focus on us a sequel to focus on me
Summary: Loving Harry is easy. Wedding planning with ADHD definitely isn't.
Warnings: neurodivergent reader (adhd specifically but fun read for everyone imo), hyperfocus, forgetting to eat, fluffy smut
A/N: you ask and i deliver! many of you wanted me to turn this into a series, and i'm definitely considering it. for now, here's a sequel x
Word Count: 4,742
...
You've been curled on the couch for hours, laptop balanced on your thighs, a chaotic constellation of tabs glowing back at you. It's... a lot. Spreadsheets with color-coded columns for guest dietary restrictions, Pinterest boards overflowing with floral arches and vintage chairs, vendor emails that you've read three times and still can't decide on.
The late afternoon sun slants through the tall windows of the living room, catching on the dust motes that dance above the coffee table like tiny stars. The ring on your left hand catches the light every time you type, a small, sparkling reminder of your happily ever after.
It has been just over six weeks since his proposal, and the joy still bubbles up at odd moments: when you brush your teeth and see the ring in the mirror, when you catch him staring at you across the kitchen island with that soft, wondering look, like he can't believe you're real.
But the planning... God, the planning has swallowed you whole. Your brain has latched onto it with the kind of ferocious hyperfocus that makes everything else blur at the edges. Time slips. Hours vanish while you research the perfect calligraphy font or agonize over whether the table numbers should be pressed flowers or tiny framed Polaroids.
You know this pattern. You've always been this way, letting new and exciting projects consume your focus until your stomach growls loud enough to startle you and your eyes have gone dry and gritty.
The front door clicks open, followed by the familiar sound of Harry kicking off his boots in the hallway. You hear the rustle of his jacket, the faint clink of keys being tossed into the bowl by the door. Your heart does its usual happy little flip, but your fingers keep typing, finishing one last note about centerpieces before you lose the thread.
''Love?'' His voice is low, fond, a little amused already. ''You alive in there?''
You hum without looking up, though a smile tugs at your lips. ''Barely. How was your day?''
He stops behind the couch to lean down and press a kiss to the top of your head, his curls brushing your temple. ''Long, but productive. Kept thinking about going home to you, though.'' He straightens, eyes scanning the battlefield around you. Empty mug with cold tea dregs. A half-eaten granola bar balanced precariously on the edge of the coffee table, wrapper crumpled. Your phone face-down on the couch, screen dark, probably dead or on silent. Again.
You feel his gaze more than see it. The small sigh he lets out isn't angry, just... worried in that nervous way he gets sometimes. He comes around the couch and drops onto the cushion beside you, close enough that his thigh presses against yours. One big hand lands on your knee, thumb rubbing slow circles through your soft lounge pants.
''You didn't reply to my texts,'' he points out, voice light but with an undercurrent you recognize. ''I sent three. Including a meme of a raccoon stealing a wedding cake. Thought that'd at least get a reaction.''
Guilt twists low in your stomach. You finally tear your eyes away from the screen, blinking at him like you're surfacing from underwater. His green eyes are soft, but there are faint lines of tiredness at the corners. He's been gone since morning, a full day of meetings and recording, and you haven't even asked how he is beyond the automatic question.
''Shit. I'm sorry. I saw them come in but I was in the middle of comparing two different linen rentals and then I opened another tab for string quartet options and... yeah. It slipped my mind.''
Harry's face softens, mouth quirking. He reaches over and gently closes the laptop, not all the way, just enough to break the spell. ''I know that thousand-yard stare. When's the last time you ate something that wasn't mostly oats and chocolate chips?''
You glance at the sad granola bar and feel your cheeks heat. The truth is that you can't remember. Maybe noon? Earlier? The hunger had been there earlier but then a new idea about the seating arrangements pulled you under and eventually the feeling just... faded.
That's how it happens every time. Your brain prioritizes the shiny, urgent task and lets the rest of your body send increasingly desperate smoke signals that you ignore until they scream.
''I had coffee,'' you offer weakly, knowing it's a terrible answer.
He lets out a soft laugh, the kind that rumbles in his chest and makes you want to crawl into his lap just to feel it. ''Of course you did.'' He squeezes your knee, then stands, tugging you up with him.
His hands settle on your waist, warm and steady, grounding you. Up close you can see the faint freckles across his nose, the way his hair is still slightly flattened on one side from wherever he napped in the studio. ''C'mon. I'm making you a proper sandwich. And you're going to sit at the counter like a normal human while I do it.''
