Poetry In Your Mailbox //H.S.
Summary: Y/N and the rest of her nosy neighborhood friends ogle at the man who just moved in next door — a man of mystery, silence, and someone who seemingly doesn’t want anything to do with his neighbors… until Y/N begins to receive anonymous mail.
Warnings: Slight sexual themes
“So what if a new neighbor is moving into Old Man Smith’s house?” Y/N chuckled into the phone, cutting up another piece of the carrot in front of her. “The house has been on the market for a while so it was certain to be taken up any time soon, Lindsey.”
“Ugh, Y/N! It’s not about the house,” Lindsey, her next-door neighbor of five years, whined. “It’s about who moved into the house.”
“Okay? Who exactly moved into the house? Ryan Gosling?”
“God, darling, we’re not that lucky,” she sighed dreamily. “But he is a man. A really hot man. And young, just like you.”
“You should go after him, Y/N.”
“Lindsey, I’m not going to ‘go after’ a man I barely know just because he moved into the neighborhood,” she laughed, setting down the knife on the kitchen countertop. “However, I will try to get a good look at him. Is he still moving his stuff in?”
“Yep, I’m watching him from the window. I’d go out there with the rest of the girls to look but I’m on baby duty at the moment.” Y/N could practically hear Lindsey, a single and recently divorced mother of three, pout. “I wonder if he’s fond of kids? If he’d mind being a stepfather?”
“You’re too much, Linds.”
Y/N takes off her apron and grabs her house key from the dining room table, exiting her home. She immediately spots the group of the Little Street women flocked by Lindsey’s house, directly across the street in front of what used to be Old Man Smith’s house. They’re not exactly being sly, ogling whoever it may be from behind the large movers’ truck parked at the curb, but she decides to join them anyway.
When she approached the women, they all giggled and pointed at a tall frame of a man, carrying a heavy box that appears to be nothing to him. From the back she could see that he was dark brown curly hair, tattoos running up and down his exposed arms, and all black clothing that his body dons. He turns slightly, exposing the side of his face and it struck Y/N like an oncoming train — he’s not just handsome, or hot, he’s beautiful. Sharp jawline grazed with a stubble of a beard, his face is sculpted into perfection and she feels as though she could admire them for hours.
One of her friends, Tracy who lives a few houses down, hums right beside her. “Gorgeous, right? Lord forgive me but I really wish I wasn’t married right now.”
“Has anyone actually gone over to talk to him?” Y/N questioned, because surely it must be uncomfortable to the man to have all these random ladies staring him like he’s fresh meat. He’s already having enough trouble moving all of his things into his house.
“Oh God no, we’re all way too nervous — and way too old to bark up that tree,” Tracy chuckled, then eyed her young friend. “But you should go for it.”
“Of course you should! You’re the only other young one besides him now and quite easy on the eyes,” she winks. “You never know, that could be your future hubby moving in right now.”
Y/N rolled her eyes, and another one of the ladies pleaded, “Yeah, c’mon Y/N, go talk to him for us, will ya?”
She sighed; she’s not exactly the extrovert type, despite all friends. When she moved into the neighborhood, the women claimed her as their own and immediately welcomed her into the friend group; she didn’t exactly have to overcome her shyness or anything. But this is way different. This is the most beautiful man she had ever seen, someone she has yet to meet… there’s no way she could talk to him without stuttering over her words.
Still, she took a step forward.
With the slightest bit more of encouragement from the group, Y/N continued walking across the street until she stopped in front of the truck, just a few feet away from her new neighborhood. As if sensing his presence, he turns around and faces her head-on, and she feels as though she could faint at the sight of him. It felt like all the air was trapped in her lungs.
“H-Hi,” she managed to choke out, trying to push her nerves away. She could feel all the eyes of the ladies on her. “I’m Y/N, your new neighbor, and um, I just wanted to welcome you into the neighborhood? We’re all pretty friendly here… some of us a little too friendly…”
The man doesn’t say a word, doesn’t provide his own name in greeting, doesn’t change his stoic expression. This made her internally panic, because what the fuck. Was she disturbing him or anything? Was he just shy himself? Why isn’t he saying anything?
