Summary: When habit compels you to get on top, Harry drops everything to show you what you really deserve.
Warnings: new relationship, first time together, steamy make-out sesh, mentions of a past relationship, oral (f!receiving), protected sex, this is very intimate and sweet, aftercare and pillow talk
Based on: this ask!
A/N: thanks again anon for requesting this, hope i've done it justice. my inbox is always open! enjoy lovelies x
Word Count: 3,088
...
The flat is quiet except for the pitter-patter of rain against the windows and the soft crackle of the candle on the coffee table. Harry's place always smells faintly of freshly done laundry and whatever tea he's brewed; tonight it's chamomile, untouched in two mugs because you're both too comfortable to disrupt the peace.
Your legs are draped over his thighs, his hand splayed wide at the small of your back under your sweater. The kiss started slow when you first walked in, but has deepened into something hungrier, tongues lazy but deliberate. His other hand traces slow, absent circles over the bare skin of your upper arm where your sweater has slipped down.
He hums against your lips, pleased, and tilts your head with his palm so he can lick into your mouth slow and thorough. His hand slides up your side, thumb grazing the underside of your breast through the thin fabric of your bra. You arch instinctively, and he groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating where your chests touch. When he breaks the kiss to leisurely trail his lips along your jaw, you tilt your head to give him more room. His teeth graze your pulse point, light, teasing, then his tongue soothes the spot, and heat coils low in your belly.
He nips gently at your earlobe, voice rougher now. ''You're a little tense, baby. You okay?''
''Cold,'' you lie, even as your fingers tighten in his hair.
He chuckles, breath hot against your skin. ''Liar.''
You turn to catch his mouth again, and his hand slips higher under your sweater, palm flat and warm against your bare back.
When you finally need air, you pull back just enough to rest your forehead against his. Your breathing is uneven, lips swollen and tingling.
He studies you for a beat, his thumb stroking the apple of your cheek. ''Really, though, you're unusually quiet.''
You bite your lip, suddenly shy despite the way your body is still pressed flush to his. ''Just remembering something I said before.''
He tilts his head, curious but patient. ''Yeah?''
You trace the collar of his shirt with one fingertip, following the line of ink that disappears under the fabric. ''Remember that movie night at my place, when you had your hand up my shirt while we were kissing on my bed, and I pulled back because I said I get tired after... you know.''
Harry's hand stills on your back. He nods slowly, eyes never leaving yours. ''I remember.''
Your cheeks heat. 'It's been that way since my first time. I only dated one guy before you, y'know. We were together for almost three years. He was my first... everything. And sex was always the same. I'd always end up sore the next day, like my body had run a marathon.''
He exhales through his nose, thumb resuming its slow stroke along your back. His expression is soft, but there's a flicker of frustration in his eyes.
''Three years,'' he repeats, almost to himself, brows lifting. ''And he never once made it feel good enough that you weren't sore after?''
You laugh, short and a little self-conscious. ''I guess not. Maybe I'm just sensitive. Or bad at it.''
Harry's mouth quirks like the idea is ridiculous, but his eyes stay serious. ''That's not how it's supposed to be, love.'' He leans in, brushes the tip of his nose against yours. ''At the risk of sounding conceited, I'm sure I could make you actually feel good, if you'd like.''
''I'd like that,'' you whisper. ''With you.''
He studies you for a moment, then leans in and kisses you, deep, unhurried, tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes heat pool low in your belly. ''Then let me show you how it's supposed to feel.''
He stands first, offering his hand. You take it, fingers lacing together as he leads you down the short hallway.
The lamps in the bedroom are on low, warm gold spilling across the navy sheets and the dark wood floor. The rain sounds softer here, muffled by the heavier curtains. He turns to face you at the foot of the bed and cups your neck with both hands. His thumbs brush the corners of your mouth before he kisses you, and you feel the shift in him, the restraint giving way to something much more urgent.
His hands slide down to the hem of your sweater, gathering the fabric inch by inch until he pulls it over your head. Your hair tumbles free; he smooths it back with one palm, eyes tracing the lace of your bra.
You reach for the buttons of his shirt in return. One by one they slip free, revealing warm, flushed skin adorned with ink. When the shirt falls open, you push it off his shoulders, letting your palms glide over the firm lines of his chest, down the ridges of his abdomen. He shivers under your touch, a quiet groan catching in his throat.
He walks you backward until the backs of your knees meet the edge of the mattress. He follows, crawling over you, caging you with his arms but keeping most of his weight on his elbows. His mouth finds your neck first, trailing open kisses along the column of your throat, then lower, lips pressing to the fluttering pulse just below your jaw. You tilt your head, offering more, and he gladly takes it, tongue flicking out to taste your skin, teeth grazing lightly enough to make you gasp.
He lifts your hand, turns it palm-up, and kisses the delicate skin where your pulse races. His tongue traces the vein there, slow and deliberate, before he sucks gently. The sensation shoots straight between your legs, and you have to press your thighs together, already aching.
''Harry,'' you breathe.
He hums against your wrist, then lowers your arm and moves over your body. He kisses the inside of your knee, first one, then the other, nosing the soft skin and letting his breath fan hot over it. When his mouth drifts to the inside of your thigh, you tense, anticipation curling tight in your belly. He doesn't rush. He kisses higher, higher, lips brushing the crease where thigh meets hip, then finally settling between your legs.
But he doesn't touch you where you need it most.
Instead he crawls back up, hands sliding to the clasp of your bra. It falls away, and he tosses it aside without looking. His mouth closes over one breast, tongue circling the peak until it tightens under his attention. His hand cups the other, thumb rolling maddening circles over the nipple, pinching just enough to make you arch. You thread your fingers into his hair, holding him there, hips lifting instinctively.
He switches sides, giving the neglected breast the same thorough worship, sucking harder now, teeth grazing the sensitive tip, then soothing with his tongue. Your breathing turns ragged; every pull of his mouth sends sparks straight to your clit. You're wet already, embarrassingly so, the ache between your thighs building.
When he finally trails kisses down your stomach again, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and tugs them down your legs. You lift your hips to help as he kisses every inch of skin the drag of fabric reveals: hip bone, your lower belly, the tops of your thighs. Then he settles between your legs, shoulders spreading you open, eyes dark and focused as he looks up at you.
''Can I taste you?'' he asks, voice rough, lips glistening from earlier kisses.
You nod, heart hammering. ''Please.''
He lowers his head, and the first drag of his tongue is flat and warm, exploring your folds. You jolt, hips lifting off the bed. He groans against you, the vibration pulling a whimper from your throat.
Harry slides one finger inside you, curling it just right while his mouth stays on your clit. The combination is overwhelming, pleasure coiling tight and fast. He adds a second finger, thrusting in time with the rhythm of his tongue. You're trembling, thighs shaking around his head, moans spilling freely. He doesn't stop until you shatter, back arching, vision blurring, his name torn from your throat on a broken cry.
He works you through it, then kisses your inner thighs, your hip bones, your stomach as he crawls back up. His mouth is wet, lips swollen, and he kisses you so deep you can taste yourself on his tongue. You moan into him, hands roaming his back, tugging him closer.
He reaches for the nightstand, rolls the condom on with steady hands, then settles between your legs again. He kisses you once more before lining himself up, the head of him nudging your entrance.
You move on instinct.
Pushing at his shoulders, you roll so you're straddling him, knees bracketing his hips. Harry freezes beneath you. His hands are still on your waist, his eyes wide with confusion.
''Hey,'' he says softly, thumbs stroking your sides. ''Baby, what are you doing?''
You blink down at him, suddenly uncertain. ''This... this is how I've always done it. I get on top. That's... that's how it works.''
His brow furrows deeper. ''Who told you that?''
You swallow. ''My ex. He said it was easier for him. Better view, or... I don't know. He just always wanted it like this. So I thought...''
Harry's jaw tightens, frustration flickering in his eyes. Not at you, of course not, but at the years you spent thinking this was the only way. At the way your body was used instead of worshipped.
''Baby,'' he says firmly, voice rough with emotion. ''That's not how it should be.''
He sits up slowly, arms wrapping around your waist to keep you close. His forehead rests against yours for a moment, breathing steadying.
''Let me show you how you should've been treated,'' he murmurs. ''Let me take care of you properly. Please.''
You search his face: earnest, tender, determined.
Then you nod.
He kisses you once more, soft and promising, then gently maneuvers you back down onto the sheets. The navy fabric is cool against your overheated skin as he settles between your thighs again, the thick head of him nudging your entrance. His eyes lock on yours, searching.
''Still okay?'' he whispers.
You nod, breathless. ''Please, Harry.''
He rocks forward in one smooth glide, patiently letting your body open for him inch by inch. The stretch is full and perfect, your walls fluttering around him as he sinks deeper, deeper, until his hips press flush to yours and he's buried to the hilt. A low groan rumbles from his chest. You feel every ridge, every pulse of him inside you, and for the first time it doesn't feel like a chore. It feels intimate, romantic.
He stays still for a long moment, letting you adjust, forehead resting against yours while your breaths mingle. Then he starts to move.
His hips roll in long, fluid waves, pulling back until only the tip remains, then sliding home again with a slow grind that drags his pubic bone perfectly against your clit. Every thrust presses that sensitive bundle of nerves exactly right, sending sparks shooting up your spine. The rhythm is steady, unhurried, but deep enough that each stroke fills you completely. Your thighs tremble around his waist, and you couldn't stop the quiet, needy sounds spilling from your lips if you wanted to.
Harry laces his fingers with yours and lifts your joined hands above your head, pressing them into the pillow. His palm is warm and slightly calloused, the pads of his fingers sliding between yours until they slot together perfectly. He squeezes once, using the grip as leverage to rock deeper. Your knuckles brush the headboard as his thumb strokes the back of your hand in time with every roll of his hips, a constant, grounding point of contact that makes you feel even more connected.
His free hand is everywhere else, stroking, worshipping. It cups your breast, thumb circling the stiff peak before pinching gently. It trails down your side, fingers splaying wide over your ribs, then lower to grip the supple flesh of your hip, guiding you into his rhythm. It slides between your bodies, finding your clit and rubbing tight, slick circles. The sensation of his cock dragging inside you while his fingers work your clit has you arching off the bed, a broken moan tearing from your throat.
Harry watches your face the entire time, studying your reactions. When your lashes flutter and your lips part on a gasp, he angles his hips a fraction higher, grinding harder against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. When your brows draw together and a whimper escapes, he slows just enough to draw it out, making the pleasure crest and crest without crashing. When you moan his name, long and needy, he curses softly under his breath, voice wrecked.
''Fuck, that sound,'' he rasps. ''Say it again, love.''
''Harry—'' It comes out desperate, almost sobbed.
He rewards you instantly with a deeper thrust, fingers pressing just right on your clit. Your walls clench around him; he feels it and groans, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours.
''That's it,'' he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, your cheek, your mouth. ''Let me hear everything. You're doing so well, love.''
The pressure builds fast, coiling tighter with every smooth roll of his hips, every stroke of his fingers, every squeeze of his hand laced with yours. Your free hand clutches at his shoulder, nails digging into the muscle. His name falls from your lips over and over, mixed with breathless pleas you don't even realize you're making.
He feels the way your thighs tense and your breathing turns ragged. His pace stays exactly the same, steady, relentless, but his voice drops lower. ''Come for me, baby. I've got you. Let go.''
You shatter. Pleasure crashes through you in waves so intense your vision whites out at the edges. Your back arches hard off the bed, walls pulsing around him in rhythmic spasms. A cry rips from your throat, his name, broken and raw. He keeps moving through it, grinding against your clit to draw every last pulse from you, hand still laced tight with yours, fingers never loosening their grip.
Only when you start to come down, limbs trembling, chest heaving, does he let himself follow. Three more deep rolls of his hips and he buries his face in your neck, groaning your name like it's the only word he knows. You feel every throb, every pulse inside you as he spills into the condom, his hand squeezing yours tightly.
For a long moment he stays exactly where he is, still buried deep, body covering yours, breaths hot against your neck. Then he lifts his head, eyes soft and glassy, and presses the gentlest kiss to your lips.
''You okay?'' he whispers, voice hoarse.
You nod, too blissed out to speak yet. He smiles, small, proud, a little awed, then carefully pulls out. He disposes of the condom with quick, efficient movements, retrieves a warm, damp cloth from the bathroom, and cleans you with tender strokes between your legs. When he's done, he climbs back into bed and pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around you. His fingers trace along your spine, the same hand that was laced with yours the entire time now stroking circles over your skin.
The rain is still falling outside. Inside, the only sounds are your slowing breaths and the quiet beat of his heart under your cheek.
You're tucked against Harry's chest, one leg slung over his thigh, his arm wrapped securely around your waist. one hand resting over yours on his stomach, thumb stroking the inside of your wrist where your pulse has finally started to calm.
Neither of you speaks for a long minute, just relishing the warmth of skin on skin, the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek. The sheets are tangled around your hips. He kisses the top of your head, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth.
''You alright?'' he asks quietly, voice rough from everything that just happened.
You nod against him. ''More than alright.''
He exhales a soft laugh, relieved. ''Good. Because that was... fuck, love. It was incredible.''
Heat creeps back into your cheeks. You hide your face in the crook of his neck for a second, breathing him in: sweat, remnants of cologne, that familiar smell that's just Harry, before lifting your head enough to meet his eyes in the low lamplight.
''I've never... come like that before,'' you admit, voice small but steady.
His expression softens, something tender and almost pained flickering across his face. He lifts your joined hands to his mouth, kissing your knuckles one by one.
''I'm glad it was with me,'' he murmurs. ''But I'm sorry it took this long for you to feel it.''
You swallow, throat suddenly tight. ''I just thought that was normal. Being on top, doing all the work, feeling tired and sore after. He never really asked what I liked. Never went down on me. Never even tried to make it last for me. It was always quick, always the same position because that's what he wanted. And I let it be that way because I didn't know it could be different.''
He shifts so he can look at you properly, rolling onto his side so you're face-to-face. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear you didn't realise had slipped free.
''That's not your fault,'' he says firmly, voice firm yet gentle. ''He just didn't know how to take care of you. Or he didn't care enough to try. Either way, that's on him. Not you.''
