Bad Neighbours: Four (Harry Styles fic.)
Premise: Harry despises the girl next door, and it's mutual. But Harry also really likes the girl he met online, and that, is also mutual.
Word count: 10k
Bad Neighbours Masterlist | Other Writing
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The first knock on Y/n’s door came at nine a.m. on the dot. And in her sleepy, disgruntled state, she stumbled down the hallway, twisted the key, and came sleepy-face-to-smiling-face with a middle-aged blonde woman dressed far too formally for a Sunday morning.
She holds a plate of finger sandwiches in one hand and a pile of brochures in her other. Next to her stands a man and a woman, presumed to be a couple, brows furrowed at the disastrous state of the woman who just opened the door for them.
The fancy-dressed lady smiles enthusiastically and steps right into Y/n’s house, and the couple follows after her until there are now four people standing in her entrance hall when there should be zero.
“You must be Y/n,” the lady greets, holding out her hand.
“... Yes?” Y/n frowns, tone as puzzled as her thoughts and face right now.
“I’m Venelize. Harry told me about you. Said you might still be asleep when we arrived, but wouldn't mind being woken.”
Y/n’s forehead creases with bitter realisation at the sound of that name. She should have known. And now? This random woman is placing the tray of sandwiches on the dining table and laying out the brochures in a neat row.
And Y/n really wants to ask what the fuck is happening right now, but she feels the need to refuse giving Harry – wherever he is – any more satisfaction than he has probably been lapping up since the moment she opened her door.
She thinks he was probably outside, hiding behind the hedge fence in wait, like a ridiculous predator revelling in the little fox innocently and ignorantly stumbling straight into his snare.
And, yes, Harry was indeed peeking out from behind the fence with a ridiculously proud grin. He cannot believe how easy it was to execute this plan. After all, the biggest challenge in this scheme was whether his sleepy, hermit neighbour would even answer the door.
And this magnum opus of revenge for the rooster has only just begun.
He hasn't even retreated by the time another two people are parking and strolling up his unsuspecting neighbours' still-open front door. God, if she could see the look on Harry’s face – bemused, disbelief, borderline-evil delight – this might be the first time his face has ever morphed into something so pleased and satisfied.
And as his eyes trail along her front yard, where five For Sale signs are now scattered courtesy of himself, the laugh that escapes his chest is as evil as it is purely amused.
His neighbour, however, is starting to put the villainous pieces together. Mostly because this mysteriously cheerful neighbour has started guiding these unwanted guests on a tour of her home.
She just stands there like a babbling fish, dressed for bed and helpless to put an end to this nightmare. Christ, there are more than six people in her house now, excluding herself, and she can hear another car turning off its engine and promising that more doom is about to enter her home.
And when one of the accidental intruders starts asking her questions about the price and amenities and the bloody furniture, Y/n simply cannot believe that Harry has managed to set up an open house for a home that is not for sale.
She finds herself incapable of doing anything other than grouchily eating several mini sandwiches as the first group of people say farewell and depart, right as another couple and their two children come strolling in.
“Fucks sake,” she complains under her breath, stuffing her mouth with another sandwich to avoid saying something like, ‘tell your children to keep their hands off of my millions of trinkets.’
By eleven thirty, Y/n has single-handedly eaten seven stupid cheese-and-ham snacks and has finally had enough, so when the presumed real estate agent concludes her umpteenth tour and says goodbye to the couple she was guiding, Y/n walks over and does what she can to stop this from happening.
“Listen, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what Harry told you, but I’m not selling my house. Please, for the love of god, help me get these people out of here.”
To say the agent was surprised is on point, as she begins apologising profusely, which prompts Y/n to start doing the same thing, until the two of them are just spewing “I’m sorry about this, I’m sorry about Harry.”
This goes on for a good couple of minutes before the poor woman hastily gathers the remaining brochures, tosses them on the near-empty food platter and ushers herself and five strangers off the property.
The door stands ajar, and that’s the last reassurance Y/n needs to kick into action and storm straight out, bare feet and all. That’s when she sees the signs on the lawn, and man, if that doesn't amuse and anger her all at once.
