, a lyric, a glance, a blurry background reflection in somebody else’s Instagram story.
And yet, amidst all of that, Charlie had existed. Not as an idea or a rumor, but as a child. His child. A little girl with a name, with a face that favored his own many moons ago, with a laugh that replicated her mother’s. She had existed for this long and somehow there had been nothing.
No grainy photos of Anna with a precocious bump tucked beneath a sundress or poking out of a shirt. No leaked photo of Anna with a baby on her hip in some grocery store parking lot. No anonymous comment buried beneath a fan account. No blurry picture posted by someone’s cousin’s friend with a caption full of question marks. No internet theory ever strange enough to reach him or garner any traction. No cryptic murmur from a mutual friend who had heard something and thought he ought to know. Tried as he may, he can’t even come up with a memory of ever seeing a photo of Anna anywhere with even so much as an inkling or reference to Charlie. And he was sure he’d scoured every corner of the internet by now. Enough to have at least remembered.
Not even suspicion, just four years of total silence. It was almost impressive. Which, in turn, only seemed to make him angrier. The longer he thought about it, the less it felt like luck and the more it felt like architecture. Anna had not only kept a secret. No, she had managed to build an entire life around keeping it.
Family who knew not to say his name too loudly. Siblings who offered an impenetrable ring of secrecy and familial protection. Friends who knew what not to ask and topics to steer clear from. A small, southern hometown that understood and practiced privacy as a form of unwavering loyalty. A daughter raised beneath the protective cover of marshland, church mornings, closed gates, and southern manners sharp enough to keep strangers from peering too closely.
And Harry had been everywhere. All this time - painfully, publicly, and ridiculously reachable. Out in the complete open yet, somehow, still tucked away in the darkest corner of Anna’s thoughts. In a box with no lock or key.
Anna could have found him if she wanted to. That was the part he couldn’t stop turning over. There had been lawyers. Managers. Friends. Email addresses. Even an instagram DM, if she was truly amiss of all other routes. His mother. God, his mother. If Anna had wanted the truth to reach him, she could have sent it in a hundred different directions and one of them would have surely found him.
But she chose none. Every single day, she chose none. Every morning Charlie woke up, Anna knew and still chose none. Every birthday candle blown out, each one marking another year that had passed, Anna had a plethora of options and still chose not a single one. Every fever, every first word, every new tooth, every nightmare, every little shoe tied by the door, every bedtime story read beneath a soft lamp, every moment where Charlie became more herself, Anna knew there was someone out there who had no idea what he was missing. The most agonizing realization of it all was how she willingly, and continuously, let him miss it.
Harry looked back down at the phone, where his mother’s text still waited on the screen - small and loving and completely unaware. It was too much to face at the moment, so he pressed his thumb against the side button until the screen went black. To his dismay, the darkness reflected his own face back at him.
The reflection was haunting. He looked at the tired, stricken, angry person hollowly staring back at him. The reflection of a man with a daughter. The reflection of someone’s son who had to call his mother and tell her she was a grandmother four years too late. The phone sat heavy in his hand as though the weight tripled with each thought that swirled in his skull.
For years, he had mistaken Anna’s silence for the end of their love story. Tonight, he understood it had also been the wall built around the beginning of his daughter’s life. It was enough to prompt him into throwing the phone onto the bed, watching it land face down atop the crisp hotel duvet. He couldn't bring himself to look at it anymore.
Not at the unanswered messages. Not at the conversations that had simply... stopped. Not at the impossible realization that somewhere buried beneath years of ordinary notifications and forgotten reminders, his entire life had quietly rewritten itself without him even knowing. The room suddenly felt too warm, too stuffy and overbearing. Or maybe it was him.
As if to subdue the uneasiness embedded across his entire body, he dragged a hand over his face. The scrape of stubble was rough against his palm before he forced himself to his feet. Each movement of his body took place before his brain had a moment to catch up with the decision. His legs managed to carry him toward the bathroom with the slow, heavy gait of someone who had been awake for several days instead of a few hours.