He kisses the tip of your nose, then your forehead, then your lips, soft, lingering. When he pulls back his eyes are serious again. ''I want this to be different for you. We figure it out together. What you like, what feels good, what makes you come so hard you forget your own name.''
A small laugh escapes you, and you nod, throat too full to speak right away. Instead you curl closer, tucking your face into his neck again. His arms tighten around you instinctively.
You close your eyes, listening to the rain and the steady thump of his heart. For the first time in years, you drift off feeling safe, satisfied, and utterly wanted.
...
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I had an idea and it spiraled! It was meant to be a blurb but it turned into a one shot, and it's smutty <3 I know I've been light on that lately but more is coming.
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Y/N and her newly established boyfriend had yet to be properly intimate.
Harry was a gentleman on all counts. He paid for their outings without question, he walked her to her door every single time, held every door open- car and building alike. The man knew the sidewalk rule and abided by it every time, he had his impeccable manners while talking to her, pulled out her chair when they went out to eat, he didn’t call her after midnight, and most of all- he hadn’t pushed for anything sexual.
The extent of it had been kisses that got heated enough for her to be pressed against the passenger door of his car before he’d apologized, fixing her lipstick with his thumb and told her with a slight blush on his cheeks that he’d ’gotten carried away’ and apologized for not controlling himself, but he was very enamored with her. Even if it left her with damp panties and a second heartbeat between her legs, the tenderness in which he treated her had been the stand out of it all.
It was the exact opposite of every man she had ever been with. There had been no hint of even daring to suggest a hook up, or bypass the dates to get to the ‘fun stuff.’ Granted, she had asked him what his intentions were when he’d asked her out originally and he’d seemingly honestly told her that he wanted a real relationship and connection- but Y/N had been a bit cynical.
So many times she had gone out with a man who said they were looking for something real but they’d attempt to speedrun the first date to get her alone, or see her a few times, fuck around and then suddenly ‘not feel the spark’ before moving on to another woman to do the exact same thing. Take, take, take without receiving. Literally, in some senses, considering an alarming amount of men didn’t know where the clitoris was located.
The dating scene had been fatigued for her for a long time, and despite the hopes she’d had for Harry, she hadn’t allowed herself to hope. That itself had been hard when it felt like her personal dream man had been laid out in front of her, with pretty seafoam green eyes and dimples she wanted to indulge in poking, so she had told herself that no matter how much she liked him, she would try to hold herself back.
Funny, that was. It hadn’t been that long into dating when she had realized how incredible he was. How intelligent and kind he was, how he had most of the qualities she’d put down in her journals at 3 am when she needed to dream a little bit. Harry was what she wanted, and allowing herself to want it openly had been hard- but she’d been met with a warm reception.
Being a very successful man in business with multiple companies and hats he had to wear, Harry could be seen as a bit stiff, but she’d been able to see past that because he was letting her. She’d seen him laugh and dance a little bit to music he showed her, and just because he was wearing a suit a lot of the time didn’t mean he was what she’d probably have shamefully assumed of a man like him at first glance. Harry wanted to be good, he wanted to give her what she wanted, and for once in her life, she had let go a little bit and let him.
God, she wanted to fuck him. He hadn’t budged on that, and she hadn’t pushed too hard, but thankfully she hadn’t been made to wait an excessive amount of time.
It had been 7 official dates, 3 coffee dates on their lunch at work and 2 times meeting for drinks until he’d asked her to be official. The meticulously prepared candlelit dinner at his place was where he’d gotten her favorite meal prepared, gotten her favorite eclairs from the bakery down the road, and had curated a playlist of artists she’d mentioned liking before he’d asked her on his couch if he would be able to have the ‘honor of being hers’ and vice versa.
It had been the easiest yes of her life, considering the man had put in more effort than she had thought possible. For once in her life she had felt cherished and looked after. He’d sent her money for her nails earlier in the day as well; which she had never asked for but he had said was ‘a man should look after a woman he cares about, even if they are more than capable of taking care of them selves’, and she had decided in the seat while getting her feet scrubbed and the cucumber lotion slathered onto her that she would stop at nothing to lock this man down.
Turned out he was one step ahead. He’d always been one step ahead. And it also turned out she had misjudged him, even if only just.
He had a lot of charisma that was disguised as something else; a big energy that had let her think that he had to be good in bed. That feeling had only been slightly challenged with how quickly he had calmed things down when she had wanted more a few times. In short- she had assumed that maybe the energy he put off was a facade and perhaps his one flaw would be he wouldn’t be very adventurous in the bedroom. Maybe a missionary with the lights off type of guy which, hey! It wasn’t the worst thing in the world. She could fix that.
Harry was a teachable man, considering how brilliant he was. He hadn’t been suggestive and she had sat back and had the self conversation about being willing to show him what she liked, to give him a crash course in dirty talk and how to fuck her how she liked because with everything else he had, sex was something she knew could be adjusted.
It was very, very clear, feeling his large hands on him and her bare tits exposed to the cool air of his bedroom that she had been sorely mistaken. Nipples swollen and sensitive from the way he’d sucked and let his teeth graze them, dress tossed to the side leaving her splayed out naked on his bed, he’d been unable to keep his hands off of her after she asked him if they could ‘do more’ now that they were an official item.
He’d taken the challenge very literally.
“Look at that little clit.” He murmured, brushing his thumb over the swollen nerve. Sitting on his knees between her spread, wet thighs, he looked more comfortable than she would be with hardwood digging into her knees, but it was most likely because of the distraction in front of him. “Poor thing. All sorts of worked up, aren’t you?”
Y/N let out a soft sigh, nodding her head as she bit back a moan. The smallest touches were setting her off. Harry had turned her body into a live wire. With him circling over her clit and the hot wash of his breath as he spread her cunt open for him to see, it was becoming difficult to breathe. Life, and Harry apparently, had come at her fast. So fast that her head was spinning, showing her just how dirty the proper man could really be.
“Yeah, I bet you are. I’ve been thinking about this for a long, long time. Did Y’know that?” Eyes looked up at her, dark and hungry as she shook her head in response. Words escaped her, but she managed to get out a strangled “N-No…” as he hummed under his breath.
That was in fact, news to her.
“I have been. Since the first night we’ve met. I tried very hard t’be good. To not think about you in such a filthy way, but it was difficult. Talked to you for a bit… admitted how absolutely incredible you are… how beautiful… and I knew you had to have the prettiest little pussy. I was wrong, though.” He turned his head just a bit to kiss her sensitive and slightly sticky inner thigh, letting out a chuckle when she jumped just a tad. “It’s even prettier. Most gorgeous cunt I’ve ever seen.”
It was unnerving to feel his gaze on her, to know he was well and truly up close and personal with perhaps the most vulnerable part of her, but she could see the admiration and hunger in his eyes. She couldn’t even pretend not to see it as he let his slippery thumb glide up to her mound of soft flesh above her cunt and back down to her entrance, spreading the slick around.
“Can’t believe how wet you’ve gotten for me. I won’t lie to you, my sweet girl… I’ve been dying for this to be mine.” His voice rumbled against her thigh as he laid a line of kisses, wet and slow up the sensitive skin. She’d have burn from his mustache on her thighs, surely, but Y/N didn’t care. It felt so good, her poor clit was throbbing underneath the passes of the pad of his thumb, and she wanted more.
“Please…” She croaked, lifting her hips. It felt hard to think, let alone speak, but he seemed to like that. Revel in the effect he had on her. “Please, Harry.”
“Please? Please what, sweetheart?” He murmured, pulling back from his kisses to spread her thighs open with his forearms. “What do you want me to do to my pussy, hm?”
Y/N bit her lip to bite back the scream, because what the fuck? How did he do that? How did he command her body so fucking easily that she could feel the trickle of arousal drip down her ass from the soft rasp of his voice and the intensity of how he spoke. Soft spoken, but meaning every syllable he let pass his lips.
His pussy. That was something he’d obviously been dying to say- but she hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted him to own it.
“Because, sweet, precious girl…” He sighed, spreading the lips open as he got a good look at her. “I’m not sure m’quite done admiring my pussy yet. So I think you can sit there and be the cute little thing you always are for me while I get better acquainted with her, and then I’ll give you what you want.”
It was hard not to let her hips jerk up as he tapped his fingertip over her clit, letting another breath wash over her as the heat of it made her stomach tingle. He was staring, admiring, analyzing her like she was art at a museum and that had never been anything close to what she experienced- so who was she to tell him no.
“Yeah I can… I can sit. I can wait.” Her throat felt thick as she spoke but she managed more than two words, and that was a feat in itself.
The smile on his lips was her even bigger reward.
“Thatta girl.” He praised, leaning up a bit to kiss her lower tummy- very close to where she wanted him to be. “I’ll always treat you well. Make it worth your while for letting me see what you’re letting me own, hm? Suck that pretty clit and make you stain the sheets… give you anything you want. Just need to stare a bit longer before I get her all puffy and wet… ruin her a little bit.”
She was already ruined, but she had vastly underestimated the way it would feel to have a man she desired so intensely to coo and stare at her body like it was his favorite thing.
Honestly, she had no idea how long it had been of his sweet and filthy words. His knees had to be numb as he dragged her to the edge of the bed, chuckling at her squeal of surprise as he pulled back for a moment to run his hand down her body. From her collarbone all the way to her cunt, cupping it in his large palm as she let out a strangled moan. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Seeing you spread open for me… You have no idea what that does to me, little treasure.” Clicking his tongue, he momentarily removed his hands to roll up the sleeves of his button up.
The always impeccably pressed and starched button ups, rolling the sleeves up his forearms as he began to look undone himself. The hair he gelled back tousled from her hands, a curl draped over his forehead and the 5 o’clock shadow was getting darker from when she’d first arrived. It was a brand new side to him.
“I’ve tried very hard to behave, Y/N. I’m a gentleman, and I will treat you as such… but something has clued me into the fact that it may not be what you want in this scenario, hm?” He shifted on his knees and she could hear the metallic clinking of his belt, but it was hidden from view. “I have to admit to you that I’ve never felt such unadulterated hunger in my life as I have with you. I don’t feel passion to this level. But you’ve brought something out of me, and I have to tell you that I’m becoming obsessed with you.” Lifting her leg, he planted a wet kiss to her calf. “With your voice.” A kiss to her knee. “With how you look at me, your intelligence…” he rounded up her thigh. “And now, this body.”
He audibly groaned as he spread her lips open with his fingers again, pursing his lips- and surprising the hell out of her- spitting on her clit. His eyes didn’t stray as she gasped, watching it slide down her pussy before he rubbed it into her already soaked skin. “So let me show you just how crazy you’ve made me. How obsessed I am with you. And most of all… how grateful I am that you’re letting me own you.”
Harry did more than that.
With his mouth on her, Y/N felt like she was floating. Again and again, he made her cum. Like a man starved, he’d barely pulled away from her pussy- save for letting his tongue run over her other hole which had her shuddering from the touch she wasn’t used to- and she had to wonder if he’d ever be able to be pulled away.
“You have no idea…” The usually well put together man whined against her pussy, trying to get her to cum a fourth time. It almost hurt, tingly and sharp, but she loved the pain as he sucked over her clit and sloppily spit back down over it. Webs of her arousal and his saliva stuck to his chin as he worked his fingers inside of her, the other hand keeping her down by pressing over her stomach. “No fucking idea what trouble you’ve just started.”
Y/N only hoped she could get more of it.
“It feels…” Y/N was finding it hard to breathe for an entirely different reason now. “God, it hurts but it feels so good. You’re r-ruining me. Like you said… oh, fuck.” Her hips tipped up as he curled his fingers, a deep chuckle vibrating against her clit. The sounds were pure filth. The squelch of his fingers fucking her deep and practiced, his mouth sucking on her cunt, his groans and her weak whimpers and whines as she tried to keep her head on straight bounced off his maroon walls. “H-Harry I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna fucking cum a-again and… fuck, I’m gonna make a mess.”
She’d only been able to do it twice before, and she’d done it herself. Truthfully, the reason she didn’t go for it more often was because of the mess squirting made- but that didn’t deter the older man.
If anything, it spurred him on further.
“Make a mess then, treasure.” He panted, nosing at her clit. “Make a mess all over my hand and my face. I don’t give a fuck about the sheets.” One of the first true curses she’d heard from him had her clenching around him, but more than that was seeing him so undone. Wrecked by her alone, his new fascination with her pussy. “You’re going to give it t’me now. Alright?” His hand on her stomach came down to smack at her clit, the light, sharp sting making a gasp rip from her throat.
Fuck, that was good.
“You’re almost there. I can feel it. M’not stopping. Give it to me, Y/N. Let me see what my pretty pussy can do. Want the mess, want you to soak me. Be good for me, give it.” He was commanding it, keeping the pace just as he had it as his mouth went back to her clit.
Her body liked to obey.
With a scream that startled herself, she slapped her hand over her mouth as she came. Squirting on his fingers, she felt him moan against her pussy as he pulled his mouth off her clit and rubbed it frantically instead with his hand. “Give it t’me, give it baby- yes, yes, thatta-fuckin’-girl…. That’s what I want, give me what I want, let me give it to you- Fuck.” He snarled, tongue lapping over his fingers to taste her.
Writhing on the bed, she let out a little sob as she fell back flat on the bed instead of sitting on her elbows, body jerking as little bursts of her squirted over his fingers and surely soaked his hand. Never had she heard him so unhinged as he lapped her up, thanking her in between and telling her she was a good girl, that she was perfect as his fingers slowed until they stilled inside of her, kisses pressed to her thighs and belly as she got over sensitive.
It felt a bit fuzzy as she whined at the emptiness, a brief recalling of him saying to sit still before he was back, stroking sweaty hair out of her face and a warm washcloth gently cleaning between her thighs.
“There you are.” He murmured, voice warm and smile soft as he swiped his finger over her cheeks. “M’sorry baby. Got overwhelmed, hm? No more tears.”
Y/N hadn’t even realized she’d been crying. It just felt so good, she felt so safe, and she’d drifted away. Coming back to his smiling face felt very good, especially with his tender touch. “Hi.” She peeped, reaching up for him. There was no fight from him to come down, balancing on his one hand as he gave her the kiss she wanted.
“Hello, beautiful girl.” He murmured with an amused smile. “Let me take care of you, okay?”