He’s gotta be holed up in that house of his, chuckling evilly to himself about what might be the prank of all pranks.
For Harry, she’s right on time, stomping over to his shut door, her fist pounding on the hardwood to the rhythm of rage, and Harry opens it so quickly that she almost bangs her fist straight into his chest.
Her stare is as loathsome as it is dangerous, like she’s staring down a villain who threatened her cat and not just her pesky trickster of a neighbour.
“This is an all-time low.”
Harry leans his back brazenly against the door frame, his gaze raking up her pyjama-clad figure – shirt crumbled and hair still messy with frustration over lost sleep.
“Really? I think it’s my best one yet.” His smile is smug.
“It is, and that’s why I hate it.” Her arms cross her chest with a heavy huff.
“How many people showed?”
“At least twelve.” Her words are coated with surprise, exasperation and utter disdain as Harry can’t stop himself from laughing out and filling the space between them with boastful pleasure as she pouts,
“It’s not funny!”
“C’mon, Peaches, you love talking to strangers.” He mocks.
“It sickens me that you know me so well.” She only grumbles with a scowl.
“Join the club.” He scoffs, his pretty green gaze rolling.
“You’re so childish!” She groans, foot stomping like it isn't hypocritical to do so while accusing someone of being juvenile.
“Oh, am I the one who put livestock in your living room?” Harry torts, still evidently very disgruntled by the whole Reaper situation.
“No, but you did steal my gnome.” Y/n scoffs so loud it feels like her entirety departs along with it, and she points an accusatory finger at him.
Just when Harry thinks he’s in the clear, his neighbour lets him know she was in on it all along, and that dulls half the satisfaction – after all, these types of moments, right here, are the whole point of using his free time to scheme and think about his favourite sassy brat.
“You knew about that?”
“Of course I did. What do you take me for?” She chides, quite fond of the way his rosy surprise-parted lips swoop into a precious pout.
“Well, you owned a garden gnome. So, as it stands, I take you for a quirky spawn of Satan.”
Harry’s shoulders do a little lift with so much nonchalance it's maddening, and his unfairly pretty eyes and audaciously wispy lashes are infuriating. Especially when he intentionally bats them like dandelions in the breeze, and offers an alternative,
“But you’re more than welcome to prove me wrong.”
“No, you pretty much hit the nail on the head.” The glimmer in her gaze counters the casual dismissal of her words.
“That’s a first.” He muses.
“And a last.” She hopes and prays.
She should definitely leave now. There’s still hope to salvage her Sunday, and staying a moment longer is sure to refuel the roundabout of useless arguing they so easily stride into.
But she doesn't move because there’s something pleasant about discussing the mechanisms behind their successful pranks. Come to think of it, Y/n doesn’t actually have anyone else who would even marginally understand this insane dynamic.
She certainly doesn’t tell her friends and family about the unnecessary amount of time she spends scheming and prepping for pranks that seem to only escalate this rivalry. She knows others would react with more confusion than amusement, and more than one would implore her to find something better to do in her spare time.
And now here’s Harry, the single person who can make any sense of this nonsensical back-and-forth, who clearly finds a similar sick joy in executing elaborate disruptions; it feels like a missed opportunity to turn on her heels.
“Did you drive all around town collecting For Sale signs?”
“Absolutely.” His prideful smile is so proud it's almost endearing.
“Your commitment is deadly.” She muses, struggling to hide the impressed approval that tries to slip through the cracks of her mouth.
Harry barks out a hearty laugh that is shortly followed by his voice lilting into a husky, perfectly in tune little song that takes Y/n as much by surprise as it makes her want to say anything to hear him sing again, “Rooster ruined my cushion.”
“One day you’ll love that precious poultry of mine, I guarantee.” She nods with such certainty that Harry almost feels inclined to believe her. Almost.
“You live on another planet, Peaches, I swear it.” He muses.
“Yeah? You should join me.”
Well, now that has Harry intrigued. And Y/n can see it even before he opens his mouth to respond,
“Oh? Gonna make me an offer I can’t refuse?”
“You’ll come around on your own…” Y/n’s lips creep upward as she softly snorts and shrugs with newfound smugness, cooing, “eventually.”