You let him pull you toward the kitchen, your body protesting the movement after hours curled up. But your mind is already drifting back, wondering if the florist has replied yet, mentally rearranging the timeline for when you need to confirm the photographer. ''I will, I promise. Just let me check one more email really quick after—''
''Baby.'' Harry turns, cupping your face with both hands now. His thumbs brush your cheekbones, and the look in his eyes is so patient it almost hurts. He's not mad. There's only that deep, loving concern that always makes you feel seen and a little bit terrified at the same time. ''I'm really happy you're excited about this. I am. Watching you light up over color palettes and playlists makes me stupidly in love with you. But I need you here too, yeah? Not just the wedding-planner version of you who forgets to eat and doesn't answer my texts for twelve hours.''
The words sting a little. You lean into his touch, breathing in the smell of him. ''I know. I'm sorry. I get... I don't know. It's like everything else goes fuzzy and the only thing that feels real is finishing the next thing on the list. I'll eat. I'll take a break after dinner. Promise.''
He searches your face for a moment, then nods, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. ''Good. Because I'm marrying you, not your spreadsheet.'' He lets you go with one last squeeze and turns toward the fridge, pulling out bread, cheese, avocado, and the leftover roast chicken from last night. You hop onto the counter stool, watching him move around the kitchen with effortless grace.
The guilt ebbs, replaced by a warm rush of love so strong it makes your chest ache. He always does this, calls you back without making you feel broken for drifting in the first place. You open your laptop again, just a crack, telling yourself it's only to minimize the tabs. But your fingers hover over the keys, itching to dive back into the seating chart.
Harry glances over, catching you. He doesn't say anything this time, just raises an eyebrow and slides a plate across the counter a minute later: a thick sandwich, cut in half, with a handful of crisps on the side.
You take a bite and see the tension in his shoulders ease instantly. ''See? Eating. Being present. Model fiancée behavior.''
He chuckles, leaning on the counter opposite you, stealing one of your crisps. ''Mhm. I'll believe it when you close the laptop for the night.''
You grin around another bite, promising yourself you really will step away after dinner. But even as the thought forms, another task is already calling: a new idea for the ceremony music that you know you'll lose if you don't write it down right now.
The light outside has softened into golden hour, painting the kitchen in warm tones, and for a moment everything feels perfectly balanced: the man you love watching you, the ring heavy on your finger, the future stretching out full of beautiful, overwhelming possibility.
You just have to get the details right first.
...
A couple of days slip by in that strange, elastic way time moves when you devote every waking hour to a single mission.
The living room has become a war room of wedding planning: printed mood boards on your lap, sticky notes layered like colorful scales on the coffee table, your laptop screen glowing with at least twenty open tabs ranging from sustainable floral suppliers to sample playlists and seating chart templates that you keep rearranging like a jigsaw puzzle.
The air smells faintly of cold coffee and the candle you lit and forgot about hours ago. Your hair is twisted up, and you're wearing an oversized sweater, sleeves pulled over your hands as you type.
You intended to take breaks. Really. But every time you stood up to stretch or eat, another thought would yank you back: what if we did fairy lights in the trees instead of lanterns? or did I confirm the dietary restrictions with the catering staff? and minutes turned into hours.
The half-eaten granola bar from the other day still sits on the counter, now joined by an apple with one sad bite taken out of it and a condensed glass of water. Your stomach stopped growling sometime in the afternoon, having given up on trying to get your attention.
The front door opens with its familiar soft click, and you register Harry's arrival somewhere in the back of your mind, but your fingers keep moving across the keyboard. Footsteps approach, slower than usual, and you feel the shift in the room before you see him.
''Hi, love,'' he says quietly. There's exhaustion in his voice, the kind that comes after long days of his own. He drops his bag by the couch and crouches down beside you, one hand resting on the arm of the chair. Up close, you can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. He smells like outside air and the faint trace of the mint gum he probably chewed on his way home ''I missed you. How's it going in here?''
You blink at him, surfacing. ''Good. Really good, actually. I think I finally figured out the flow for the ceremony. We can have the string quartet play that one instrumental you like during the processional, and then—'' You gesture vaguely at the screen, itching to show him the new mock-up. Harry's eyes flick from your face to the chaos surrounding you. The empty mugs. The untouched water glass.
''Have you eaten anything today?'
You hesitate. ''I had some coffee. And half an apple earlier.'' The words sound weak even to you. You know how it looks.
He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair as he stands up. ''Baby... it's almost eight. You've been at this since I left this morning. Again.'' The worry is bleeding into frustration now, coloring his tone. He starts gathering some of the scattered papers, not angrily, but with purpose. ''You can't keep doing this to yourself. I'm serious. When's the last time you stood up? Or ate anything nutritious?''