“Mm… ‘Kay. For how long?” She asked without meaning to, but his answer was what she wanted to hear regardless.
“As long as you let me. I take care of what’s mine.”
harry has to walk his drunk girlfriend home after girls night, but is that even his girlfriend?
wordcount: 2.2k+
—————
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.
—————
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!
⟢ pairing. harry potter x fem!reader ⟢ summary. you taking care of harry after he had been injured in a quidditch match. ⟢ friends to lovers. he fell first, he fell harder. ⟢ wc. 1,4k ⟢ masterlist!
you immediately set off to the hospital wing once you’ve heard the news that madam pomfrey was finally allowing visitors. see, she wasn’t very keen on allowing visitors. and you honestly didn’t care about your divinations class, leaving with no hesitation.
only, professor trelawney thought you were off somewhere in the toilets. besides, it was the last class you had today, so you didn’t really mind.
at last, you were greeted by the huge wooden doors of the hospital wing which was opened. panting, you slowly made your way towards the only person lying still on his bed—harry. as you sat down on a nearby chair, you frowned upon seeing the scars and bruises scattered across his face and arms.
just this afternoon, precisely at the quidditch match of gryffindor versus ravenclaw, harry had fallen of his broom. how? you didn’t know. but rumors about harry’s broom being jinxed spread like wildfire.
“oh, harry..”
carefully, you brushed a strand of hair out of his face, and with gentle hands, you slowly caressed his arm, your gaze never leaving his.
seconds turned to minutes, minutes turned to an hour, and yet harry gave no sign of waking, only occasional grunts and twitches. drowsiness settled over you like a blanket, and without even realizing, you had drifted off to sleep at his side.
“y/n?“
a soft, but quiet voice pulled you out of your light sleep. your eyes fluttered open, still not being able to register your surroundings as you were still caught in a haze, until they landed on him.
“harry, you’re awake!”
you flung your arms around him, forgetting entirely about his injuries. “ow—careful!” harry winced, though there was a small grin tugging at his lips.
how long have you been here? were you.. waiting for him all this time? those thoughts alone made his heart flutter.
“oh—sorry! right,” you quickly drew away, chuckling awkwardly while harry was trying his hardest to hide his pink cheeks.
“how’re you feeling? is your arm okay? is your head alright?” you asked quickly, voice dripping with worry and concern as your hands moved to gently check his arm, then his forehead, then his—
“i—i’m fine, really.”
though he sat up in an attempt to appear fine, the wince that followed him betrayed his words. he felt as if his body was aching at every inch, not to mention the pain he felt on his head. you shook your head in disbelief, chuckling lightly. he was really terrible at lying.
“oh, what nonsense. have you seen yourself?” harry opened his mouth to argue, but was interrupted by the feeling of your hand gently tilting his face toward the light. his breath hitched at your sudden contact. “that must’ve hurt, oh—hang on.”
without another word, you got up abruptly and made your way towards madam pomfrey, explaining your situation and how you insisted on taking care of his wounds. madam pomfrey, who was currently tending a ravenclaw with what looked like a badly twisted arm, gave you a long, skeptical look, before reluctantly agreeing. and so, she gave you a tray full of healing supplies.
unbeknownst to you, harry, just a couple of meters far from where you were, kept mumbling to himself. “right—okay. it’s fine. just.. don’t make it weird.” he muttered under his breath. “she’s just helping you, harry—being nice—yeah. that’s all.”
he nodded at himself in attempt to convince himself whilst trying to calm the heat rising to his cheeks, recalling how your hand touched his cheek earlier.
“brought you these,”
“w—what?” harry, who was in deep thought, stammered as you had broke through his train of thought, returning with a tray in your hand. though, it seemed like you hadn’t heard him. setting down the tray on the bedside table, you reached for the clean cloth and applied some essence of dittany.
before harry could complain, however, you were already reaching forward. “okay, hold still.” you instructed, as you leaned forward, dabbing the fresh cut on his left cheek that stretched from his cheekbone to just beneath his jawline. he winced the moment the cloth had touched his cut. “sorry,” you murmured.
although, harry didn’t seem to catch that as he was too busy fighting with himself. you were leaning in too close—way too close, that harry was suddenly aware of his own heartbeat which was hammering wildly in his chest. his body stiffened, swallowing hard. you’ve never been this close to him before.
and unfortunately for him, this didn’t go unnoticed by you.
“relax, i’m not going to bite.” you said, fighting a smile. people around you always referred harry as the chosen one; the brave, mighty hero who seemed to have no fears whatsoever, but as of right now? he, who flinched over the tiniest cut? quite the opposite you’d say.
“i feel completely fine, you know? give it here, i can do it myself.” he insisted, his hand shot out to grab your wrist, stopping you gently but firmly. “harry—no.” you said sharply. “you always take care of me when i’m unwell, so just shut up and let me help you.” your voice was softer this time, and it seemed to shut harry up for good.
you hated how harry always felt like he had to carry everything on his own. he seemed to have the brain of a ten year old superman—always prioritizing everyone else above him, never bothering to take care of himself, and always insisting on doing everything alone.
finally, you were done tending to his wounds. it almost took an hour, mostly because he kept insisting he didn’t need any help and that he made everything ten times harder than it ought to be.
time seemed to dissolve when you were with him, because you hadn’t even realized that the golden warmth of the afternoon had faded, replaced by the cool stillness of evening.
“you should get back, it’s getting late.” harry, insisted, ushering you to go back, even though all he wanted right now was for you to stay.
harry wasn’t allowed back to the dorms yet; according to madam pomfrey, harry, who looked completely fine, wasn’t considered stable enough to go back. you and harry protested of course, but still, her thoughts remained fixed.
“but then who’ll stay here with you? surely you don’t think i’m just going to leave you alone here.” you argued, furrowing your eyebrows as you spoke. he opened his mouth, probably to come up with some half-baked reason why you’d be better off in your own bed, but before he could say anything, someone had spoken up first.
“oh—y/n, dear, it’s getting late. go on, off to bed!”
you both turned your heads just in time to see madam pomfrey bustling in, her arms full of bandages and potion bottles. she barely looked up as she began sorting through them.
“you can’t stay the night here,” she continued, voice brisk. “this is a hospital wing, not a sleepover.”
“but—” you started, glancing at harry, who looked disappointed just as you were.
“no buts. off you go now!”
you bit your lip, sighing in defeat. it was pointless reasoning with madam pomfrey, and you knew that. “i’ll be fine, i promise.” he offered a gentle smile, yet you snorted instead. “you’ve said that like one hundred times already.” he couldn’t contain the laugh escaping from his lips, which you rolled your eyes to, although the small grin tugging at your lips said otherwise.
“fine. but only because i’m getting kicked out.” you muttered, pushing yourself up from the chair. your legs protested immediately, sore from sitting for what felt like forever. however, just as you turned your heel to leave, you felt a gentle tug at your arm, halting you from your movements.
he cleared his throat. “thanks.. for, uh, staying with me.”
“of course.” you gave him a soft smile—a smile he’d absolutely die for. it was one of the things he loved about you.
and with that, you left.
and harry.. oh, he was the happiest guy on earth. the second you were out of earshot, he couldn’t contain his smile anymore. he dropped back onto the bed, rolling onto his side, grinning to himself like a total idiot, replaying everything that has happened today on his mind like it was a movie.
he honestly wouldn’t mind falling off his broomstick once more if it meant you’d be the one taking care of him.
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."
Stitches and Second Chances- Doctor!harry styles x reader
Synopsis:- Harry never expects his ex to walk into his ER two months after their breakup, shaken from a minor car accident. Old habits return and unresolved feelings resurface, making them realize some bonds don’t break, they just wait to be found again.
A/N:- I know it's a little late, but how could I not write about doctor!harry being a med student? This is one of my favorite fics I've written, I hope you guys love it too. Please like and reblog to support.
Warnings: ER, blood, stitches, wounds, needles, car accident.
Word count: 6.3K
____________________________________
The emergency department was already awake when Harry walked in.
Monitors beeped in uneven rhythms. A stretcher rolled past him toward radiology. Someone called for a porter. Phones rang intermittently at the nurses’ station. It was controlled chaos, the kind he’d learned to move through without thinking.
He shoves his pen light into the pocket of his black scrubs, the stethoscope already around his neck.
“Morning,” he said, passing the triage desk.
“Morning,doc.” one of the nurses replied, glancing up with a tired smile. She was probably on her third cup of coffee, getting her last hours of night shift in.
“Here you go, Bed three’s all you.”, another nurse hands him a tab. “And five.”
“Right, thanks Mel.”, he says to her, already on his way towards bed 5.
He paused briefly outside the curtain, sanitised his hands, and stepped in.
“Hi, I’m Doctor Styles.” he said gently. “What brings you in today?”
The woman looked relieved. “I’ve had this chest discomfort since morning…”
He listened carefully, asking focused questions. Onset. Character. Radiation. Associated symptoms. He placed his stethoscope against her chest, listening to heart sounds, then lungs.
“We’ll get an ECG and some blood work,” he said calmly. “Just to be safe. Someone will be with you soon, yeah?”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
He stepped out, jotting quick notes.
“Can we get troponin, CBC, electrolytes?” he asked.
“On it,” the nurse replied.
He nodded and moved on. Onto bed 5. This was a kid with a tear streaked face, looked not more than 6 years old. His mother sat on the chair next to him, weaving her fingers through his hair. There was a dressing temporarily pressed to his knee, to stop bleeding from his wound.
“Hello, I’m Doctor Styles.”, he introduces, the mom smiling softly and he leans to meet the boy’s eyes. “Hi buddy, what’s your name?”
“Ron.”, he sniffles.
“What happened Ron, did you take a fall?”, Harry asks, putting on gloves. Ron nods and Harry looks at the mom for a better explanation.
“Foot ball practice, took a pretty nasty fall. Scraped his knee, twisted his ankle.”, she tells him.
“Alright, let me take a look yeah?”, he says softly to the boy. He pulls up a chair and removes the gauze to assess the injury. Ron winces as his fingers press against the margins of the wound. “Sorry..nothing to worry Ron, we’ll clean that and cover it up, it’s not too deep. I can see it’s painful though, you’re being very brave.”
“C-Can I go back to practice after this?”, Ron asks him and he chuckles as his mom sighs and shakes her head.
“Not right away, buddy, I’d like for you to get some rest. Your ankle hurts too?”
“Mhmm.”
Harry examined his ankle as well, and it could be a hairline fracture or a sprain, an x ray to confirm.
“I want an x ray on that. Clean and dress the knee, tetanus shot. You got it?”, he asked the resident who was sent his way by the nurse.
“Of course sir.”, he nods, putting gloves on, smiling at the mom and son, greeting them.
“Good job Ron, I’ll be back soon. High five?”
He puts his hand out and smiles as the kid gives him one.
“Harry, can you take bed 9? Just came in, accident, young female, got a laceration, possible concussion, I’ll give you an intern in a minute.”, the head nurse, Macie, asks him.
“Sure.”, Harry walks to the other side, towards bed 9. He does the same routine before meeting the patient. “Hi I’m Doctor-”, he stops mid sentence, his blood running cold as he sees who his patient was.
________________________________________
She shouldn’t have been driving.
She knew that.
Her eyes burned, head heavy, limbs slow. Her days were stretched endlessly, meetings, deadlines, skipped breakfast, coffee slowly replacing all her meals. But she had to work. She was working for a position she was so close to getting. That was her only motivation.
Besides, it was all a good distraction from the ache in her heart. No, it couldn’t fill the huge empty space he had left her behind with, but it was something. Something so that she doesn’t drive herself crazy in her loneliness.
She rolled her shoulders, trying to stay alert. Turned the radio up. Cracked the window slightly. The cool air helped for a moment.
Her phone buzzed in the passenger seat. She didn’t look.
Her eyelids drooped.
Only for a second.
A microsleep, barely noticeable, barely there.
But long enough.
The car drifted slightly, tires grazing the divider. The sudden vibration jolted her awake, but she overcorrected instinctively. The steering jerked, the car swerved, and the front bumper clipped the side railing with a dull, scraping impact.
Her head slammed against her window, her right wrist trapped between the steering wheel and airbag as it deployed with a loud pop.
Everything stopped.
Silence filled the car, thick and disorienting. Her ears rang faintly. The smell of deployed airbags ,sharp, chemical, lingered in the air.
She blinked slowly. Her heart raced, breath shallow, but she didn’t immediately register what had happened. Her hands still rested on the wheel, fingers trembling slightly.
Someone knocked on the window.
She turned her head slowly. A man gestured, concerned.
“Are you alright?”
She nodded automatically, though she wasn’t sure. Her thoughts felt sluggish, distant. She unbuckled her seatbelt, the motion clumsy, and pushed the door open.
The night air felt cooler outside.
“You okay?” another voice asked.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “It was just… I think I just drifted a little.”
“You hit the divider,” the man said gently.
She looked back at the car. The front bumper was dented. The glass of her window was cracked, one part completely broken. Not terrible. Not catastrophic. Just… inconvenient.
“I’ll call someone for the car,” she murmured, more to herself. “It’s fine.”
“You sure you’re alright?” someone else asked.
She nodded again. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
Her mind jumped immediately to practical things. The car. Insurance. Getting to office. Today’s work.
She took a step forward, and someone grabbed her arm lightly.
“Wait.”
She looked down as pain slowly seared through her arm. She was bleeding.
A thin line ran along her forearm, but it was flowing from the cut fast. Tiny specks of glass clung to her sleeve. The blood wasn’t pouring, but it was enough to stain the fabric.
She stared at it, confused.
“Oh,” she said quietly.
“You’re bleeding,” the woman beside her said.
“I… I think it’s just a scratch.”
“You should get that checked.”
“It’s fine,” she replied automatically. “I just need to-”
“You were just in an accident,” the woman said gently. “You might be in shock, you have a bruise on your forehead too.”
She blinked slowly, processing the words with delay.
“I’m okay,” she repeated, though it sounded less certain now.
The woman stepped closer. She was middle-aged, kind-eyed, her voice calm and reassuring. “There’s a hospital five minutes away. Just get checked. It’s better.”
“I don’t think-”
“You look pale,” the woman added softly. “And you might not notice everything right now.”