The light above the vanity blinked once before flooding the small room in a sterile, blinding shade of white. Everything existing inside of the lush ensuite bathroom remained painfully untouched. Fresh towels folded with crisp corners. Tiny bottles of shampoo lined neatly along the marble countertop, a few of them adorning the shower shelf. A bar of soap wrapped in paper that promised lavender and eucalyptus, as though either could fix what the day had broken.
Harry immediately leaned forward, bracing both hands against the cool stone, where his head hung between his shoulders and his eyes closed. It didn’t matter what corner of the hotel room he retreated to, the anger was still there. It hadn't softened. If anything, it had become heavier.
Anger at Anna. Anger at himself. Anger at every mile he'd driven believing the hardest thing he'd ever lose was her. He laughed once beneath his breath, cynically and empty. If someone had told him yesterday morning that by dusk he'd be informed of a four-year-old daughter that was half his, he would've called them insane. He would’ve laughed uncomfortably. He would’ve shot them a sideway glance and dismissed them. Now the sentence lived inside him as comfortably as his own name.
I have a daughter.
He said it out loud once, voice hoarse and low. Then he said it again. This time, it was more clear. Ultimately he rolled his eyes and shook his head. It didn’t matter how many times he said it aloud, it still couldn't make it sound or feel even remotely real.
His hands found the buttons of his shirt almost absently, working downward one at a time. The fabric slid from his shoulders, soon followed by the thump of his belt as the buckle met the cool tile of the floor. His shorts followed, then his socks. Each article of clothing landed somewhere behind him in a disarray with little more than a soft whisper against the floor. He wasn't undressing. He was shedding the day. He was shedding every insult thrown at him, and from him. He was trying to peel off remnants of what he was sure would turn out to be the most emotionally agonizing night of his entire life.
At least, that’s what he was trying to do. No matter what he got rid from his body and threw to the floor, the weight stayed exactly where it was. Heavy on his chest, and even heavier on his mind.
The shower roared to life with a violent, relentless rush of water. Steam gathered almost immediately, curling upward in lazy ribbons before swallowing the room inch by inch. Harry stepped beneath the spray without testing the temperature. Heat struck his shoulders first, then the back of his neck. It poured over him unforgivingly, soaking his hair until it clung to his forehead, running in steady streams down the planes of his chest and disappearing beneath his feet.
He stood perfectly still, succumbing to the water as it hammered against him hard enough to sting. If anything, he welcomed it. It offered itself as something tangible to feel besides the ache in his chest and the throbbing at his temples. Minutes passed, or maybe only seconds. He wasn’t entirely sure. Time had become impossible to measure.
He scrubbed shampoo through his hair with more force than necessary, fingertips digging into his scalp until the skin almost felt raw. Soapy clumps lathered in bunches across his skin before disappearing down the drain in cloudy, fizzled out ribbons. He stared down at the drain, watching it spiral away. The simplicity of it all felt almost uncomfortable. Wash. Rinse. Gone. If only grief and anger managed to obey the same rules.He tipped his head back beneath the spray and squeezed his eyes shut. Like the haunting whisper of a ghost, Anna's voice found him right away.
"I wanted to tell you."
The words echoed and bounced between his ears with perfect clarity, as though she was standing behind him in the confines of the shower and whispered them directly into his ear instead of shouting them across a backyard hours earlier. Then another.
"It was you, Harry. Just you."
Then came another.
"I didn’t mean to keep this from you for so long."
Each sentence landed exactly where the last one had, striking the same wound over and over until he wasn't sure where the pain ended and the numbness began. He threw one palm flat against the tiled wall as if to steady himself. As if touching something palpable in front of him could subdue the sound of Anna’s voice piercing his thoughts. His breathing turned uneven.
"Fuck."
The word escaped through his lips before he’d even realized he said anything. It wasn't loud, or even angry. It sounded tired. Flat out, bone-deep tired.
He stayed beneath the water until it began to run cooler. His fingertips wrinkled into a shrewd state and his skin flushed pink beneath the relentless heat that had long since stopped feeling warm. Nothing had changed.