Y/N decided to speak again, against her better judgment. “Yeah, um, I’m sorry for all the ladies gawking at you. It’s probably annoying. They’re all from the neighborhood, and they’re just as sweet as they are nosy. You’ll get used to it, I promise.”
Still, not a word. He just continues to stare at her in silence.
“Uh… Do you need any help with your stuff? It sure does look like you’ve got a lot of boxes.”
Y/N gives up, taking the hint. “Yeah, I’m probably the one disturbing your peace. Sorry. I’ll let you get back to unpacking. Again, uh, welcome to the neighborhood, and it was nice to meet you… sort of. Bye!”
She turns around and strides back across the street, her face filling with warmth of embarrassment. He probably thinks she’s a total fool, or weirdo, or both! She shouldn’t have approached him at all.
“Well? What did he say? It looked like he just stared at you from here,” Tracy questioned expectedly.
“He didn’t say anything, at all. He did just stare at me,” Y/N answered in dismay. “He doesn’t really seem like the friendly type.”
Tracy furrowed her brows. “So he said nothing? He didn’t even tell you his name?”
One of the other women, June, spoke out, “Then he’s probably a person we should all stay away from.”
The other women began nodding in agreement just as she murmured, “He’s probably just shy…”
But it was too late. It was decided, then, that the women of Little Street would have nothing to do with the odd and mysterious new neighbor.
One week later, an anonymous letter was placed in Y/N’s mailbox. It was in a simple envelope, but there appeared to be no return address in sight — the only one labeled was hers. She had taken a seat on the couch, a bit afraid to open the damn thing as if it’d be a threat of some sort, but she carefully tore in open anyway. She pulls out a neatly folded notebook paper, scrawled with lovely cursive handwriting in black ink.
I never believed in angels til I met you
But you’re more of a sunflower an angel grew
Radiant and bright, I want to pluck you from the earth
Keep you in my home and tell you how much you’re worth
Water you and keep you alive in my home every afternoon
And perhaps one day you’ll be calling this your home soon
Y/N’s heart fluttered with disbelief. Someone wrote her a love poem? That was possibly the most romantic thing she’s ever experienced. But who could it possibly be? Did the initial “H” stand for this person’s name? She didn’t know anyone who’s name started with H, especially one who would know her address.
She must have read poem over a hundred times that night. She placed it in the top drawer of her bedside table, keeping it close to where she sleeps at night so hopefully she could dream of the author, as silly as if sounds. She considered calling Lindsey right over, a true detective for over twenty years, but she decided against it. Y/N wanted to keep this poem to herself, between her and whoever wrote it.
The next day, Y/N decided to take a walk in her pretty new white sundress she’s been wanting to wear for a while now. She loves to take walks around her block, especially when it was nice and sunny out, so she could say hello to her fellow homeowners and their adorable pets. She walks down the street, basking in the glory of the sun, when she notices a pair of eyes on her. She turns to her right and spots the new neighbor, sitting on his porch with his eyes glued to her. Still not a trace of a smile on his face, but still she decided to wave and grin at him, hoping that maybe last week he was just too shy or too busy to engage in proper conversation.
He does nothing except look down at the leather-cladded book in his hands, and Y/N sighed before waking away. She wondered if something terrible had happened before he moved here, to make him so unwilling to trust other people.
An hour and a half later, when she returned home from stopping by Lindsey’s house for a chitchat, Y/N checks her mailbox and there’s another note. Anonymous, and addressed to her. She eagerly skips into her house and rips into it, her happy eyes eating up the beautiful words dedicated to her.
It’s in every move that you make
And the way that the sun hits your face
I love the way your smile shines brighter than the stars in the sky
Your heavenly voice that must make all the other angels cry
The more I watch you the more that I fall
My heart wants to go wherever you’d call
She hugs this note tightly against her chest, as if the ink will trespass her skin and absorb into her bloodstream. Y/N didn’t know this person, but she could imagine the mind they may have and how if she were to take a step into it, she’d be in a field full of colorful flowers underneath a blue and bright sky. She’s desperate to know who this person is — it has to be someone she’s met and spoken to before. H mentioned her voice and the way that they watched her — so they must be from around here, right? There’s no other single men in her neighborhood, unless it’s someone from a few blocks away who had taken a stroll on Little Street one day and happened to have caught a glimpse of her.