She glanced down at her arm again. The blood had spread slightly. It still didn’t hurt much. Mostly just… strange. Her wrist was hurting a bit though.
“I was just going to call someone for the car,” she murmured.
“They can wait. You come first.”
She hesitated.
Her thoughts still felt slow, like they were moving through fog. The woman’s calm presence grounded her.
“I can take you,” the woman said. “My car’s right there.”
“You don’t have to-”
“I don’t mind,” she insisted gently.
She looked at the dented car once more, then back at the woman.
“…Okay.”
The drive was quiet.
She sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window. The adrenaline had faded, leaving her tired, more tired than before. Her arm throbbed faintly now, but it still didn’t feel serious. Her head was starting to ache too. She tried to remember what had happened in that millisecond when she closed her eyes, but it just made her more tired so she stopped.
“You feeling dizzy?” the woman asked.
“A little,” she admitted.
“That’s okay. We’re almost there.”
Her thoughts drifted, unfocused. She didn’t even realize she was holding her breath until she exhaled shakily.
“You live nearby?” the woman asked softly.
“Yeah… about fifteen minutes.”
“You’ll be home soon.”
She nodded.
The hospital came into view, the emergency department glowing. The woman pulled into the drop-off lane and parked.
“We’re here.”
She blinked, grounding herself again.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“Of course. Come on.”
They walked inside together. The fluorescent lighting felt harsh after the dark outside. A nurse glanced up from triage.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Minor car accident,” the woman replied. “She’s got some bruises, her arm’s bleeding and she seems a bit shaken.”
The nurse nodded. “Have a seat. We’ll call you.”
She turned to the woman. “You really didn’t have to stay…”
“I wanted to make sure you got in,” she said warmly.
She smiled faintly. “Thank you. Really.”
The woman squeezed her shoulder gently. “You’re welcome, dear.”
She watched her leave, then sat down in the waiting area, finally noticing how tired she felt.
Her arm rested loosely in her lap, blood slowly drying along the cut. Her wrist was starting to swell up now. Neither did she realize which hospital she had been brought into, nor did she realize who might have been on shift.
“Come on love, let’s get you to a bed. Right this way.”, a kind nurse comes up to her. She stands shakily, swaying lightly, and the nurse slips her hand around her arm as she guides her to a bed, pushing back the curtains.
“What’s your name?”, she asks.
“Y/N.”
“Y/N, I’m gonna get your vitals, okay? Do you remember what happened?”
Y/N tries to recollect as much as she can as the kind nurse takes her vitals, and then helps her pull up her sleeve to see the wound in her arm. Now it was starting to hurt, she had to bite her lip in pain as the fabric grazed it. She almost passed out when she looked at it. Blood oozed out from it.
“Can I call anyone for you?”, she asks her.
y/n shakes her head slowly. She didn’t want to scare her poor parents who lived away, she’d tell them about it after she’s out of the hospital. Her best friend was out of town.
“No one, thanks.”
“Alright, a doctor will be with you in a minute.”
It took her less than a minute to assign a doctor to her, probably seeing the extent of her injury. The nurse was back with her again, this time with a doctor following her.
Y/N felt like passing out for the third time that morning when she saw who her doctor was.
“Hi I’m Doctor-”, he pauses too, green eyes wide as he stops mid movement, fingers gripping his tab. “Y/N?”
Harry didn’t move for a second.
This was his worst nightmare.
Someone he loved, still loved, he realised instantly, sitting in an ER bed. Pale. Hurt. Blood on her arm.
“Hey.”, she mumbled.
“What the hell happened?”
Y/n swallows, her voice coming out softer than she intended it too. “Drove my car into a divider.”
He forced himself to breathe, grounding himself in what he could see.
She was conscious. Talking. Breathing normally. No obvious distress.
She’s fine.
The thought repeated in his head like a mantra.
She’s fine. No major bleeding. Just superficial injuries. She’s fine.
“Oh, you two know each other?”, the nurse asks.
Oh they knew each other better than anyone else.
It physically hurt seeing him.
Two months. Two months of silence, of pretending she was okay, of not hearing his voice, not seeing him, not texting him. And now he was standing in front of her like nothing had changed except everything had.
Y/N fidgets with her hands, she wasn’t prepared to see him, not today of all the days.
Harry gives the nurse a look, and she looks at the name of their patient again, then it clicks. Harry had told all of them about his y/n.. He was the happiest he’d ever been when she was in his life. She also remembers that he’s now single.
“Oh. Oh that y/n..”, she murmurs as it clicks. “I’m sorry, I can assign someone else.”
“No.”, Harry said immediately, already pulling gloves on. He looks at her, looking so small, so scared, hurt. The protective instinct hit before logic did. He didn’t want anyone else touching her. Examining her. Deciding things about her.
But then, this wasn’t just about him.
He looked at her properly, searching her face. “Do you… want another doctor?” he asked quietly. “I can ask someone else to take over.”
The question hung between them.
She shook her head almost immediately.
“No,” she said softly. “It’s okay.”
He studied her, making sure.
She hesitated, then added, “I’d rather… have a familiar face.”
The nurse glanced between them, reading the tension. “Vitals, Macie?”, Harry asks, shifting into doctor mode as his eyes wandered from the wound on her head, to her arm, and then her hand that laid limply in her lap. Her wrist had a bit of swelling.
“Pulse 104, BP 142 over 88, sats normal. She’s a bit tachy, probably just shaken.”
Harry nodded, moving to her side. “Thanks.”
“Doctor Styles, I was told to assist you-”, someone comes inside the curtain, an intern and Harry stops him before he can complete. “I’ve got it, you can get me an update on bed 3’s labs.”
“Alright.” Macie, the nurse and the intern step away, leaving only Harry and y/n.
Harry pulled the curtain closed fully, shutting out the rest of the ER. The sounds muted immediately, leaving them in a quieter bubble.
The silence returned.
It was awkward now. Different from before. Heavy with things unsaid.
Harry forced himself to focus, reaching gently for her chin.
“You hit your head?” he asked gently.
She nodded. “Against the window when the airbag opened, I think the glass broke a little..”
He reached for her chin, tilting her face slightly toward the light.
The contact was brief, clinical, but it sent a familiar warmth across her skin. Her breath caught faintly. She hadn’t realised how much she missed that, his touch, the way he always held her carefully, like she was something fragile.
He noticed the hesitation in her eyes.
She looks scared, he thought.
Not panicked, just shaken. Vulnerable. Tired. Her lashes slightly clumped, her skin pale, a faint bruise forming near her temple. She looked exhausted.
She looked beautiful.
He cleared his throat.
“There’s some dried blood,” he murmured softly.
He used gauze, gently wiping along her temple. She flinched slightly.
“Sorry,” he whispered immediately.
His other hand stayed against her face, steadying her. His thumb brushed absent circles along her cheek without him even realising. The motion was instinctive, comforting, grounding.
She noticed. Her eyes flickered to his briefly. He realised what he was doing and almost pulled back, but she relaxed slightly under his touch, so he left his hand there, just for a moment longer.
He carefully brushed away a few tiny glass fragments caught near her hairline.
“This one’s superficial,” he said quietly. “Just a small wound. No stitches.”
She nods, watching him squeeze out some ointment onto his finger and apply it to her wound. “Any headache?”, he asks.
“A-A bit.”, she replies. It stings again, for a second, and then he’s pressing a bandage to it. “Done.”
He withdrew his hand slowly, the absence of contact noticeable to both of them.
“I’m going to check for concussion symptoms, okay?” he added.
She nodded.
He asked the questions gently.
“Any loss of consciousness?”
“No.”
“Nausea?”
“No.”
“Blurred vision?”
She shook her head.
He checked her pupils, shining the penlight briefly. “Follow my finger.”
Her eyes tracked smoothly.
“Where are you right now?”
“Hospital.”
“Do you know what day it is?”
She answered correctly, voice soft.
He nodded, reassured. “You’re okay. No signs of concussion.”
She exhaled quietly. “Let’s see the arm.”
She let him gently turn her arm towards him, and as she looked at it, she felt slightly dazed again. It wasn’t bleeding as much now, but it still freaked her out a bit. His fingers gently palpated the skin around the deep cut, observing its depth. She winces, and his eyes move to her face, seeing how she looks a bit pale.
“Hey, don’t look..look at me.”, he coos, and she does, how can she not when he sounds like that?
“I-I’m sorry I’m just freaked out..”, she admits, biting her bottom lip.
“It’s okay, love, you’re safe now, take some deep breaths. I’ll fix you up soon, don’t worry.”, he assures, and she gives him a small smile back, how could she not? The term of affection just rolled off his tongue. She was starting to relax after everything, finally. The adrenaline was starting to wear off.
“It’s going to need stitches but it’ll be over before you know it.”, he says, pulling up a chair and rolling over the small table where there were supplies he’ll need, and where she could place her arm so he could work. He brings over the lamp so that it shines light over her arm.
“Will it hurt?”, she asks as he picks up the saline.
“I’ll numb you up for the stitches so that’ll be just a bit of pressure. Now I’m gonna clean it and remove some glass pieces I can see, it’ll sting just a little bit. You’re strong, you got this.”
He reached for saline and began irrigating the wound. Cool liquid ran over her skin. She tensed slightly.
“Sorry,” he murmured, voice low.
He worked methodically, removing tiny glass pieces with forceps. His touch remained careful, almost overly gentle.
“How did you drive into the divider?” he asked quietly.
“I… dozed off,” she said. “Just for a second.”
His jaw tightened. “You fell asleep at the wheel?”
She nodded faintly.
He continued cleaning, then asked softly, “Have you been sleeping?”
She hesitated.
“…Not really.”
He paused.
“How much?”
“Few hours. Here and there.”
Concern surged immediately. He wanted to ask more. Wanted to tell her she couldn’t keep doing this. Wanted to remind her she always pushed herself too hard. He remembered the arguments, him telling her that the job wasn’t worth it, that they were overworking her, delaying her promotion.
“Still doing that job huh?”
Her fingers curled slightly, as she looked up at the ceiling. “Yeah.”
He swallowed the words that were coming up. He wasn’t her boyfriend anymore.
“Something like this was exactly what I was afraid of.”, he murmurs, not able to keep that quiet.
She wasn’t in the mood for more arguing. “What do you want to hear, Harry? That you were right?”
“Well, about this, I was. You’re tired of it too.”
“But I’m gonna have to start from the beginning someplace else, if I leave now. I can’t do that.”
“You just have to find the right place, y/n. Sacrificing your health for whatever reason doesn’t make sense to me, it shouldn’t to you either.”, he says, preparing her anesthetic.
She just sighed. “Small sting.”, he warns. The needle slid in.
She sucked in a breath immediately, a soft whimper escaping before she could stop it. “Fuck. That’s s-small?”
He cracked a small smile, apologizing. “Sorry, sorry, this is the worst part, hang in there.”
She turned her face slightly away, shoulders tensing. He injected slowly to minimise the burn, but he could still see the discomfort in her expression. Her brows pinched, lips pressed together.
“How’s… how’s Milo?”
The question slipped out before he thought too hard about it.
Her eyes flickered back to him in surprise.
“Milo?” she repeated softly. Milo was their dog. Well now, it was hers, after their breakup.
He nodded, still working carefully. “Yeah. He still stealing socks?”
A faint smile appeared despite the sting. “All the time.”
He huffed quietly. “Figures.”
She winced again as he finished the injection, her eyes were burning with tears now. She wasn’t going to cry, she told herself.
“Sorry,” he murmured again, his thumb brushing lightly against her wrist in reassurance. “Almost done.”
He withdrew the needle and gently pressed gauze over the area.
“Give that a minute to numb,” he said softly.
She exhaled slowly, tension easing as the burning sensation faded. She blinks, small tears that were welled up sliding down her cheeks and Harry’s heart aches for her as he reaches for a tissue and dabs them away, without second thoughts. “You’re being very brave.”
She chuckles, taking the tissue from him. “Crying over injections? Kids probably do better than me.”
“That must have hurt like hell, love, and you just went through a lot. It’s totally fine. You’re doing great, trust me.”, he assures and she lets that sink in. He lifts the ice pack from her wrist to check on it.
“How bad does that hurt?”, he asks, palpating against the joint.
“Not too bad.”, she murmurs. “Can you move it?”
“Mhm..but it hurts when I move it.”
He checks her range of motion. “It’s probably just a sprain, but we’ll do an x ray to confirm.”
She nods.
“He’s gotten bigger,” she said after a moment. “Milo.”
Harry smiled faintly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Still refuses to sleep in his own bed.”
“He never did,” Harry said quietly. “Always ended up between us.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
They both fell silent for a moment.
“Still scared of thunderstorms?” he asked softly.
“Yeah. Crawls under the blanket.”
He smiled, eyes soft. “Dramatic.”
“He gets that from you.”
Harry huffed quietly. “I’m not dramatic.”
She gave him a small look.
“Okay, maybe a little,” he admitted.
He gently touched around the wound, checking sensation.
“Can you feel this?”
“Pressure,” she said.
“Sharp?”
“No.”
“Good,” he murmured. “You’re numb.”
He reached for the suture kit, opening it carefully.
“It’s a clean cut, so it should heal well.”
She nodded.
He positioned her arm again, steadying it gently with his hand. His touch was slow, deliberate, careful. The needle passed through the skin, and she didn’t flinch this time.
“You doing okay?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah.”
He tied the first knot neatly, cutting the thread.
“Harry?”
“Yeah?”
“Will it scar?”
“Zero to minimal, love, I’m trying my best to make sure of that.”
“Thanks.”, she whispers. She hoped there wouldn’t be an ugly scar running down her arm.
“I’ll place a few more,” he said. “Shouldn’t take long.”
She watched him while he stitched.
He was completely focused, brows drawn together slightly, lips pressed in concentration. His curls fell forward just a little as he leaned closer, and he pushed them back absently with the back of his wrist before tying another neat knot. His hands were steady, precise, gentle in a way that made her chest tighten.
He looked the same.
Maybe a little more tired. Maybe slightly more guarded. But still him.
Still the same green eyes. Still the same careful touch. Still the same quiet concentration he slipped into when he wanted everything to be perfect.
She hadn’t realised how much she missed seeing him like this.