He abruptly shut the water off, inviting the silence to return all at once, where it had begun to ring louder than the shower ever had. Harry reached blindly for a towel hanging on the rack just outside the curtain, lazily dragging it over his hair, then his face, before wrapping it low around his waist. Steam still hung thick in the air, following him menacingly as he stepped back toward the bedroom.
The bathroom mirror was masked beneath a veil of fog, but he stopped in front of it anyway. For several long seconds, there was nothing staring back at him but a blurred outline. Featureless and unrecognizable. Without warning, his hand lifted almost without thinking, a flat palm sweeping slowly across the glass. It left behind a clear path that emerged through the dense layer of condensation. He gave it another pass until his reflection began taking a human shape. First his eyes, followed by his mouth. Then the hard line of his jaw came into focus, and Harry was left to do nothing but stare at himself.
He had looked into thousands of mirrors over the years. Backstage mirrors rimmed with bright bulbs. Hotel mirrors. Studio mirrors. Bathroom mirrors in cities he'd forgotten almost as soon as he'd left them. Every single time, he'd known exactly who was looking back. Tonight it was like staring at the reflection of a complete stranger. The man in the mirror had the same green eyes. The same curl to his hair, fighting to take form beneath heavy droplets of water. The same dimple in his cheek. He was sporting the exact same face he'd woken up with that morning. Yet somehow he felt entirely unfamiliar.
Because sometime between leaving this hotel and returning to it, everything had changed and flipped itself upside down. His entire life. He searched his own reflection as though the answer might be written somewhere across it. Nothing looked different, no one passing him in the hallway would've known. The concierge hadn't. The valet hadn't. The couple laughing by the elevators hadn't. To every stranger he'd crossed paths with tonight, he was still Harry Styles. Singer. Celebrity. Guest in room 614. He was the only one who truly knew that none of those titles sat at the center anymore.
Somewhere, fast asleep in a blissfully peaceful state beneath the same Georgia sky, was a little girl who shared his smile, his blood, his family. A little girl who was a living, breathing piece of him. A little girl who had unknowingly rearranged every piece of his identity without ever even meeting him. He wasn’t looking at the man he'd been that morning. He’d likely never see the face of that man again. Right now, staring back at him through the reflection of a mildly foggy mirror, he was looking at someone’s father. Her father.
The realization should have, by every accord, filled him with joy. Instead, it hollowed him out. Fathers wrapped their children’s tiny hands in their big, protective ones as they crossed busy streets. They placed band-aids upon scraped knees. They read bedtime stories in silly voices and carried sleeping children from the car without waking them. They knew their daughter's favorite color. Her favorite breakfast. The stuffed animal she couldn't sleep without. All in all, Harry knew absolutely none of it. He had become a father in the cruelest possible way - without a single memory to prove it or show for it.
His eyes burned again, but not with tears - with helplessness. No matter how long he stood there, no matter how hard he stared into the mirror searching for the man he was supposed to become, he could never look back at the father Charlie should have known from the beginning. That man had been stolen out from under him long before Harry ever knew he existed.
His jaw tightened until it ached. The helplessness didn't stay helpless for long. Instead, it hardened. It unfolded slowly at first, like cooling metal, until grief gave way to something far more dangerous: anger. It reappeared again, this time more Raw. More unrelenting. It surged through him so suddenly he felt himself flexing and unflexing his hands, his knuckles growing whiter each time. Four years. Even now, after grappling with it for so long, the number had become even more unbearable. Not because it was large, but because it felt so full.
Full of all the moments that had belonged to someone else without ever asking for his contribution. Someone else had carried Charlie through the grocery store when she grew tired halfway down the cereal aisle. Someone else had crouched beside her after scraped knees and whispered that she was alright before brushing the dirt from her tiny palms. Someone else had listened to her laugh herself breathless over something only a four-year-old could possibly find funny. Someone else had tucked blankets beneath her chin at night, then checked beneath the bed for monsters. Or held her hand crossing busy parking lots. Someone else had become the person she instinctively reached for when she was frightened.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut. Those weren't just milestones, those were glimpses into a fatherhood he never got to partake in. A plethora of quiet, ordinary moments no one thought to photograph because they merely happened every day. The type of moments that built a relationship through one bedtime story, one breakfast, and one hug at a time. And the most gruesome part of it all was just how badly he had been robbed of all of them.