And now Harry’s beyond the point of returning to disinterest any time soon, and he can’t tell if it's because everything said between them somehow always circles back to a challenge, or if it’s because he’s genuinely interested in who the hell the girl living next door actually is under all that supervillain chaos.
“Your confidence is intriguing...” His words are dense as they trail off with fascination.
“God, next thing you’ll wanna get to know me.” She groans.
“Would that be so bad?”
He peers down at her with that all too familiar amused glimmer in his gaze, but this one feels just a tad different… like a flicker of intrigue, or fondness that floats along the span of his pretty stare and has Y/n doubting if it truly would be that bad if they got to know one another. All she can do is expertly raise her brows into a weary yet thoughtful bushy quirk.
“... I'll get back to you on that.”
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The glee that flickers like glimmering flakes of glitter all along Harry’s skin is something he hasn’t felt in longer than he can recall. And it’s intoxicating. His body practically floats through the entrance hall towards the living room, landing on the sofa like a leaf carried by the summer breeze.
With his ruffled curls resting against the armrest and his legs that go on forever stretched out along the span of the cushions, he wastes no time in pulling out his phone and heading straight for his favourite chat to report back on the good news.
Loverboy: I think I finally got under my neighbour's skin!
Her response comes through moments later, and Harry tries to imagine what she might look like hearing the news face-to-face. If her lips parted and eyes widened with surprise would look as adorable as her personality.
PastryPrincess: Was the reaction worth it?
Loverboy: God, more than.
Loverboy: And I have a very witty girl behind a phone screen to thank for it.
He sure does. And fuck, Harry would laugh himself into an early grave if he knew his thanks were actually going to the exact person who suffered at the hands of this masterful prank.
PastryPrincess: You can thank me by keeping up all the compliments.
On her sofa across the way, sulking, as usual, Y/n's willing to take all the doting she can get.
Loverboy: Careful, now. Once I start, you’ll have to muzzle me to get me to stop.
Now that's an idea she can get behind. The mere implication sends her thoughts and twists her stomach into a spiral of filthy thoughts.
PastryPrincess: Don’t give me any ideas…
Loverboy: What, is the thought of me being a good boy too much to bear?
Yes, yes it is. How could it not with the vivid visual of sternly peering down at a good boy who'd kiss her feet without hesitation if she so pleased?
PastryPrincess: It is when you aren’t here, and I can't make you get on your knees.
Harry's slacks threaten to tighten at the mere thought. He isn't even ashamed to admit it would take less than a single ‘please' for him to drop to the floor for her. But he has to maintain some semblance of aloofness.
Loverboy: What makes you so sure I would?
PastryPrincess: Denial doesn’t suit you, loverboy.
Loverboy: Oh? And what would suit me better, Princess?
He knows exactly what she wants, but he goads her regardless. And Y/n’s fantasy is too fleshed out to even acknowledge the wriggling worm of validation that dangles on the thin line and blurs her line of vision, needily attached to the rod he clutches in anticipation.
PastryPrincess: You, on your knees, asking me very nicely to let you take care of me.
Loverboy: Huh. I thought you were the one who liked to beg.
True… But sometimes, after being in front of a webcam, pleading and promising to be a good girl, the last thing Y/n wants to do is follow through with said promises. And since most of her days are spent feeling a lack of control, she often finds herself slipping off into a daydream of what it might be like to have someone else be at her mercy.
PastryPrincess: Well, since you're my favourite and most loyal fan, I'll let you in on a little secret.
PastryPrincess: Sometimes I think I might not want to be as submissive as I thought.
Harry couldn't have predicted the way his skin clams up at the implication, his body suddenly ten times heavier like a pair of soaking denim clinging to and weighing him down. It's like he’s just plunged into a pool of sudden possibility, like he’s been holding his breath for so long, and he didn’t even know why.
Now, he’s gasping in fresh air, and it fills his lungs with the motivation to finally confront something he’s been questioning lately. Well, always, but now more than ever.
Loverboy: I'll let you in on my own little secret then.
Loverboy: I don't know if I even want to be in control anymore.
There. He finally said it. Was it through a phone screen to a virtual stranger whom he somehow knows better than nearly everyone in his real life? Yes.