“How’ve you been?” she asked softly.
He paused for the briefest second before continuing the stitch.
“Busy,” he said quietly.
She nodded.
“Work’s… been a lot,” he added.
“Your mum?”
He smiled softly. “Good. Asks about you though, always on me for letting you go.”
Her throat tightens.
“All done,” he murmured, pulling off his gloves and disposing of them. He puts away the light, table, chair and goes to her side again, picking up his stethoscope.
“I’m just going to listen to your heart and lungs,” he said. “Make sure everything’s okay.”
She was sure he’d hear her heart beating abnormally fast, but she sat up straight as the cold diaphragm of the stethoscope touched her chest through her shirt. She inhaled softly.
“Deep breath, love,” he murmured.
She breathed in slowly. “Any difficulty breathing?”
“Nope.”
“Chest pain? Any sort of pain when you breathe?”
“No..”
TThat means her ribs are alright. He listened carefully, moving the stethoscope to different positions, front, then back. His hand rested lightly against her shoulder to steady her as she leaned forward.
“Tell your mum I miss her too.”, she tells him, while he palpates her abdomen. His fingers pause slightly, then his lips twitch into a smile, nodding. “Only my mum?”, he teases.
“Of course. Who else?”, she teased back, and he chuckled. “Right. When was your last tetanus shot?”
She blinks. “I don’t remember..probably in school.”
“More than 5 years, we’ll give you a booster.”
She makes a face. “I thought I was done with needles.”
“This should be easy compared to that. Nurse Macie is very gentle too.”, he says. Soon nurse Macie’s ready to give her the shot, swabbing her upper arm.
“Don’t look.”, Harry says to her again, and she turns towards him, fist uncurling. Harry slips his hand into hers, patting it with his other hand, smiling. “I’ll give you a sticker if you don’t cry.”
“Shut up, Harry.”
He laughed. The nurse smiles at their exchange, it was rare to see Harry laughing with patients like that. Clearly, this one was special to him. She flinched as the needle went in, moving her head further away, it bumped into Harry’s arm. He steadied her as she squeezed his hand, bringing his other one to the back of her head. “It’s okay, almost done.”
Soon, it was done. The nurse placed a small bandage and stepped back. “Wasn’t so bad, was it?”, Harry asks as y/n pulls back.
“Still bad. Thank you.”, she tells the nurse who smiled. “Of course.” She checks her tab. “Radiology’s ready for the wrist.”
Harry realized they were still holding hands. “Right.”, his thumb brushed her knuckles before he let go.
He helped her off the bed instinctively, his hand hovering near her elbow in case she felt dizzy. He withdrew slightly once she steadied.
“I’ll see you after,” he said softly.
_____________________________
A few minutes later, she was back. Harry re-entered the cubicle with the X-ray report in hand.
“Good news,” he said quietly. “No fracture. Just a sprain.”
She exhaled in relief.
He picked up a crepe bandage and moved closer.
“I’m going to wrap this for support,” he explained.
He gently lifted her hand, careful not to twist the wrist. His touch was slow, deliberate. He wrapped the bandage snugly but not tight, checking circulation.
“Tell me if this feels too tight.”
“It’s okay.”
“How’re you getting home?”
“Um..cab?”
He frowns, not happy with that answer. “You could call Sherin?”, he asks, Sherin was her best friend.
“She’s not here, went to her dad’s for the weekend.”
He couldn’t let her go home alone, in this state. He secured the end of the bandage neatly, then lightly checked her fingers.
“Move them.”
She flexed slightly.
“Good,” he murmured. “Keep this on for a couple of days,” he said softly. “Rest the wrist. Ice if it swells more. Elevate when you can.”
She nodded.
“And the stitches,” he added, gesturing to her arm. “Keep it dry for twenty-four hours. After that, you can gently clean around it. No soaking.”
She listened quietly.
“Come back in seven days, I’ll remove them for you, and check on the wrist, yeah?”
“Alright.”
He pulled out something from his pocket then, smirking. “Which one does my brave patient want?”
She laughs as he shows her his sticker collection. “I thought you were joking about that.”
“Not at all, you’ve deserved it.”
She hums as she looks at them, pointing to a jellyfish one. “Can I have that one?”
“Sure.”, he removes it carefully and sticks it over her bandage. “Cute.”
“Thank you.”, she smiled.
“Course. Oh and I don’t want you going back to work tomorrow, or day after. You need to rest for two days, at least."
“But-”
“No buts, y/n, I’ll email you a note, send it to that asshole boss of yours, Doctor’s orders.”, he completes, and she can’t help but smile. “Okay. Thank you, Doctor Styles.”
“Anything for you.”, he smirks, patting her shoulder. “Wait just a minute, I’ll drive you home.”
“What-no, Harry you’ve already done so much, I can get myself home.”
“I want to. It’s no big deal.”, he says, and leaves before she can protest more. Harry had already spoken to his ER head while she was taken for the x ray, he could slip away for a few hours. He’ll make it up later. He had to sign some discharge papers for his earlier patients, and once he’s done with that, he’s guiding her towards his car.
“You didn’t have to.”, she murmurs, but she is grateful, as he opens the passenger seat for her.
“I’ll sleep better knowing you’ve settled in safe at your place.”, he replies.
The soft hum of the engine filled the space. She leaned her head back against the seat, exhaustion settling deeper now that everything was over.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked after a minute.
She nodded. “Just tired.”
He glanced at her briefly. She looked pale, eyes heavy, shoulders slumped. He remembered how she always looked like this after pushing herself too far.
“You should sleep when you get home,” he murmured.
“Planning to,” she said softly.
Silence returned, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
“You scared me there for a minute, you know.”, he admits. “Seeing you like that, god.”
“I’m sorry.”, she whispered. “I scared myself.”
He nods. “You’re okay now though.”
They pulled up outside her building.
He parked, then stepped out before she could protest, walking around to her side. He opened the door and offered his hand instinctively. She took it, stepping out carefully.
The walk inside was quiet. He stayed close again, ready if she wobbled, though she didn’t. As soon as she opened the door, nails clicked rapidly against the floor.
A blur of fur came skidding around the corner.
“Milo-” she started, but the dog had already reached them.
He stopped short for half a second, head tilted, like he was processing. Then his entire body lit up, tail wagging so hard his whole back end swayed. He let out a soft excited whine and bounded forward.
Straight to Harry.
Harry barely had time to react before Milo jumped up, paws pressing against his thighs, tail wagging uncontrollably. A small, surprised laugh left him as he crouched instinctively.
“Hey, hey, buddy.” he murmured, hands immediately moving to scratch behind his ears.
Milo whined happily, licking at his hands, nudging his face, circling him like he’d just returned from a long trip rather than two months of absence.
“You remember me, huh?” Harry said softly.
The dog leaned into him, tail still going, completely content.
Y/N stood near the door, watching.
A small smile appeared on her face.
It was like nothing had changed. Milo didn’t hesitate. Didn’t question. Just ran to him like he always had, like Harry still belonged here.
Her chest tightened.
She hadn’t realised how much she’d missed seeing them together. Harry crouched on the floor, Milo practically climbing into his lap, Harry laughing quietly, rubbing his sides, letting him nuzzle into his shoulder.
“You got bigger,” Harry murmured. “Or you’re just heavier.”
Milo wagged harder in response.
“He’s definitely heavier,” she said softly.
Harry glanced up at her, still petting him. “You been feeding him extra?”
“He begs.”
“You always gave in.”
“You did too.”
He smiled faintly.
Milo finally settled, pressing close to Harry’s leg like he was claiming his spot again. Harry scratched under his chin absentmindedly, the motion familiar.
She watched them for another second, smile lingering, but there was a quiet sadness beneath it too. It felt warm, comforting… and a little painful. Like glimpsing something that used to be hers.
Harry stood slowly, Milo immediately following, staying close. “You can stay for a bit, I’ll make you something to drink.”, she said.
He blinked at her.
“You were just in an accident,” he said, half incredulous.
“I’m okay,” she murmured.
He rolled his eyes softly. “You haven’t changed.”
She gave a tired smile.
“You should lie down,” he said gently, stepping inside. “You look exhausted.”
“I can make tea,” she insisted.
“Absolutely not.”
She looked at him.
“You’re going to sit,” he said softly but firmly. “Or lie down. I’ll make tea.”
She hesitated, then nodded, too tired to argue.
He guided her toward the couch, then paused. “Actually… bed.”
She blinked.
“You need rest,” he added.
She didn’t protest this time.
He watched her walk toward the bedroom, slower now, exhaustion catching up. Something protective tightened in his chest again.
“I’ll bring it in,” he called softly.
She nodded, disappearing inside.
Harry stood in the quiet apartment for a moment, taking in the familiar space. Some things had changed. Some hadn’t.
Then he moved toward the kitchen, already filling the kettle. Milo followed him halfway, then settled near the doorway, keeping watch like he always did.
The apartment felt familiar. Too familiar. The mugs were still in the same cabinet. The tea box still tucked in the corner. He didn’t need to search for anything.
He made the tea the way she liked it, lighter, just a splash of milk. He carried the two mugs carefully toward the bedroom.
She was sitting against the headboard now, shoes off, exhaustion clear in the way her shoulders sagged. She kept her injured wrist elevated on a pillow. Milo had jumped onto the bed beside her, curled protectively near her legs.
Harry stepped inside quietly. “Here.”
She looked up, offering a tired smile. “Thank you.”
He handed her the mug carefully, making sure she didn’t strain her wrist. Their fingers brushed briefly.
He sat down beside her, leaving a small space, not too close, not too far. The silence settled softly between them as they both took a sip.
The warmth helped. The quiet helped.
After a moment, she spoke.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
He glanced at her. “For what?”
“For… everything. Today. Being there. Taking care of me.”
His expression softened immediately.
“You don’t have to thank me,” he murmured.
She shook her head slightly. “I do.”
He looked down at the tea in his hands, then back at her.
“I’d always be there for you,” he said quietly. “No matter what’s going on between us.”
Her breath caught slightly.
“You’d never have to face anything scary alone,” he added softly.
The words settled deep.
She leaned back slightly against the headboard, and without realising it, her shoulder brushed his. He didn’t move away. Neither did she.
It felt natural. Like muscle memory.
Their arms rested close, warmth seeping through the thin space between them. She leaned just a little more, not fully, just enough that their sides touched.
Harry went very still.
Seeing her in that hospital bed had terrified him. For a moment, when he’d first pulled back the curtain, his mind had gone blank, just fear, sharp and immediate. Someone he loved hurt. Vulnerable. Alone.
And now she was here, beside him, safe.
He exhaled slowly, tension easing.
She noticed.
She also realised something else, the calm she’d felt the moment she saw him in the ER. The way her racing thoughts slowed. The way she trusted him instantly. The way she knew she was okay because he was there.
Things had happened. They’d broken up. They’d hurt each other.
But none of that had changed this. Their bond was still there. Stronger than the distance.
She turned her head slightly, looking at him. “Harry?”
“Yeah?”
“Would you… maybe want to hang out sometime?” she asked softly. “Just… start again?”
He didn’t hesitate.
“I’d like nothing more,” he said quietly.
Relief softened her expression. He set the mug aside, turning slightly toward her. His hand lifted almost instinctively, hesitating only a second before he brushed a stray strand of hair away from her face.
He leaned forward gently and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, next to her bandage.
“I never stopped loving you, Y/N,” he murmured.
Her eyes closed briefly, the words settling deep.
“I didn’t either,” she whispered.
Her eyes were still slightly closed from the forehead kiss, her breathing slow, calm. Harry stayed close, watching her for a moment, memorising the way she looked when she was relaxed like this.
He had missed this.
Missed her.
Milo, who had been curled near her legs, suddenly lifted his head. His tail thumped once against the mattress, like he’d decided something. He stood, turned in a small circle, and climbed his way directly between them, nudging insistently until he fit himself into the narrow space.
She let out a soft surprised laugh.
“Hey-”
Milo pushed his nose against Harry’s arm, then turned and leaned his back against y/n, completely satisfied with his placement. His tail wagged lazily as he settled.
Harry huffed a quiet laugh. “Still needs to be in the middle.”
“Always,” she said softly.
Milo sighed contentedly, wedged between them like he’d always belonged there.
Harry rested his hand gently over Milo’s head, his fingers brushing lightly against hers in the process. Neither of them pulled away.
The dog shifted slightly, making himself more comfortable, effectively trapping them in place.
She smiled, tired but warm.
“Guess he’s decided,” she murmured.
Harry smiled faintly. “Boss man.”, he said, making her laugh. She reaches for Harry’s hand, tangling her fingers through his and he brings it up to her lips, looking at her, smiling so wide his dimples were out. He didn’t need to say it. Everything felt like home again.
hii i have a request: harry doing his interviews and his gf laying on his lap and playing with his hands and he’s playing with her hair
(not my idea i saw this in a tweet)
🩵 We Belong Together
Summary: Harry does his first promo interviews for “Kiss All The Time. Disco, Occasionally.” with Y/N by his side.
CW: just straight fluff, minor anxiety (for Harry)
Word Count: 2.4k
Famous!Harry x fem!reader
A/N: Such a cute request! Has everyone been watching Harry’s new interviews? What a cutie! 🥹 Thank you for this, was extremely happy while working on it.
Harry had recently returned to his creative space, finishing his new album in June. Now, it was January, and announcements had just begun. Harry warned Y/N about the schedule weeks in advance but still felt guilty when he had to slip away for work a bit. After three years of living a somewhat normal life, Harry was ready to let the crowd back in. He made a record that he felt extremely excited about that marked ‘togetherness’ as a key part of his journey as an artist.
“Baby,” he whispered gently. Y/N sat on the green sofa next to him. She was slightly slumped over, her headphones on as she watched a video on YouTube. They were currently in Los Angeles. Harry had to film a music video for his new released album that would be coming out in early March. After releasing the song and music video for Aperture, Harry had been busy, answering phone calls, attending endless meetings, and spending time away from Y/N. He noticed her a bit distant but didn’t want to comment on it. He figured she was just giving him space to do his thing and navigate through all the promo that was just beginning to demand his time.