The word settled heavily inside him like a rock at the bottom of a body of water. Robbed. He wasn’t forgotten. He wasn’t just excluded. He was robbed. Choices had been taken from him before he'd ever been allowed to make one. Before he even knew there were choices like that he had to make. His breathing grew shallow as the thoughts jumbled together. Anna had decided. It wasn’t a choice they made together. Not after a conversation. Not after giving him the chance to fail. She had looked at the future of their daughter, looked down at the sweet face of a newborn wrapped contently in a hospital blanket, and decided she already knew what kind of father he would've been. The image of it all made his pulse thunder manically in his ears.
His reflection stared back at him through the clearing mirror, equally exhausted and equally furious. Maybe Anna believed she'd done the right thing, he thought. Maybe she truly thought that, by choosing this route, she'd be protecting Charlie. Maybe she'd convinced herself that shutting him out had been the safest choice for everyone. He didn't know. He wasn't ready to know, and at this point, he didn’t care. He wasn’t looking to be understanding of the decision. He didn’t even have the capacity.
Tonight, right now, all he could see were the years. Each one she had decided belonged to her alone and claimed for herself. His chest rose with one slow breath. Then another before he looked back at the man in the mirror.
The years behind him were gone, and there was nothing he could say or do to get those back. Lost time was cruel and unforgiving like that. There was no amount of anger that would give him Charlie's first steps or her first birthday. The first time she reached for someone's hand. The first time she whispered "Mama." or the potential first words of “Dada.”. Those memories had slipped beyond his reach forever, and that was that. But tomorrow wasn't hers to decide by herself anymore. The thought settled over him with a surprising kind of calm as he tracked his steps earlier in the evening to Anna’s invitation to dinner.
She could be angry if she chose to be. She could slam every door in that house if she wanted to. She could shoot him down. She could remind him of every mistake he'd ever made, every fight they'd ever had, every reason she'd convinced herself he didn't belong. She could do her worst and throw every fuck up in his face. She could, as she always had, keep that unwavering wall up through stoicism and spite. He would listen. He would answer. He would fight if he had to and scale that wall at any cost. Whatever guilt, hurt feelings, or shame it came with, so be it. Because for the first time since he'd walked out of her backyard, he understood something with perfect clarity.
This wasn't just about him anymore. This wasn’t about a fractured relationship. This wasn’t about his feelings for Anna, or vice versa. In fact, it wasn't even about Anna at all. It was about a little girl who had spent four years growing up without ever being given the chance to know her father. He had already lost enough, and he refused to lose tomorrow or any day after.
Harry held his own gaze for another long moment before finally looking away. For the first time all evening, the uncertainty loosened its grip. He still didn't know what he was going to say. He still didn't know how Anna would react. He didn’t even have a working phone number to call and preface his appearance tomorrow. He still wasn't sure if Charlie would smile when she saw him again or hide behind her mother's legs.
None of that mattered. He was going back to the Wilson house. This time, though, he wasn’t returning as the man Anna had left behind. He wasn’t coming back as a lingering ghost from the past. He wouldn’t be the guest who'd politely accepted the boundaries she'd drawn around him. This time, he’d be showing up on the porch as Charlie's father. And for the first time since the silence had swallowed him whole, the decision felt louder than the grief.
summary - you meet harry at a festival and have a bit of fun
pairing - harry styles x stranger!reader
word count - ~1.5k
“Where are you?” Your friend, Lea, shouted down the phone just so you could hear her over the loud music.
“I’m coming back with drinks now.” You shouted back, slightly tipsy from the amount of beer you had been drinking.
You and your two best friends, Lea and Hallie, had decided to come to the LIDO festival last minute.
Your outfits were as cheap as the tickets, but you were having the best time. The music was fun but you definitely needed a drink or two to get through it.