But he’s also admitting to himself that, at his grown age, there are still parts of himself that question if he actually knows what he truly wants, and that is terrifying.
PastryPrincess: Yeah?
PastryPrincess: I think it’s cause I feel like I usually have no control.
The minute her response pops up on the screen, it envelops Harry in that familiar reassurance that he swears he cannot get enough of, and when her words are so opposite to his, and therefore so akin, Harry knows that there’s nobody else who fits him with such ease.
Loverboy: Guess I feel like I have too much.
Heating up quicker than the noon sun does a swimming pool, Y/n vehemently shakes her head in an attempt to rid the brigade of filthy thoughts that march forward and demand her to indulge – just a little – in the idea of being in charge for a change. Not just in charge of anyone, but of one very mysterious, tender stranger who seems in need of a little bossing around.
PastryPrincess: I think we're a match made in heaven.
Loverboy: I know we are.
Yeah, Y/n’s gonna have to do something – anything – to stop herself from getting carried away. Fantasies are just as dangerous as the real thing, and somehow, she feels they might actually be worse. Disappointment is a threat that acts as a horizon, yet she willingly turns her back to the sky as she types out a response.
PastryPrincess: It's dangerous, loverboy…
Loverboy: Darling, that's what makes it so good.
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Around a week later, Harry has to blink twice when the movement of something akin to a human catches the corner of his eyes as he remains slumped comfortably on the navy sofa, gaze intently glued to the telly as the Real Housewives of New York are seconds away from having a full-on brawl at the dinner table.
The whiny tones of glitzed and gaudily garbed women are ever escalating, and Harry’s on the edge of his seat. He’s been anticipating this showdown for weeks now - eyes glued to the screen - when the flicker from just outside his living room window grows larger and finally disrupts his attention enough for him to spare a half-glance.
At first, he thinks the shuffling motion is surely a pigeon taking off for the freeing sky, but when the figure stays in place, neither flying nor dropping, Harry peels his stare from the screen completely and aims it at the odd distraction.
And that’s when he sees his neighbour, scaling the wall of her own house. Clumsily balancing the tips of her sneaker-clad feet on the minutest of gaps separating two cobblestones, her body stretched out like sticky taffy, arms reaching out in pursuit of hooking her hands safely onto the sill of her bedroom window.
With his eyes wide with bewilderment, still trained on the display of extreme sport occurring mere metres away, Harry can hear the voices on screen rising with dramaticism. But he can’t look away from his wall-climbing neighbour. Whether it has something to do with concern for her safety or the fear of being a witness to an avoidable accident, he exhales a gravelly groan and blindly grabs the remote to press pause.
Walking with panicked haste, Harry avoids all formalities and enters her tenderly nurtured property, gangly legs taking broad steps up the driveway, turning to the right and following the neat stepping stone path that leads him straight to the rock climber herself.
Peering up, Harry tries his best to avoid startling her, dulling his usual booming tone for one that hopefully avoids sending her body into a jolt and letting go of the windowsill that her fingers now grasp onto with desperation.
“Do you have a death wish?”
She doesn’t even flinch from the task at hand, as if she had sensed his presence all along. And she did - he’s not soft on his feet, and his bemused huff on arrival was louder than he thought.
“You do if you think distracting me is a good idea.” Y/n grumbles.
“And what's happening right now is a good idea?” He scoffs.
“No, it's a desperate attempt to get inside.” She snaps, craning her head ever so slightly to address the bothersome man, “What does it look like?”
He should have known that coming over wouldn’t solve the problem, as if she would do anything he suggests - and as if she wouldn’t double down on her stubbornness and attempt to do something even more reckless.
“Looks like your pride is getting in the way of asking for help.” His arms cross over his chest with frustration, “Again.”
“Oh, please, this has nothing to do with pride.” She scoffs, neck snapping back to focus on the task at hand, arms starting to ache, blood rushing away from her veins in pursuit of her head, throbbing against her forehead.
“You know damn well that I have a ladder. If you weren’t so stubborn, you could've asked to borrow it.” Harry scolds.
“And be indebted to you? Yeah, right.”