Harry’s hand reached out, tapping her shoulder gently. When Y/N paused her video and removed her headphones, she looked absolutely spent. Harry gave her a small pout. It had been an early morning, but Y/N insisted on waking up with him. “My interviews are about to start soon…” he picked at his bottom lip. Harry had his email opened, Zoom links available as he had spent the last hour preparing for his first interviews for the new album.
Y/N gave him a tight smile. “Oh! I can go to the other room, give you some privacy.” She offered instantly. Harry had a different idea instead. He frowned at her comment.
“Actually, I was wondering if you’d stay here on the sofa with me? I’m a bit nervous for my first interviews back, but you help keep me sane,” he said with conviction. “You don’t have to be in the camera or anything, just… close, please?”
A grin formed on her lips. He watched as she seemed to admire the idea. “Sure, it won’t be too disruptive?”
“If you stay quiet, then it will be no problem,” he shrugged. Harry’s phone chimed with a notification, taking his eyes off of Y/N for a split second. “It’s up to you, love. I don’t want to, uhm, force you or anything. I just think it would be nice to have you here when I’m talking about things and trying to find my words.”
Harry had been a bit nervous about these first interviews. His team scheduled five of them for an early morning radio show across the UK and United States. The promo for his album would be huge this time around due to his long absence from the music scene. People were genuinely interested and excited by what Harry was going to share, and he was too. There was just something inside him that didn’t want to assume the audience would turn out due to his disappearance for so long.
Y/N scooted closer to him, rubbing her hands on his back. “You’ll do great, baby,” she smiled. “I’ll be here with you.” Her confirmation felt like a weight of security. Y/N and he had been dating for a few months now. Harry needed the extra support from his partner this time around because he was terrified of the prospect of fans and the general public not being so supportive towards his new sound, look, and visuals. He wouldn’t admit that out loud, though, but it could quietly be seen.
“Good,” he leaned forward to give her a quick kiss on the forehead before adjusting his set up. He fixed his laptop onto the sofa corner, propping it up. “Do I look okay?” His northern accent slowly slipping away.
“Harry, you look… refreshed and happy,” she complimented and popped her headphones back in. Harry adjusted his laptop, checking he had his girlfriend just out of view. Once he ensured he was the only figure in frame, he clicked on the invitation link.
“Harry! Welcome, great to have you on our show. We will get started in just a few minutes,” the radio host joined from audio as Harry popped his own headphones in.
“Hello. It’s uh, it’s good to be here.” He smiled, offering his charming smile. They weren’t live yet as the radio team worked things out on their end.
“Just have a few general questions about the new album, touring, and your new single release - Aperture. Does that sound okay with you, Harry?” The radio host checked in before even going live on air.
“Sounds perfect,” Harry gave a quick thumbs up. His face turned slightly to check on his girlfriend. She had been immersed in some influencer daily vlog. He gave her a small tap, noting that he’d be starting soon. He earned a promising nod and smile from his girlfriend.
“Okay, Harry — can you hear us alright?” The radio host asked, booming through his ears. He adjusted the volume and spoke, “perfect actually.”
“Great, okay, we will get started here in 3… 2… 1,” and they were live on air.
“Good morning everyone, thank you for joining us at BBC Radio 1. It’s a bit of an exciting morning for us, and really everyone across the world. Aperture by Harry Styles has been taking the world by storm overnight,” there was a brief round of applause. “We have a very special treat, Harry has joined us via Zoom. Harry, would you please say good morning & good afternoon to all your fans listening in,” the radio host chimed away.
“Hello, everyone — thank you for having me, uhm and good morning and good afternoon,” he said with a bright smile.
“We are lucky enough to have you for the first interview, how are you feeling, Harry?”
“Uhm yeah, this is my first uhm, thing so please, be gentle… Bit out of touch with this kind of thing,” he says with a smile.
“Of course, Harry, we want you to feel comfortable here, and we really do welcome you back! Congratulations on your new single and album announcement — “Kiss All The Time. Disco, Occasionally.” Will be out on the 6th of March. How are you feeling about all the love and support you’ve been getting?”
“Thank you, yeah, uhm, I’m extremely grateful, and I uh, I never assumed there would be this much support after I took some time away, so yeah, I’m completely blown away by the… reaction from everyone,” he spoke slowly, talking with his hands.
Y/N shifted slightly, pausing her video to watch him from the small distance they created on the sofa. As the interview went on, Harry grew marginally more comfortable. He laughed and joked with the radio host, explaining the meaning behind his album, new song, and how he’d been living the last few years.
“Yeah, I think… when you are on the other side of the audience, it’s really a good feeling to understand what they feel… it’s important really, as an artist, to understand that. By being able to go to shows and be in the pit, it really allowed me to be fully immersed, and that’s what I want for my audience too. To have fun and just be able to dance with this sense of togetherness rather than me up here on the stage and you down there,” Harry explained. He gave a quick glance in Y/N’s direction, reaching his hand out to brush her arm gently. He kept his face trained on the screen as he absorbed the radio host’s comments and questions.
Y/N slowly eased her hand into his large one, grounding him. As the first interview came to an end, Harry clicked off and turned to Y/N.
“Thank you for being here, really helps,” he gave her hand a small squeeze before clicking his email again. “I have another in ten minutes, really packing them in today.” He cleared his throat and reached for his now-cold cup of tea.
“You did great, baby,” she smiled. Harry nodded his head for her to come forward towards him. “Rest on my lap for a bit, you seem tired.” He knew the signs: constant yawning, tired eyes were literally the death of him, especially hers. Y/N didn’t protest, eased her head down on his lap against his soft pajamas pants.
“Really dig this professional up top, relaxed on the bottom look — it suits you,” she said, playing with his pajamas strings. Harry chuckled, “I’m flattered, really.”
Harry clicked around some more on his laptop, his free hand brushing softly against her scalp. Y/N kept her headphones in but her phone down on the coffee table. He watched as she closed her eyes, relaxing into his touch.
As his phone chimed again with another Zoom meeting notification, he cursed under his breath as he noticed that his girlfriend was sleeping peacefully in his lap. For a second, he wondered if he should wake her and get her tucked into bed before his second interview, but he couldn’t move himself to wake her. She looked so peaceful and relaxed on his lap.
As the second interview started, Harry stayed focused but had his hand on hers the whole time. When she’d shift in the slightest, he’d try hard not to look down at her much. He kept his hand steady as he talked through the interview questions.
“Uh, yeah, I’m extremely excited to get back on the road and really feel the audience again,” he smiled. “Right now, we just started our prep for tour,” he explained, “working on the visuals and, uhm, that type of stuff.”
“Thirty nights at Madison Square Garden, how are you feeling about that?” He gritted his teeth a little, “uh yeah, I think it will be great, I have never done anything like that other than the 15 nights, but we decided to double it, so yeah, I’m excited.” He added.
“New York will love to see you, will your partner be able to join you for some of those shows?” He looked down at his lap, considering the question. It was the very first asked about their relationship.
“Uh, yeah, she’s a huge support, so she’ll… She’ll be there,” he said with a cautious smile. He was protective over his girlfriend, especially since she wasn’t as used to his artist persona. Harry made her promise that she wouldn’t listen to any noise that was about her or something regarding their relationship. Harry promised he’d tell her if there was something she must know from the media, other than that — he wanted her to steer clear of Twitter and Instagram unless it was their personal, private accounts.
Once the interview ended, Harry took a moment to watch Y/N sleeping peacefully in his lap. His thumb gently brushed against her brow, in complete awe of the solid presence beside him.
“I love you,” he whispered, then shifted his attention back to his previous work. Harry clicked onto another meeting, answering the same few questions with a bit more confidence. His hand never left Y/N’s as she slept to the calming sound of his voice.
A/N: Hi guys! So this is my submission to the @jarofstyles fic challenge. Also, pictures taken from Pinterest, credits to owners.
Hope y'all like it!
Pairing: Harry x Reader
Warnings: Angst, smut(p in v) Minors DNI
Word Count: 7.1k
Masterlist I Join my taglist!
Part 2
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This was it. Y/N stood in the corridor near the glass doors with her bag pressed against her side, a bit nervous. The lobby smelled like polished wood and was very clean. She was early. As there were no familiar faces, she pulled out her phone and pretended to do something before giving up and rereading the same welcome email for the fourth time, just to make sure that she was in the right place. The company logo glowed softly on the wall behind the reception desk. The branding screamed prestige. She took a slow breath. She had been given an internship opportunity at Atlas Strategy & Communications right after graduation – the prestigious internship everyone had fought for.
People filtered in. Around her, other interns clustered in small nervous groups. Some of them were already laughing too loudly. Some were scrolling on their phones. She could also see some of them pretending they weren’t anxious. She recognized the energy immediately because she was full of it too. It was ambition, but hidden behind politeness.
“Good morning, everyone!”
The HR coordinator clapped her hands gently, her heels clicking against the marble floor. “Welcome to Atlas Strategy & Communications. If you will follow me, we will head to the conference room.”
The interns entered the conference room. Y/N chose a seat near the middle of the long table, setting her notebook neatly down in front of her. As people continued walking in, she caught snippets of introductions. There were Ivy League names, business schools, marketing programs, international universities.
That was when he walked in. There was a quality about him. It felt as though he commanded every eye when he walked in. Tall and relaxed in his posture, he wore a navy blazer over a crisp white shirt. He scanned the room once before opting for a seat directly across from her. Their eyes met briefly, and Y/N was the first to look away.
“Alright. Let’s start with introductions. Name, university, and specialisation,” the coordinator said, smiling brightly.
It went around the table and when it reached her, she straightened slightly. She confidently gave her name, and the university she graduated from. “I finished my master’s in Communications and Digital Media. I focused on brand strategy and audience behavior research. It is an honour and a privilege to be here today,” she finished her introduction.
A few people gave him a polite nod before it was his turn to speak. He leaned back, looking completely at ease, and introduced himself with total confidence. That’s how Y/N found out his name was Harry Styles and that he was a fresh MBA grad in Marketing Analytics and Growth Strategy. He kept his introduction short and sweet, not wasting a single word.
She looked up again without really meaning to but this time he caught her. He just lifted an eyebrow, looking a little bit amused that she was staring. Caught red-handed, she looked away as fast as she could.
The rest of the session was just standard onboarding stuff like team setups and break times, the usual. She kept taking notes just out of habit, even though she knew most of it was already in the intern handbook. Then, finally, they got to the part everyone had actually been waiting for.
“Project groups. You’ll be working in pairs for the first month,” the coordinator announced.
As the coordinator pressed a key on her laptop, names appeared on the big screen. Y/N scanned the names quickly, only to find her name paired with… Harry. Her stomach did something that resembled butterflies. He looked up at the screen too, then back at her. A slow smile tugged at his mouth.
“Well... Looks like we’re coworkers,” he murmured once the room started buzzing again.
She tilted her head slightly. “Looks like it.”
He laughed under his breath. They were guided to a smaller breakout room with their assigned mentor. As they walked side by side, he glanced at her.
“So...You said communications, right?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. Does that mean you will make my slides sound smarter than they actually are?”
She shot him a look. “I don’t do charity work.”
“Damn. I was counting on free labour.”
She rolled her eyes playfully as he chuckled.
The mentor finally laid out the project given to them. It was a market entry strategy for a tech client. It was the full works like data analysis, and audience research, including campaign positioning. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and dove straight into a serious discussion with her. She realized then that he was actually incredibly sharp, picking up on strategies instantly and offering his own insights. With their mentor heading back to her office, the two of them started divvying up the workload.
“I’ll handle competitor analysis and projections,” he said.
“Okay, then I’ll take audience mapping and messaging frameworks.”
He looked at her with a teasing smile, “You talk like a consultant already.”
She shrugged. “So do you.”
He grinned. “Okay. Fair enough.”
By lunchtime, they had already built a rough outline of the task they were given. After drafting the first plan, he stood and stretched slightly and then turned towards her.
“Do you want to get coffee before we get buried in these spreadsheets?” he asked.
She hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, sure.”
They walked together down to the cafe across the street. The line was long and the noise inside the cafe was loud, different from the silence of their office.
“So, why Atlas?” he glanced at her, trying to make small talk.
She considered the question. “Hmm, well, I didn’t want to waste two years of grad school working somewhere that doesn’t actually build things, you know?”
He nodded slowly. “Same here. Also, the brand name looks good on my resume.”
She laughed despite herself. “At least you’re honest.”
They got their drinks and sat near the window. She noticed that there was a comfortable rhythm between them already. It was not forced or awkward, but easy and enjoyable. Which made her suspicious. When they returned to the office, their shoulders brushed briefly in the elevator. Though neither of them commented on it, it was clear that both of them noticed it. As the workday ended, she packed her bag slowly, already mentally preparing for the late nights ahead. Across the room, he looked up from his laptop.
“Tomorrow, we start destroying this project.”
She laughed. “Aren’t you a bit dramatic?”
“Dramatic? Me? Nah, I’d call it efficient,” he corrected.
She shook her head, walking towards the exit. For some reason, she had this strange feeling that this internship wasn’t going to be simple. And neither was he.
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By the end of the first month, Y/N and Harry had each other’s patterns down. They got to know one another through their routine of normal days and shared deadlines. That initial formality just kind of melted away the more they saw each other every morning. In the beginning, it was strictly business. Talking about project updates or file sharing, or sometimes an occasional comment during a brainstorm.
But then, one evening, she asked him for a hand with a messy data set she couldn't wrap her head around. The office was mostly empty since half the team had already headed home. Harry pulled his chair right up next to hers, and they sat shoulder to shoulder, scrolling through spreadsheets and tossing suggestions back and forth. Their ideas just clicked. When they finally cracked it, she couldn't help but let out a relieved laugh.
“You just saved me from rewriting this entire thing.”
“That’s my good deed for the day, you are welcome” he said lightly.
She laughed, “you're impossible.”
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It stayed that way for weeks, their small conversations layered on top of work. Their conversations started wandering everywhere, from office gossip and random interests to the deeper things like their fears and insecurities. They learned about each other in fragments. Different universities. Similar ambition. Different cities. Same restlessness.
Y/N started to see that Harry had the kind of discipline people really look up to. He was the guy who was always early, always ready, and never seemed to lose his cool. She was just as driven, but in a different way. She was focused and thorough, though pretty stubborn about doing things the right way, even when there was an easier shortcut staring her in the face. After the successful presentation of their first project, their mentor started pairing them together more often.