“Okay, come quick! We miss you!” Lea shouted.
“Miss you queen!” Hallie shouted too.
“Who are you missing?” Someone else shouted in the background, to which there were a bunch of inaudible screams from your friends.
“Hello?” You tried pushing through the crowds and back to your friends.
“Come back Y/N! We all miss you!” You had no idea who shouted that, but the phone call disconnected before you could find out. Hopefully your friends were okay.
It took you another ten minutes to push back through the crowds.
At least the drinks survived though.
Three beers were going to have to last you all at least another two hours, because there was no way you were going back through those crowds again anytime soon.
“Lea!” You shouted as you got closer.
You couldn’t see Hallie because she was talking ever so closely to a girl. She was cute and definitely Hallie’s type.
Lea turned to you and pulled your arm to help you through the wedges of large men.
“You’re back!” She screamed excitedly.
“Here you go.” You handed her a beer and kept ahold of Hallie’s for the moment - no need to interrupt her moment.
The music was even louder here down next to the stage, but this is somehow where you managed to grab a spot.
You checked that your bag was still across your chest and immediately got back to dancing with Lea.
The beer wasn’t great but it would do.
You danced around whilst Lea full-on belted the lyrics to whatever song was playing. You weren’t fully comprehensive in this genre of music, but you were happy to be here for the experience.
You took another sip of your drink before Hallie came over and snatched hers from your other hand, giving you a kiss on the cheek in thanks.
You winked at her as she went back to the girl.
At least one of you three were getting some excitement tonight.
To be fair, Lea had her boyfriend at home so she would no doubt be waking him up later to have fun.
That just left you.
Luckily you were broken from that self wallowing thought as someone came up to you, emerging from the crowds.
“You must be Y/N!” The guy shouted, cap pointing low on his face so you couldn’t see him entirely.
“Who’s asking?”
The guy tipped his hat back and shock washed over your face to see Harry fucking Styles standing in front of you.
“Holy shit.” You said out loud, not having meant to.
Harry laughed.
“Y/N?”
“Yeah.” You smiled, feeling more assured that it wasn’t some creep who was calling your name.
“Harry.” He held out his hand for you and you shook it.
He had nice hands.
That wasn’t creepy to say. His fingers were rings free and they were so soft. You couldn’t help but blush and smile at the touch of him. He looked like he was having the same physical reaction.
“Nice to meet you.” You said.
“And you.”
You took another sip of your beer, not knowing where or how to steer the conversation next.
“What is it?” Harry pointed to your drink.
“Just a local beer, I think.” You said after swallowing, “Wanna try?”
You handed over the beer to him, both your hands getting the opportunity to touch again. He thanked you as he brought the drink to his lips and you couldn’t help but watch how his lips balanced on the edge of your cup.
He looked so pretty, wow.
You couldn’t believe that Harry Styles was drinking your beer at a random summer festival.
He nodded after he had finished, giving it the seal of approval.
“Good?”
“Yeah.” He smiled.
“Wanna share?” You offered as he gave it back to you.
“Okay.” He nodded.
A new song came on and you knew this one.
Lea and Hallie came over to you because they knew this was one of your favourite songs. You had such great friends.
“Here.” Harry offered to hold your drink so you could dance with your friends.
You three all held hands and then danced like there was no one else here. The kind of dancing you would usually reserve for your bedroom or cleaning the house. None of you had it in you to care how crazy you looked though, because you felt so free.
After the song was over Hallie hugged you both before returning to her new smiling girl. Lea told you she was going to attempt to face-time her boyfriend. That left you to get close to Harry again.
“Thanks.” You said as he handed your drink back, needing to take a big sip after your dancing.
“It’s alright.”
“Why aren’t you performing tonight?”
“Can’t be a singer all the time.” He shrugged.
“Shame. I would’ve loved to see you up there.” You smiled, pretty sure that you were attempting to flirt.
“Oh yeah?” He smiled, showing his pretty dimples to you.
“Mhm. Is it okay to admit I came to see Love on Tour?”
“Of course.” He nodded.
“Three times.”
He laughed at that.