“You really do think so lowly of me.” Harry’s disappointed sigh is followed by a sad thought about how far things must have gone for her to resist the simplest offering of help. And pleading his good intentions will be pointless.
“Stop interrupting me!” She scolds.
So, with a dragged-out sigh, Harry walks back the way he came, straight into his yard in pursuit of his trusty ladder that still rests criminally against the cobble wall separating him from that marvellous peach tree.
Naturally, when it came time to purchase the partner to his peach-thieving crime, Harry gravitated towards an old-school tan wood ladder that reminded him of the one his mum used to pull out whenever the gutters got too clogged.
It’s lightweight and hooks perfectly atop the steep and broad dune of his shoulder, and Harry’s back in the yard of his neighbour in no time. Speaking of time, it’s running out; he can see the little tremors twitching at her bare legs as she struggles to maintain the strength to lift her upper body high enough to fit through the half-open window.
From where Harry stands, this task is impossible to complete, and she either doesn’t notice or does and chooses to attempt defying gravity nevertheless.
Regardless, his body rumbles with an amused chuckle, one that is fuelled by too much fondness for his liking, as he shakes his head and leans the ladder against the wall. Y/n’s attention snaps to the thwack of wood against cobblestone, her hands gripping the brick tighter with fright.
“Hey!” She scolds, risking a glance down to send Harry a harsh glare, but he’s already halfway up the make-shift steps and inching closer by the second.
He moves fast, Y/n thinks it's mostly due to his gangly legs, which she loves more than enough to punish herself for under the covers of darkness. Regardless, Harry covers the distance in seconds and cheerfully reaches her level, casually resting an arm against the step above him and blessing her with an almost cruel smirk, perfectly defining his dimpled cheeks.
His pride sickens Y/n… the type makes her want to suffocate him, with a pillow – better yet, with her lips. Maybe then he’d think twice before pulling out that classic cheeky smile that seems to be his default these days. It’s as infuriating as the next words that practically sing through the gap between his plump lips,
“Don’t be a brat.”
He leaves no space for her to strum up a typical snappy retort, his right hand anchored to the ladder as his left hooks onto her hip, his arm latching around her lower back like an electric wire, and for the first time in perhaps the entirety of their relationship, she can’t find it in herself to argue back.
All she can do is accept his help as he tightens the sparking cable of his arm and lifts lightly, hoisting her body nearer to the sill, and with such ease it renders her stunned, she finally has the momentum to press her hands into the cream panel, hoisting herself up as her legs work overtime to summit this self-made rock climbing wall.
With the grace of a newborn deer, Y/n’s limbs flail, to Harry’s greatest amusement, and as if the ajar window were the exit of a claustrophobic cave, she practically crawls through and mortifyingly stumbles to the floor with a hard thump.
After a moment, she reappears, and she looks like the aftermath of overexertion as strands of hair splay in all directions, cheeks swollen and flushed, chest almost tapdancing to the tune of breathlessness, and Harry is just looking up at her, a smug glimmer in his gaze that his body mirrors as he leans back on the ladder with an ease that it could convince the strongest sceptic that it wouldn't collapse on him even if an earthquake challenged the soil below.
Aside from the cheek-swelling embarrassment of having a dickhead audience up close to witness her clumsy gymnastics tumble through the window crack, the words ‘damsel in distress’ are ringing in Y/n’s ears louder than the blood rushing back to her thudding brain.
She’s got to start wondering if she’s putting curses on herself with her premonitions that are clearly best left unsaid. Like she’s trapped in a vortex with her notorious neighbour, and every senseless thought she conjures up goes straight to his soul and tugs him further into her orbit of chaos.
And that stupid, shamelessly charming smile of his does nothing but send her spiralling right back into shame. Her stare turns to that of a snake about to strike as she leans through ajar window and scoffs,
“My hero.”
Harry’s lazy satisfaction only strengthens, and this might be the worst interaction Y/n has had with this man – no, any man… any person, ever.
“Bout time you noticed.”
The shame of being caught scaling her own home is long gone, replaced by heightened distress over how easy this all was. Too easy for him to offer assistance, and even easier to relent, accept, and appreciate the moment.