“You two complement each other, you push different strengths.” she said once.
As the weeks rolled by, the workload started piling up, and staying late became the new normal for them. The projects demanded it, and honestly, it felt a lot less draining when they were not the only ones left in the office. By the third month, the late nights were just part of their routine. Harry picked up on the way she would tap her pen against her notebook whenever she was deep in thought, and Y/N noticed that he would reread every single email at least three times before hitting send. They even started walking out of the building together most evenings.
In the beginning, it was just a coincidence, but eventually, it became a habit. Whenever tasks were being handed out, they were automatically paired up. And in the late hours, you’d always find them in the same spot, working side by side. By the fourth month, people around the office were starting to pick up on their dynamic.
Someone joked during lunch, “You two are basically inseparable.”
He laughed it off and she smiled politely. Neither of them denied it.
That was the month they landed their biggest project yet. It was a campaign proposal that would be reviewed directly by senior management. The pressure on them to do it well was heavy and it made the headlines tighter and the expectations higher. And it meant that they practically lived in the office now.
“You’ve been reading that same slide for the past fifteen minutes,” he said.
“Ughhh it just…” she muttered. “It refuses to sound right.”
He leaned over to look at her screen.
Their shoulders brushed again but neither moved away.
“Try cutting the first line. Go straight to the insight.”
She edited and reread it.
“…Okay. That’s better.”
“Ha! Told you.”
She glanced at him. “Don’t get used to being right.”
He smiled faintly and returned to his laptop. A few minutes later, her phone buzzed. Her mother’s name flashed on the screen.
She sighed and declined the call, and then typed something on her phone.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. Just my mum, texted her that I'd call her back after getting home. My family thinks I’m being kidnapped by corporate life,” she rolled her eyes.
“Well, it’s a valid concern,” he shrugged.
She snorted.
It was almost ten and she felt her stomach growling loudly enough to embarrass her.
He looked up immediately. “You haven’t eaten, have you?”
“I had a protein bar earlier,” she said sheepishly.
“That doesn’t count.”
“There was chocolate involved. It absolutely counts.”
He shook his head, already standing. “Oh hell nah! Come on. There’s a place downstairs still open.”
“I just... I can’t afford another distraction.”
“You’ll work worse if you’re hungry.”
She hesitated and then closed her laptop, standing up and following him.
They ate sitting on the office steps outside, plastic containers balanced awkwardly on their laps. The city was full of traffic and there was music drifting from somewhere in the distance. There were people constantly passing by.
“This is nice,” she admitted.
“What? Eating burgers on concrete stairs?”
“No. Not being alone while doing this.”
He glanced at her. For a second, something passed between them that they both seemed to be aware of. There was something she couldn't quite name, a sort of pull that tethered her close to him like a magnet. And it felt like both of them understood what was happening but didn't know what to make of it or where to go from there. And then he broke it by stealing one of her fries.
“Heyyy.”
“You weren’t eating it.” He smiled playfully at her.
After finishing their meal, they went back upstairs and worked until almost midnight. When they finally packed up, she stretched her arms over her head, groaning. Her muscles were aching.
“I think my brain has melted.”
“Same. We should go before the rest of the people start coming in for their morning shifts.”
They walked toward the elevator together. The air was cooler outside.
She checked her phone. “Ughhhh…My bus left ten minutes ago.”
He paused. “I drove.”
She looked up. “You’re offering?”
“I’m not letting you walk alone at midnight.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”
His car smelled nice. The ride was quiet at first. There was this comfortable silence, it was not at all awkward.
“Are you always this intense about work?” she asked eventually.
He kept his eyes on the road. “I don’t like being average.”
She considered that.
“Well, I don’t think you are,” she said simply.
He glanced at her, surprised.
They reached her building too soon. She unbuckled the seatbelt slowly. “Thanks again. For today. And the food.”
“Anytime.”
She paused before opening the door and looked into his eyes. “We make a good team, don't we?”
He nodded. “Yeah. We do.”
She went inside her apartment with a strange warmth in her chest.
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It quickly became their thing, ordering burgers after late nights. During these breaks they would talk about anything and everything. She would tell him about her family. He would tell her about the pressure he felt to always perform and be good at everything he does. They would share vulnerabilities inbunfinished thoughts. During those days, honesty would slip through their exhaustion, bonding them closer.
She didn’t hesitate anymore before pulling her chair closer to his desk. He didn’t ask permission before stealing her charger when his laptop died. The following weeks followed the same rhythm. The dynamic between them had changed. There were now shared playlists and inside jokes about work. Even the car rides home became routine.
When the presentation day came, they stood side by side in front of a room full of people who controlled their future. She spoke first and he followed seamlessly.Their timing was perfect, their transitions smooth. They barely needed to look at each other, they completed each other's sentences, making the presentation successful. When it ended, the room erupted into polite applause. Their mentor beamed at them.
“Excellent work, both of you”
Relief washed through her so strongly her hands shook.
He leaned toward her slightly. “We did it.”
She nodded, smiling. “Yeah. We did.”
He leaned toward her slightly. “Told you we’d destroy it.”
She smiled back. “You were dramatic, but correct.”
They celebrated with takeout and coffee again that night. It was a small victory, but it meant everything to them.
“You ever think about what happens after this?” she asked suddenly.
“You mean the internship?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He shrugged. “I want to stay here. Permanently.”
“Same.”
Their eyes met.
Later, as they packed up, he hesitated.
“Listen,” he said, quieter than usual. “The internship ends in two months.”
Her chest tightened slightly. “Yeah.”
“I just…” he stopped, then shook his head. “Never mind.”
She waited, but he didn’t continue. She didn’t push him for answers either. But as she walked home alone that night, for the first time since they’d started working together, she felt this weight of something left unsaid.
By the fifth month, the internship didn’t really feel temporary anymore. Rather, it felt like a life they were living together. They were completely in sync with each other’s schedules, moods, and energy. She knew he was stressed just by the way his jaw would tighten, and he could tell she was overwhelmed the second she got too quiet. He started dropping off coffee at her desk without even asking, and she would make sure to snag him snacks from meetings. They even had each other's backs in group discussions, keeping it subtle. Behind all that professional behavior was this deep connection they both knew was there, even if they weren't ready to admit it.
The final month of the internship hit a bit differently. Suddenly, all the breakroom talk turned into a countdown, with everyone obsessing over who would get a job offer and who would be packing up. One evening, she caught him just staring out the office window instead of at his screen.
“Hey. You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said automatically.
Then hesitated.
“I just… don’t want this to end.”
Her chest tightened.
“Me neither.”
They didn’t elaborate.
From that day on, the atmosphere between them shifted. Their conversations stretched out longer than before, their glances lingered just a second too much, and even their silences started to carry a new kind of weight. During that final week, they stayed late every single night. It was not because the work demanded it, but because neither of them actually wanted to leave.
On the last Friday of the internship, the office put together a little lunch for everyone. There were speeches and photos, and people exchanged those slightly awkward hugs while wishing each other luck. Y/N stood by the window, watching her coworkers swap contact info, suddenly hit by the realisation of how temporary it all really was.
He walked up beside her.
“Six months,” he said, “Feels longer.”
“Feels shorter,” she replied.
They smiled at each other.
That evening, as they walked out of the building together one last time as interns, neither of them said goodbye.
What they didn’t know yet was that this was the end of one version of them and the start of another.
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The farewell party on their last day at the office was louder than she expected it to be. Someone had booked the rooftop bar across the street from the office. Fairy lights hung loosely from metal railings, music thumped softly in the background, and everyone seemed a little too emotional. Y/N arrived late, nerves buzzing in her chest.
Harry was already there. She spotted him immediately. He was laughing with two team members, drink in hand, jacket off, sleeves of his white shirt rolled up again.
He looked relaxed and when he saw her, his eyes softened, and a dimply smile grazed his lips.
“You made it,” he said when she reached him.
“Barely. I almost talked myself into staying home.”
“Glad you didn’t.”
They stood side by side as people kept coming up to congratulate them on the campaign. It had reached the point where their names were being mentioned together more often than they were separately. Eventually, as the music surged and the crowd shifted around them, he leaned in closer.
“I have something to tell you.”
“What is it?” She asked
“Um…I…I got the offer,” he said quietly.
Her heart jumped. “You did?”
“Yeah. Full-time. Strategy associate.”
“That’s amazing,” she said immediately, genuinely happy for him.
He hesitated. “Have you heard anything yet?”
She shook her head. “No, not yet.”
He nodded slowly. “They would be stupid not to hire you.”
She smiled faintly. “Tell HR that.”
They stayed longer at the party than planned.
Drinks turned into desserts, as their conversations turned into softer laughter. Their shoulders brushed more often than necessary. When it was time to leave, the air between them felt heavy with unsaid things.
He held his keys up automatically. “I’ll drop you.”
She didn’t argue. The drive was quieter than usual. One final time before they part ways. When they reached her building, neither of them moved to open their doors.
“So,” she said softly. “This is it.”
“Yeah.”
“You start your real job on Monday.”
“And you’ll probably get your email soon.”
“Probably.”
They sat there, looking at each other.
Weeks of late nights, shared stress, inside jokes, and unnamed moments... All of it pressed between them now.
He spoke first. “I don’t want tonight to end like it meant nothing.”
Her chest tightened. “It didn’t mean nothing.”
He reached out slowly, hesitantly, giving her space to pull away. But she didn’t.
When their lips met, it was soft at first. He was careful.Then it became deeper, and heavier, like they had been holding back for too long; they were.
She laughed quietly against his mouth. “We probably shouldn’t.”
“I know.”
But neither of them stopped. And that was how they ended up at her place. Everything after felt blurred and warm and intense, hands, whispers, nervous laughter, and behind it all, the weight of knowing it was temporary.
They stumbled into her living room a mess of limbs. As soon as she closed the door, she was pinned onto it, his lips nailing her to it with soft kisses and nips. She pulled him away from her neck before pressing her lips to his again, one hand on his jaw and another one his throat. He moans at the sudden shift, before responding with the same passion and intensity. “Where's your bedroom?”, he asked in between kisses.
“Just down the hall”, she whispered.
Harry immediately scooped her up into his arms, and her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. The light flickered shadows across the walls as he carried her to her bedroom, kicking the bedroom door open with his boot. He threw her onto the mattress with a grin, already crawling over her while loosening his tie with one hand.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted this" he murmured huskily before crashing his lips back onto hers, teeth nipping at her bottom lip."Been imagining this every night since I met you." The confession slipped out between heated kisses as his hands roamed her body, tracing the curves and contours.
“The feeling is mutual,” she said, looking at him with a glint in her eyes.
His breath hitched sharply at her words, his green eyes darkening with something feral as he pulled back just enough to study her face. His thumb brushed over her lips.
His hands gently moved down her body, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He let his fingers linger over her skin, trailing a path from her ribs to her stomach and back up. He kissed just below her ear, leaving a love bite on the sensitive skin, "I'll show you tonight just how much I've been wanting you, just how long I've been aching to touch you.”
She pulled him down and pecked him again in response as he tugged at her clothes, impatient to get her out of them. They undressed each other slowly, taking one another in with awe, the shyness and awkwardness of a first time lingering just long enough before desire took over them both.
His lips found her neck again and his hands roamed over her torso, tracing every dip and curve in her body like an addictive habit. He paused for a moment to admire the sight, drinking in her form.
"Perfect," he murmured against her jaw, her teeth grazing against her cheek."So perfect for me. You have no idea what you do to me, darling.”
Y/N was far too gone to say anything back. His voice carried an intense hunger that made her feel chosen, cherished, and wanted.
“Please,” she whimpered.
The desperation in her voice sent a shudder through him, his hands tightening on her hips as he pressed her deeper into the mattress, "Tell me what you want. Say it and it's yours. Always yours."
His fingers dug into her skin as he rocked against her, letting her feel exactly how much he wanted her. "Need to hear you say it, darling. Need to know I'm not the only one who's been fucking aching for this.”
“Want you inside me,” she said, her eyes hooded with desire.
A groan escaped his mouth, his hands flying to grip her hips. He pumped his hard cock a few times before lining it up with her entrance, pushing the head in slowly. He then leaned down to kiss her while slowly pushing the rest of his length in, swallowing the moans she let out.
“Fuck….Been dreaming about this, about how fucking tight you'd feel around me,” he groans as she mewls in pleasure.
"Christ…" his voice broke as he stills, hips trembling with restraint. "Even better than I imagined. Perfect for me." His hands cradled her face as he started to move, slow and deep, watching every flicker of pleasure cross her face. "All mine now, yeah? Say it.”
“All…yours” she whimpered, rolling her hips to meet his thrusts.
When they finally lay beside each other, trying to catch their breaths, the room was quiet. He held her close, staring at the ceiling.
“I’m leaving early tomorrow,” he said softly. “I have onboarding paperwork.”
“Okay.”
“I didn’t plan this,” he added. “But I don’t regret it.”
She turned toward him. “Me neither.”
But still, sadness settled between them.
Morning felt too bright. He dressed quietly as she sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on her sweater.
Before walking out the door, he stilled for a moment, and turned to look at her.
“This doesn’t have to be goodbye,” he said uncertainly.
She smiled sadly. “It kind of does. Different lives now.”
He nodded, jaw tight, and then he left. After he was gone, Y/N stared at the door for a long time.
Later that afternoon, her phone buzzed. She unlocked the screen only to find an email. Y/N froze. Her heart stopped.
Subject: Offer Letter – Strategy Associate Position
She opened the mail with trembling hands. They had hired her too! She was to start the next week.
Same department. Same floor.
She laughed out loud in disbelief. She wanted to call Harry and let him know, but she decided against it, wanting it to be a surprise.
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Monday came too fast.
She wore her best blazer. Her nerves were buzzing again, but it felt a bit different this time. When she stepped out from the elevator onto the floor of the office, she saw him immediately. He was standing near the coffee machine, talking to a senior associate. Then he turned and his expression froze.
“…What are you doing here?” he asked quietly when she approached.
She smiled, “I got the offer too.”
He blinked. “You’re serious?”
“ Yes.”
He stared at her, processing.
“Well,” he said finally, smiling at her,
“Looks like we’re coworkers again.”