“Well, I’m flattered.”
“You should be. You’re great.” You gave him your best admiring eyes, returning your gave from him to the stage so that you could give yourself a moment to reset your blush.
You felt Harry come and stand close at your back.
You turned slightly to see his hand ghosting over your back as if he wanted to keep you close but wasn’t sure where to toe the line.
You helped him out by reaching behind you to bring his hand forward and place it on your right hip, his body bumping a little into you from behind.
Harry settled nicely.
His hand immediately went firm on your hip, his fingers spreading to keep your balance against him.
Your body swayed as another song came. Harry swayed along with you.
Hallie caught your gaze from across the way and gave you an excited, silent, scream and you couldn’t help but smile and shake your head at the bizarreness of it all.
You turned your head to the side so you could see Harry, “You here alone?”
“No. My friends are over there.” He nodded his head over to where Lea was speaking to some guys “They’re both married, don’t worry.”
“Lea is close to being too.”
“Ah congrats to her.”
You couldn’t bring yourself to turn back around to the stage now that you had your gaze set on Harry. Why would you want to?
Harry kept his head tilted down to watch you intensely, pursing his lips as he watched you bite the corner of yours.
“What?” You asked with a giggle.
He just shook his head with a smirk.
“No, what?”
“You’re very pretty.” He answered softly and even though the music was way louder than him, you could still hear him perfectly.
“So are you.”
“Pretty enough to kiss?”
Your jaw dropped a little over his preposition. He was so smooth, but you didn’t want to boost his potential ego by telling him.
“I suppose.”
“Oh you do, do you?” He raised his eyebrows in jest.
You simply nodded, but you turned your body so that your chest was against his now. Your hand came up to cup his cheek and you still felt his hand on your other hip now. He hadn’t let go.
Harry leant his head down to meet you half way, leaving you to finish the rest of the distance or back away if you wanted to - but you definitely didn’t want that second option. Instead, you leant up and cupped the back of his neck to guide his lips to yours.
The music blended into the background as you closed your eyes and all you could feel was Harry.
His body pulled yours to his and you felt yourself moulding your lips and body in tandem with his.
His cap got slightly in the way but neither of you minded, kissing around the obstacles.
The kiss was sweet and firm, but he pulled away before anything intense could happen. As soon as he pulled away though he realised what he was missing, so he pulled you back for one more kiss.
You both stayed close to each other, smiling like two kids in love and not two strangers who’d just met.
“You planning to stay for all the music acts?” He asked hoarsely, like he still hadn’t caught his breath back.
“Maybe. I could be persuaded otherwise.” You suggested.
“Good to know.” He pursed his lips so he could taste your lipstick again - cherry - before going in for another kiss.
Your arms reached up behind his neck to hold him closer this time, feeling his hands keep ahold of your waist. He didn’t want you slipping away from him, but neither did you want to.
Your lips pressed urgently into his, both of you tasting like the beer you’d been sharing. His moustache and beard hairs tickled your skin, but felt good.
Harry breathed into the kiss, causing you to lean further into him just to chase his lips.
Your face tilted the other way to kiss him better, but you got fed up at one point and brought a hand up to move his cap around so it was now on backwards. It was easier to kiss him without a bumping restriction.
Harry laughed at your move.
“What?” You smiled as he smiled at you.
“Nothing.” He kissed you again. “This feel alright?”
“Nothing’s felt better.” That probably sounded desperate, but at this point you didn’t care.
“Very much agree.” He laughed and kissed you once more - or twice.
Harry’s arm slunk around your waist to bring you close to his side and you wrapped your arm around his waist too. You probably looked like a couple, but you were happy to pretend for the evening.
The song changed again to something that made Harry cheer, pointing towards his friends who cheered too.
His friends and Lea came over, Lea internally screaming at you for whatever had just happened between you and Harry.
You tucked your head onto Harry’s chest to get away from her shocked stare. Harry only pulled you closer in.
Harry bounced along to the song with his friends and you laughed as you watched him enjoy himself.
The joy was overwhelming and you couldn’t help but feel like something new had just begun.