The idea of asking Harry for help feels like pulling out each tooth one by one, but it sure hurts less than the grand piano of appreciation that dangles just above her head with daunting imminence.
“Thanks… for the help.”
That’s all she can muster. Followed by an instant pang of guilt for how underwhelming her appreciation is, but when Harry’s crossed arms rise and fall to the beat of his humoured chest - his entire face hauntingly entertained and egregiously pleased with himself - Y/n feels peculiarly reassured.
“Anytime, Peaches.” He’s descending the ladder before he can confirm the predicted reaction of her bunched brows and clenched cheeks as she semi-spits back,
“I told you not to call me that.”
His soles sinking into the grass, he cranes his neck to meet her frown with his own bemused tilted brows as his head tips in a gesture to the resting ladder, his dense, glucose-y voice projecting,
“I’ll leave this here… Y’know, to save you the trouble next time.”
Y/n doesn’t say anything – Harry’s strolling away before she can – and it's futile, but not enough for her to stop the disgruntled sigh-slash-scoff that fills the space between the ghost of their interaction.
🍑
If someone offered Y/n a free vacation in exchange for having to watch back footage of herself clumsily breaking into her home, she wouldn’t have hesitated to take a rain check.
So, imagine how it feels for her to have to rationalise the unfortunate fact that her biggest rival not only had the perfect view, but got to swoop in and save the day.
Afterall, the smugness he currently feels is exactly how she would feel had she found him in a similar position. And in all honesty, likely, Y/n wouldn’t have done nearly as good a job of hiding her righteous remarks. God, it would have been fun though.
Sitting like a sulk, feeling very sorry for herself on the couch, she can just picture the trip her neighbour is certainly on right now, probably the best high that washes over in heavy waves, reigniting his laughter over and over.
And she’s not far off. Harry finds this all so amusing that even now, back on the couch, even after he returns to the paused Housewives, every time the memory resurfaces, his body bubbles with the bemused giggles.
His focus is so deterred from the drink just thrown in a middle-aged blonde’s face that when his phone lights up with a favourable ‘ding’, he forgets the show altogether and unlocks the screen. And his heart truly flutters when he sees a notification from his favourite name.
PastryPrincess: Do you ever get tired of keeping people at a distance?
Harry sighs at the question reflecting back at him, because of course he does. And the perfect example of this lives just next door. He should be able to revel in these ‘neighbourly’ incidents with Y/n. Hell, they shouldn’t be in this weird dynamic to begin with.
But, he supposes it would be nice to share the amusing parts of it with someone… even if it’s her.
Loverboy: Honestly? All the time.
Loverboy: Do you?
Across the driveway and in the heart of the living room, curled up and feeling sillier than ever, Y/n does feel like the guarded life is getting a little lonely.
PastryPrincess: More and more as time goes by.
But by this point, it's second nature, an effort that solidified into such familiarity over the years that now, it doesn’t even take a thought to keep those walls stacked high. How can either of them trust that the person they allow to chip away at them will do so with the right amount of caution – of care?
Loverboy: But old habits die hard, hm?
PastryPrincess: Do you think that could change, though?
Though Harry is a self-proclaimed grump, he’s never been a pessimist – especially regarding love. It’s like he can’t rid himself of the hopefulness of falling in love that embraces him even in the face of heartbreak, and he stopped trying a long time ago.
Loverboy: I think, if you really want it to.
All it takes is one simple sentence, and Y/n’s focus almost completely shifts from that lingering mortification to soft and soothed.
PastryPrincess: A loverboy, a knight in shining armour, and a prophet. Quite the triple threat you are.
PastryPrincess: And somehow always reassuring.
And back on the sofa at Harry’s, he feels that reassurance she spoke of seeping through the screen and enveloping his splayed-out body.
Loverboy: I like that. Don’t think I’ve been called reassuring before.
PastryPrincess: What have you been called?
To nobody's surprise, Harry's thoughts refer back to the familiar words his disappointed neighbour so fondly refers to him as. And, maybe a couple extra traits that his cheekiness just can't pass up the opportunity to mention.
Loverboy: Stubborn, grouchy, mischievous… and devilishly handsome.