The defensiveness rises fast and sharp in your chest. You hate that tone, the one that makes you feel like a child who needs managing. Like your brain is a problem he has to solve instead of just... part of who you are. ''I'm fine, Harry. I got caught up, okay? It happens.''
He turns to face you fully, arms crossed over his chest, clearly trying to hold back the full wave of worry that has been building. ''You're not fine. Look around. This isn't healthy. I come home and it's like you haven't even moved. I texted you twice asking if you wanted me to pick up dinner, and nothing. I don't want to make you feel small. I'm just worried because I love you, and watching you run yourself into the ground over centerpieces and playlists makes me feel helpless.''
Your heart is pounding now, shame and irritation twisting together. Part of you knows he's right. The other part, the louder one right now, feels cornered. ''So, what, I'm supposed to just ignore everything that needs to get done? This is our wedding, Harry. I want it to be perfect. For us. And sometimes that means I get focused. You do the same thing when you're in the studio for twelve hours straight.''
''That's different,'' he argues, voice rising just a fraction. ''When I do it, I still remember to eat. I still answer my phone. I don't disappear completely.'' He gestures at the mess, at you. ''Sometimes it feels like the wedding has taken over everything. Like I have to compete with your ADHD just to get you to look at me for five minutes.''
The words land like a slap. It's not particularly cruel, and he isn't shouting, but it's precise enough to hit every insecure corner of your brain. Too much. Always too much. He's already getting tired of it. You're exhausting him. This version of you, the one lost in chaos and hyperfocus, is the one that will finally push him away.
You swallow hard, forcing your face into a neutral expression. The fight drains out of you as quickly as it came, replaced by the familiar instinct to shut down and smooth things over.
''Fine,'' you say, voice carefully even. You reach for your laptop again, minimizing a few tabs. ''You're right. I'll take a break. Sorry.''
Harry watches you for a long moment, the frustration on his face melting into regret. He opens his mouth like he wants to say more, but decides against it. ''Okay,'' he says quietly. ''I'll... give you some space. I'm sorry I came at you like that.'' He leans down, pressing a quick, tentative kiss to your hair before heading toward the kitchen.
You stay on the couch, staring at the screen without really seeing it. This is why it never works. You're too chaotic, too much work. One day he'll decide it's not worth it. Your throat feels tight.
You keep typing anyway, small meaningless adjustments, pretending the knot in your chest isn't there.
The rest of the evening stretches out slowly. You stay on the couch longer than necessary, clicking through tabs without really absorbing anything, while Harry moves around the flat making dinner. The smell of garlic and herbs drifts in from the kitchen, but your appetite is gone, replaced by the heavy knot in your stomach.
When he brings you a plate anyway, a smaller portion, thoughtfully arranged, you thank him quietly and pick at it. He doesn't push. He figures he should give you some space to process your thoughts, the way he's learned works best when your emotions run hot and fast. Usually it does. Tonight it only makes you worry that he's pulling away from you already. You noticed the way he hesitated before kissing your hair, like he wasn't sure he wanted to touch you.
Of course he's tired. Everyone gets tired eventually. The exes who thought your quirks were cute at first, the friends who slowly stopped inviting you when you got too loud or you drifted mid-conversation. He's just the latest one to realize how much work you are.
The thoughts loop viciously, feeding on every small thing: the way he keeps his distance on the couch while you both pretend to watch something mindless on the TV, the quiet ''goodnight'' he offers when you say you're going to take a shower.
You take longer in the bathroom than usual, letting the hot water beat against your shoulders as if it can wash away the shame crawling under your skin. When you finally emerge in an old t-shirt of his and soft shorts, the bedroom light is low, Harry already under the covers on his side, scrolling on his phone with the faintest crease between his brows. He looks up when you walk in, offering a small, tentative smile.
You climb into bed on your side, the sheets cool against your legs, the familiar scent of his laundry detergent wrapping around you.
The silence feels thick. You lie there staring at the ceiling for a few minutes, heart hammering. That one frustrated comment confirmed every fear you carry about being too chaotic, too scattered, too much for someone as steady and grounded as him.
Finally, the words burst out before you can swallow them back.
''Are you tired of me?''
Harry sets his phone down instantly. The lamp on his nightstand casts a warm glow across his face, highlighting the concern that floods his expression. ''What?''