Something that felt a lot like butterflies swarmed in her belly.
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After seeing him again in the office, Y/N felt like Harry had become someone else. Not entirely different , no. He was not exactly cold. It felt like he was more polished and everything.
At nine-thirty, he stepped into the office wearing a tailored blazer instead of his usual rolled-up sleeves. His hair was perfectly styled, and he carried himself with a new, rigid kind of confidence. When he spoke during meetings, his sentences were slow and deliberate, effortlessly commanding the attention of the entire room.
She noticed every single detail. He was still sitting near her and still collaborating on the same projects. But everything had shifted. He didn’t lean in to whisper comments during presentations anymore, and he stopped those absentminded brushes against her arm when they swapped files. The way he looked at her had changed, too. That specific warmth in his eyes that used to make those long nights feel manageable, had been replaced by a polite, polished professionalism.
They did not talk about that night at her apartment either. It shouldn’t have mattered, they had never labeled anything. But still, the absence of his friendship felt weird.
The next evening, when they packed up together out of habit, he cleared his throat.
“I’ll drop you,” he said, already grabbing his keys.
Her heart lifted instinctively. “You don’t have to.”
“I know. I want to.”
She smiled to herself.
The drive felt familiar again, the hum of the engine, and the soft music. The city lights slipped past the windows as she looked out. For a while, neither of them spoke.
“You’ve been… different,” she said finally.
He kept his eyes on the road. “Different how?”
“I don't know. More… corporate?”
He smiled faintly. “Is that a crime now?”
“No um…I just… it's just an observation.”
They stopped outside her building, and it felt like the night after the farewell party all over again. It was heavy with unspoken things. He turned to face her fully.
“About that night... I don’t want it to make things weird between us.”
Her chest tightened. “It already kind of has.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
“It's just that... We work at the same place now. People notice things. I can’t afford rumors this early in my career.”
There it was.
“So… what are you saying?” she asked softly.
“I’m saying we should keep whatever this is… separate from work, you know? Casual. No complications.”
She searched his face.
“Friends with benefits,” she said. It was not a question, she was trying to understand what he wanted.
He hesitated for half a second before nodding. “If you want to put a label on it.”
It stung. Of course it did. How could it not, when the things he said that night were anything but cold? His words had wrapped around her, warm and intoxicating, making her feel seen, wanted, and unforgettable. She told herself it made sense. They were young and ambitious. Newly hired. Maybe this was maturity. Looking out for the future was important. Maybe they both would soon realise that they want to be together.
“Okay, fine. But no pretending we don’t exist at all.”
He relaxed slightly. “Of course not.”
That night, he kissed her in the car. The kiss was slow, and familiar. It was gentle enough to blur her doubts. So she left it at that.
They started seeing each other again. He still dropped her off most nights, though he had started parking further away from the building entrance than before. Sometimes they would just sit in the car way longer than they needed to, venting about work, talking through their career goals, or admitting their fears about failing. Other times, they didn't say a word. They just kissed until the windows fogged up and everything outside that car vanished.
The hookups became a routine. He was exactly what she needed, but only ever in the shadows. He was hers behind closed doors, in the one space where she was allowed to matter to him. In private, he knew exactly how to hold her together.
Back at the office, he stayed careful. That version of him was serious and completely in control. Whenever their coworkers teased them about how well they worked together, he’d just laugh it off and effortlessly change the subject.
“She’s just competitive, you know? She keeps me on my toes” he would say casually.
It sounded harmless. But it slowly rewrote the way others saw her. In their view, she became “intense.”
Someone useful, who gets the work done.
She didn’t realise how much it hurt until one afternoon when she overheard two coworkers joking about them near the coffee machine.
“He’s definitely management material.”
“Yeah, and she’s like the work wife without the actual benefits.”
They laughed. She stood there holding her cup, forcing a smile onto her face when they noticed her. That night, when he showed up at her apartment, she didn’t open the door immediately.
“You okay?” he asked when she finally did.
“Yeah,” she lied. He didn't push her, but he kissed her like he meant it and that was that.
Weeks passed like that. She began waiting for his texts more than she wanted to admit.
He began cancelling occasionally. Apparently , there were now important meetings and networking dinners. He had a big list of reasons why he could not make it.
Every time, he promised to make it up to her, and usually, he did. Until the Friday of the partner firm visit. The office buzzed with excitement all day. The visiting team was important . They were potential long-term collaborators. She and him had been chosen to present again. They worked perfectly together. On stage, they were seamless. Their work was efficient and excellent, like always. After the presentation, people congratulated them both.
Someone joked, “You two should be the company’s power duo.”
He laughed politely. “We just work well together.”
Again, there was not even a glance in her direction. The after-party started on the rooftop again. And there was music, and drinks.
Y/N wore a deep green dress, not for him, not for anyone. She just wanted to feel good in her own skin. Harry arrived later, surrounded almost immediately by senior associates and visiting managers. She watched him from across the space. He was in his element, she could see the easy confidence and his practiced charm. He was wearing the version of him that belonged to rooms like this. She could see his growth, from an intern to someone who commanded the attention of the audience. She felt suddenly small.
Later, she stepped away toward the quieter corner near the railing, trying to escape the noise. That was when she heard him.
She knew it was him because she recognised his voice before she saw him.
“…you’re always together at work, you and Y/N.” Josh from the other department teased.
“Yeah, people keep shipping you two,” Rita, their colleague, laughed.
He chuckled softly.
“Come on, guys. She’s just intense about projects. Good teammate. That’s it.” he shrugged.
“Not your type?”
He paused long enough to make her chest tighten.
“She’s not… what I’d go public with,” he said finally, half-joking. “Let’s put it that way.”
The words hit harder than shouting ever could. That single sentence shattered everything she had been pretending not to see. She didn’t wait to hear the rest. She walked past them without being noticed and left.
That night, he texted her.
Where did you go? Are you alright?
She stared at the screen. She didn't answer; she couldn't. Her eyes filled with unshed tears.
An hour later:
Did I do something?
She turned her phone off. She had never left him on delivered, always choosing him first.
The next morning, he knocked on her door. She stayed silent inside, pretending she wasn't home.
On Monday at work, he tried to act normal.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said when he saw her near the elevator.
“I’ve been busy,” she replied flatly.
“You’re lying.”
She finally looked right into his eyes.
“Oh, and you're the one that decides it now?”
His expression changed to confusion. Before he could respond, someone called his name. He turned away. And she realised something painful and important at the same time:
He cared more about being seen than about being honest.
That night, he texted her again.
Come over.
She typed back slowly.
No.
It was the first time she had ever refused him. And it unsettled him more than he expected.
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The first time she went home without him, he barely registered it as a loss.
It was a Wednesday. It was so busy that it blurred into every other workday. They had wrapped up late again, both tired and quieter than usual. He packed his bag slowly, responding to one last email, already assuming that she would be waiting near his desk like she usually did.
But when he finally stood up and looked around, her chair was empty. He spotted her near the elevators, sliding her phone into her bag.
“Where are you…” he started.
“I’m heading out,” she said, not meeting his eyes.
“Already?” he asked, surprised.
She nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got something to take care of.”
“Alright. See you tomorrow.”
She didn’t wait for him. The elevator doors closed before he could even process it. He told himself it meant nothing. People had lives outside work. They have responsibilities, friends, family. She didn’t owe him her evenings. He had been the one who insisted on boundaries, on caution, on not being obvious. This was just her respecting that.
Still, when he drove home alone that night, the passenger seat felt strangely loud in its emptiness.
The next few days passed differently than usual.
Harry and Y/N were assigned separate projects that week. They were on different teams. Different deadlines and different meeting rooms this time. He didn’t see her as often. But their desks were close enough that he could catch glimpses of her profile when she focused on her screen, brows slightly furrowed, fingers moving fast over the keyboard. She didn’t look at him. There were no lingering glances or shared jokes anymore. There were no smiles when meetings dragged on too long.
By Friday evening, he realized something that bothered him more than he wanted to admit. He hadn’t touched her in almost a week. That night, sitting alone on his couch, he unlocked his phone and typed without thinking.
Come over.
He stared at the message.
Waited.
Ten minutes passed.Ten became fifteen. Twenty.
Finally:
I can’t.
He got no explanation or apology from her. All she allowed him were just two words that started back at him from his screen. He frowned. The irritation surprised him. She had never turned him down before. Not once. Not when he texted late. Not when he cancelled plans and rescheduled at inconvenient hours. Not when he treated their arrangement like something that fit around his life.
Y/N was probably busy, harry said to himself.
Still, he couldn’t sleep easily that night. Saturday passed quietly. No message from her. Sunday too. On Monday morning, he walked into the office already scanning the room for her without realizing he was doing it.
She arrived ten minutes later.
“Hey,” he said automatically.
“Hey,” she replied politely. Too politely. The familiarity and softness she had reserved for him was gone. Now, her voice only contained professional politeness.
“You free tonight?” he asked casually, leaning against the edge of her desk.
She didn’t even pause. “No.”
He blinked. “No as in…”
“No as in no.”
Her tone was sharp. It contained a finalty that held no room for questions.
He laughed lightly, forcing ease into his voice. “You’ve been busy lately.”
“Yeah,” she said, eyes already back on her screen.
He stood there for a moment longer than necessary, then walked away but the discomfort began to settle in his chest. It was neither jealousy nor heartbreak but something worse.
He could feel the loss of control, the way she started slipping farther and farther away from his hold. He started noticing things he had never paid attention to before. How she packed up exactly at six-thirty now, every evening, no matter what. How she avoided staying late unless absolutely necessary. How she never waited near his desk anymore. How she didn’t look at him when they passed in the hallway.
The next evening, he made a decision. He finished his work early on purpose and closed his laptop. Grabbing his keys, he waited for her, near the elevator. He pretended to scroll through his phone while looking for her from the corner of his eye. When she finally stood up, slung her bag over her shoulder, and walked straight toward the exit without even glancing his way, he felt hurt. With long strides, he caught up with her in no time.
“You’re not riding with me anymore?” he asked.
She stopped.
Turned slowly.
“No.”
She wasn't defensive or angry. She just said it like a casual matter. Somehow, Harry felt like that hurt more.
“You always used to,” he said quietly.
She gave a small shrug. “People change.”
Then she walked away. He stood there longer than necessary, watching her disappear into the parking lot. That night, he tried texting her again.
Can I come over? I miss you.
The message stayed on read. There was no reply. He stared at his screen, waiting for a reply from her. It was the first time that Harry was left on seen.
The next afternoon, he confronted her again near the elevator.
“You’re avoiding me,” he said.
She didn’t say anything.
“I’m protecting my peace.”
“Protecting your peace. Since when did I threaten that?” he scoffed.
She looked at him then and he saw a fire in her eyes. Was it disappointment, maybe? It bothered him more than he cared to admit.
She did not even dignify it with a response. Before he could ask her more questions, someone called his name from across the floor, making him turn away. When he looked back, she was already walking away.
Friday arrived heavy with rain-soaked air and overcast skies. Y/N and Harry were working late again.The office slowly emptied, the lights were dimmed.
He finished early and looked over at her. She was still typing away on her computer. He decided to wait for her. This time, he watched carefully as she packed up. After getting all her stuff together, she walked past him, without even sparing him a glance. She didn’t even hesitate. Something in him snapped. He wanted to know what this was about. He couldn’t let her slip away without so much as an answer. So he grabbed his keys and followed her outside. It had started to drizzle. She was already halfway down the sidewalk by the time he got out of the office. She walked alone in the drizzle, holding her bag close so it wouldn’t get wet. Her head was slightly lowered. Streetlights reflected off damp pavement, casting soft golden light around her. She looked small and vulnerable.
“Y/N, wait,” he called.
She didn’t stop.
He jogged forward, stepping into her path gently.
“Hey. I’ll give you a ride, don’t worry about it.” He lifted his keys from his pocket. “I’m not going to let you walk.”
A moment of silence passed as she closed her eyes, letting her head fall back. He had no idea what it was doing to her – what it took to keep herself in check.
“I have to worry about it. You know we shouldn’t be seen together.” Her words were weaker than she wanted them to be but she could see the flash of hurt on his face.
Didn’t he know this was for his benefit, too?
Silence stretched between them.
Cars passed. Rainwater dripped from nearby trees.
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, you’re the one who made that rule, aren't you? You were very clear about not wanting to be seen with me.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly.
“Then what did you mean?” she asked, finally meeting his eyes.
He opened his mouth but nothing came out.
She let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
“Why are you doing this?” he asked, frustration rising. “You disappeared without saying anything. You stopped talking to me. You keep pushing me away. What’s your issue?”
Her hands tightened around the strap of her bag.
“My issue?” she repeated slowly, turning to look at him, her expression incredulous.
She stepped closer. She stood close enough that he could see the exhaustion under her eyes.
“I heard you,” she said.
His stomach dropped.
“Heard me… what?”
“At the party,” she said.
“When you laughed about me. When you reduced me to a teammate. A convenience.”
His face drained of color.
“That’s not…”
“You said I was intense. That I wasn’t your type. That I wasn’t someone you’d publicly go with,” she continued, voice shaking slightly now.
“And then you came to my place that same night like I was still good enough in private.”
He swallowed hard.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“But you meant it enough to say it,” she snapped softly. “You meant it enough to protect your image instead of my dignity.”
She stepped back, creating space.
“I stopped riding with you because I got tired of pretending I was okay being hidden. I stopped sleeping with you because I realised I was giving you everything while you gave me convenience.”
His voice dropped. “You could’ve talked to me.”
“And you could’ve respected me. But you didn’t,” she shot back.
Her eyes burned with unshed tears, but she blinked rapidly, refusing to cry in front of him.
“I didn’t walk away because I stopped caring. I walked away because I finally started caring about myself.”
The streetlight flickered above them. He stood frozen. For once, he had no argument ready. For someone who thrived on commanding all the attention with his words, he had no defense prepared this time.
She stepped around him, walking into the darkness. And this time, when Y/N walked away, she didn’t slow down. She didn't hesitate, or look back.
Harry remained standing on the sidewalk long after she disappeared from view, chest tight, throat burning, finally understanding what he had done. The rain poured down, and he sat on the sidewalk, unmoving, letting it drench him completely.
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