Either way, Y/N is a hopeless romantic and prays to learn of H’s identity one day.
The next note doesn’t come in for another few days, leaving Y/N in bubbling anticipation. She wonders if H is going to reveal themselves a little bit in this poem, or maybe the next one after that. She practically runs to her mailbox that evening, her heart bursting with happiness when she sees yet another of his letters sitting there.
A Dream You Created For Me
I’ve pictured you so many times in my head in the past
But to see you in real life is a million times better and I hope it lasts
I’m not a man of many dreams, but one of hope
And I hope one day I can reel you in with my rope
Capture you into my bedroom, kiss your sweet angelic face
Make my world your favorite place
Touch your skin and bury myself into your warmth and kindness
Give you a life that you’d never regret
Y/N felt an ache between her shaky thighs that came out of nowhere. It’s as if his words struck a physical awakening inside of her — knowing he’s a real person saying these things to her, about picturing a life with her, made her explode in all sorts of emotions. She needed to know who this man was now, she simply just couldn’t wait for him anymore.
It’s been about a month worth of love poems she finds in her mailbox and still absolutely no clue about who H is. Y/N has yet to tell anyone else of the poetry, but given how desperate and yearning she’s become, she’s about to. Just as she’s about to pick up her phone and dial Lindsey’s number, her phone rings with the very best friend’s number, and Y/N barely had time to greet her before her friend erupts into hysterical excitement.
“Oh my God, babe, you won’t believe what I just discovered!”
Y/N’s heart stilled for a moment — for a split second, she wondered if H had written her a love poem, too. She hadn’t considered the fact that he could very well be writing them to all of the women on Little Street, too, and that very thought alone broke her heart.
“What did you discover, Linds?” she warily asked.
“You know that mysterious guy who moved here about a month ago and won’t talk to anyone?” Lindsey began to giggle, unable to contain her excitement. “Well, I discovered what his name is!”
“His name?” Y/N chuckled, but now her curiosity has awakened.
“Mm-hmm. See, I was accidentally given a package that was addressed to his house, and I just so happened to take a glance at his name,” she said. “His name is Harry. Harry Styles to be exact. God, Y/N, isn’t that just the most gorgeous name you’ve ever heard?”
“Harry Styles…” Y/N repeated. “So, did you give him the package? Was he grateful or still stoic as ever?”
“Oh, God no, Y/N! I can’t deliver the package to him,” Lindsey whined. “I was actually hoping… you could? I know you don’t like the guy very much but you’re the only who’s got the guts to make the slightest bit of interaction with him. Please?”
Y/N mentally groaned. Not another awkward interaction with this Harry guy. “Fine. I’ll give him the damn package.”
“Wonderful! I left it just outside my door. I’m currently trying to put Tyler down for a nap.”
So just like that, Y/N takes Harry’s package and brings over to his house, ringing the doorbell. She considers just leaving it there and walking away, but something stops. There, sitting on tiny outdoor table on his porch, sat his leather-clad notebook wide open. The notebook paper looked awfully familiar, and so did his handwriting…
The same handwriting as H’s.
She had only begun receiving the love poems when he moved in.
The mysterious, silent neighbor of hers was the one who had been sending her his words of adoration. God, Y/N felt both foolish yet so absolutely excited. How could she not have figured it out earlier? It was so obvious!
The front door to the house suddenly opens, and there he stands in all his glory, Harry. H. Her poet.
“Um, your package was delivered to the wrong address,” Y/N says quietly, and very nervously. She hands it over to him, burning up under his intense gaze. “Also, I need to ask you something that might sound very random.”
And just like that, the stoic expression breaks, and a smug smile pulls on his pink lips. He holds out his hand, eyes brightening at her.
“Want to come in, sunflower?”
Y/N’s heart pounded, and she nodded, grabbing onto his open palm that sent sparks of electricity down her spine. She couldn’t help herself, she leaned forward and pressed her lips against his, which he gratefully accepts. Harry pulls away for a quick second, kissing at her neck a few times, before he began to murmur.
“You just take my breath away, my sunflower.”
A/N: should i write a part 2? let me know!