You keep your eyes on the ceiling, afraid that looking at him will make the tears spill over. ''What you said earlier... about the wedding feeling more important than us. About me disappearing into the tabs. I know I've been a lot lately. I know I forget things and get hyperfocused and it's frustrating. I really don't want to be someone who uses ADHD as an excuse for everything, but it is part of how my brain works and I'm terrified you're already starting to resent it. Like maybe you're realizing this is too much long-term. Like everyone else eventually does.''
The words hang in the quiet room. You feel unbearably exposed.
Harry shifts closer immediately, the mattress dipping as he moves. His hand finds yours under the covers, fingers threading through yours.
''Love,'' he says softly, voice thick with regret. ''I'm so sorry. The way I said it came out wrong. I was worried, yeah, but I never meant it like that. I'm not pulling away. I just hate watching you burn yourself out. It scares me. I see how bright you get when something catches your attention, how passionate you are, and I love that about you. But when it means you're not eating or sleeping or even noticing the day go by, I feel helpless. But I shouldn't have taken that out on you.''
He squeezes your hand, thumb brushing slow circles over your knuckles the way he knows helps ground you. You finally turn your head to look at him. His eyes are open and earnest, that familiar soft green that always fills your chest with affection.
''I chose you,'' he continues, quieter now. ''All of you. The parts that go a million miles an hour and the parts that crash hard afterward. The tangents and the forgotten texts and the way you light up over color palettes at two in the morning. I knew it wasn't going to be simple or easy all the time. No one is. But I want this. The messy, the beautiful, the hard days included. I'm not tired of you. I'm worried for you. Because I love you so much it makes me stupid sometimes.''
The knot in your chest loosens, just a little. The vicious spiral doesn't vanish completely, those thoughts never really do, but his words push back against it, steady and full of conviction. You shift closer to him under the covers, needing the solid warmth of his body.
''I don't want to be a burden,'' you whisper. ''I want our wedding to be special, but not at the cost of us.''
''You're not a burden,'' he murmurs, turning fully toward you now. One arm slides around your waist, his hand stroking slowly up and down your back, warm and soothing. ''We're a team. We'll figure out better ways to do this together. Reminders, check-ins, whatever helps. I'm sorry I made you feel like you have to apologize for being you.''
You smile softly, grateful for his reassurance but not entirely convinced.
''You're not a burden,'' Harry repeats, softer this time, like he needs you to feel the words in your bones. His hand slides up to cup the back of your neck, and then he's kissing you.
It starts gentle, the kind of kiss that says I'm here, I've got you. You melt into it immediately, the lingering tension in your body easing as you kiss him back. One of your hands finds his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palm. For a moment it's just comfort, the kind of closeness you've come to rely on after hard conversations.
But the longer the kiss goes on, the more it shifts. The hunger that always simmers between you two rises quickly, especially after a fight. Harry tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and a low sound rumbles in his throat when your fingers thread into his curls. You're no strangers to makeup sex; it's become one of your favorite ways to release leftover tension from heated discussions, and it works like a charm each time.
He rolls you gently onto your back, settling between your legs without breaking the kiss. The weight of him is perfect, grounding. His hand slips under the hem of your (his) t-shirt, palm warm against your stomach, then higher, thumb brushing the underside of your breast. You arch into the touch, a small gasp escaping against his mouth.
''Still with me?'' he murmurs, lips trailing along your jaw.
You nod, but your mind, traitorous even now, flickers for a second to the seating chart still open on your laptop in the other room. Harry can tell by the way your eyes lose focus for half a heartbeat.
He doesn't get frustrated. Instead he catches your chin gently, bringing your gaze back to his.
''Hey,'' he says, voice low and rough with want but still so full of affection. ''Focus on us, love. Just us right now.''
The words send a shiver through you. You smile, a little sheepish, and pull him back down into a deeper kiss. The rhythm between you feels easy and familiar, like coming home. Clothes come off slowly: your shirt, then his, then the rest, skin meeting skin in the warm glow of the bedside lamp. His mouth moves down your neck, sucking lightly at the spot that always makes your back arch. You run your hands over his back, tracing the muscles that shift under your touch, feeling the way he presses closer when you scratch lightly at his shoulders.
When he finally slides into you, it's slow and deliberate, both of you letting out shaky breaths at the feeling. The hunger is there, the need to be as close as physically possible after all the emotional vulnerability, but it stays sweet. Harry keeps his forehead pressed to yours, eyes open, watching every flicker of expression on your face. He moves with deep, steady rolls of his hips, one hand braced beside your head while the other strokes your side, your thigh, anywhere he can touch.
Your mind tries to wander again once, but Harry senses it like he always does. He drops his weight a little more, anchoring you, and whispers against your lips, ''There you are. Stay with me, yeah? Feel this.'' His hand slips between you, fingers applying the perfect pressure against your clit, and the distraction dissolves into pleasure.
The sounds in the room are soft: your shared breaths and quiet moans, the faint creak of the bed. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans your name like a prayer. The emotional openness from earlier makes everything feel heightened, more vulnerable, more loving. When you come, it's with his name on your lips and his eyes locked on yours. He follows right after, burying his face in your neck as he shudders, hips pressing flush against you.
For a long moment afterward you just lie there tangled together, hearts slowing, skin slick with sweat. Harry presses lazy kisses to your jaw, your shoulder, your collarbone. His weight is comforting, and one of his hands continues stroking soothing patterns along your side.
Harry falls asleep quickly after, the way he always does when the day has been long and the emotions ran deep. His breathing evens out within minutes, one arm still draped loosely over your waist, curls messy against the pillow. The room is quiet except for his adorably soft exhales and the sounds of the city outside.
You lie there beside him, skin still warm and tingly, but sleep feels miles away. Your brain is wide awake, spinning like a carousel.
The seating chart. Row seven still feels off, maybe move Sarah closer to the aisle? But then Ben will be next to his ex and that could be awkward. What if we switch the whole back row? The thoughts loop relentlessly, and you know from experience that trying to force sleep now is useless. The hyperfixation has you in its grip, and the only way out is to get it on paper so your brain will finally let go.
Carefully, you slip out from under his arm, tucking the blanket back around him so he doesn't get cold. You pull on his discarded t-shirt and pad quietly to the kitchen, the floor cool under your bare feet.
The laptop screen glows harshly when you open it on the kitchen table, making you squint. You surround yourself with a fresh notebook and a handful of pens, sticky notes filling with tiny diagrams and crossed-out names. The clock on the wall reads 2:17 a.m.
You're deep into rearranging the third row when you hear the bedroom door creak. Footsteps, soft and sleepy. You grimace, shoulders tensing, already preparing for another gentle scolding about rest and balance and not doing this to yourself again.
But Harry doesn't scold.
He stops in the doorway for a moment, taking in the scene before him. His hair is wild, eyes heavy with sleep, and he's wearing only a pair of loose boxers. Instead of sighing or asking what you're doing, he simply rubs a hand over his face and heads for the kettle.
''Want one?'' he asks, voice gravelly from sleep, already scooping coffee grounds into the French press.
You blink at him, surprised. ''You're not... mad?''
He glances over with a small, tired smile. ''Mad? No, baby. Worried you're running on empty, yeah. But I get it. I know how it works by now.'' He shrugs like it's the simplest thing in the world. The kettle clicks on, and the rich, earthy smell of coffee soon fills the kitchen.
You feel something tight in your chest loosen. ''I just knew that if I didn't get this out of my head I'd be up all night anyway.''
Harry pours two mugs, adds a splash of oat milk to yours the way you like, and carries them over. He simply settles into the chair beside you without a word, close enough that his knee presses against yours under the table. The warmth of his body, the quiet companionship, feels like the best kind of anchor. You lean into his side, resting your head briefly on his shoulder as gratitude washes over you.
The kitchen fills with the soft sounds of typing, the occasional scratch of pen on paper, and Harry's quiet suggestions. He points out a better set-up for one table, teases you when you get overly perfectionistic about the placement of a distant cousin, and keeps refilling your water glass when you forget. The spiral from earlier feels far away now. The work gets done quicker with his calm presence beside you, turning the overwhelming task into something shared and fun.
Eventually the sky outside the window begins to lighten, shifting from deep navy to soft lavender. Harry presses a lingering kiss to your temple, lips warm against your skin, one arm slung around your shoulders as you both stare at the finalized chart.
''Better?'' he asks quietly.
You nod, closing the laptop with a satisfied sigh. ''Much better. Thank you.''
He stands, tugging you up with him, and together you shuffle back toward the bedroom. As you curl into his side again, his arm wrapping securely around you, you feel closer than ever. Not despite the chaos, because of it. Because he adapts. Because he makes you coffee at 2 a.m. and sits in the mess with you instead of trying to fix it for you.
''Love you,'' he mumbles sleepily against your hair as you both drift off.
You smile into his chest. ''Love you more.''
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕
general tag list
@mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc @practistyles @qrapejuices @fangirl509east @sstylezzz @hontpwk @lichi-dunkera @prettygurl-2009 @violinheartxx @gotthecinema @ghstyles @triski73 @chronicallybubbly @makytka @hswriting @withoutluv @feralgayghost @littlenatilda @harrys-only-angell @babyyhoneyyy
...