PastryPrincess: Sounds a lot like me… If you switch out grouchy for sassy and handsome for drop-dead gorgeous.
The irony of using Harry's favourite descriptors as a summary for her personality is not lost on Y/n, but it can't be helped that it's true…
Loverboy: Stubborn, sassy, drop-dead gorgeous? My favourite type of chaos.
PastryPrincess: You're an anomaly.
Loverboy: I'll be your anomaly if you so kindly ask.
This is dangerous territory. Each day is harder to maintain the distance. Not even physically, but the personal mystery that they've used as a crutch for too long now.
It was always a possibility that intrigue would get the best of them – well, at least her. But experience dictated her surety that seeing Loverboy as anything other than a sweet, charming, oddly funny anonymous boy who made the weeks easier to bear.
Which, if Y/n thinks about it, kinda sounds like she must be the biggest fool on earth to have missed that fact. That, or she knew and took the risk anyway. She doesn't know which is harder to live with.
All she knows for certain is that it's a pretty lonely life when you hold your hand out like a stop sign and wonder why people do just that.
🍑
With putting old habits to rest at the forefront of her mind, and the nagging feeling that she has to somehow repay Harry for that ‘damsel in distress’ disaster a few days prior, Y/n finds herself doing the unthinkable this morning – intentionally walking away from the safety net of her driveway towards the danger that lies behind the no-mans-land hedgewall… Harry’s front yard.
And unlike every other time, where her struts are fuelled by flabbergasted frustration, today they sink into the trimmed grass with weary resignation.
The whole sense of wrongness she feels doesn’t leave even as she stands on his doorstep, not even after he answers - and especially not when the door opens, and he’s wearing far too little clothing to be fair on anyone simply trying to hate him and not ogle at his unfairly thick, golden thighs.
And the cocky curiosity that arches his brow and laces his words, “Hey, neighbour,” only makes her regret whatever the hell she’s willingly getting herself into.
Still, Y/n persists, ignoring his lilted tone and stupidly stunning smile as she bites the bullet and does her damndest to dilute the cringing betrayal she feels just from opening her mouth,
“Do you like salmon?”
“Who doesn’t?” His amusement only increases as he sinks back into his familiar position of leaning back against the doorframe, and Y/n’s almost certain that when he confidently crosses his arms atop his broad chest, and his forearms flex just slightly, he’s doing it on purpose.
And it’s working like a charm because she has a lapse in memory, enough to distract her from even listening to what he said, instead rapidly blinking and nodding as if it might bring her back to earth,
“Good.”
Harry pauses and gives her the chance to continue, and boy, is he enjoying the anticipation of whatever brings her to his doorstep – especially when the conflicting doubt is morphing her features so animatedly. But she still hasn’t spoken, and Harry never was that good with patience,
“So…?”
“So… What?” She cluelessly questions.
“Salmon?” His brow quirks.
“Huh?” Y/n’s do the same.
“What is happening right now?” Harry’s chuckle is a combination of entertained confusion.
“Oh – shit. I have salmon.” Y/n blurts and makes a mental note to flog herself for it later.
“... Too much salmon?” It sounds like a question, and that deserves a second flogging. But she pushes through, “I wanted to know if you’d like to come over for some dinner?”
Harry is nonplussed, bewildered, intrigued and couldn’t hide it if he tried, his smirk morphing into a shiny grin that frames his mischievous tone as he drawls,
“Does the offer include spending time with Mac?”
“If it stops you from poaching him, then, fine.”
Her words are as conceding as they are begrudging and irritated, and there hasn’t been a single second of this interaction that Y/n hasn’t felt herself lathered in dread. Dread that he’d decline the offer, and even more that he might accept.
“What time should I come over?” His nonchalance is discerning.
And now that he’s agreed with such ease and a hint of, perhaps, enthusiasm, the coating of dread starts to melt into a waxy seal of surprise and nervousness. Especially when he’s staring down at her with that same warm stare from the other day that feels as unfamiliar as it does right.
“Oh. Uh, how’s six thirty?” Her uncertainty slips through and seasons her words and leaves a familiar feeling of needing to set time aside to chide herself for coming off as anything other than suave and disinterested.
“Perfect.” Harry’s words are sprinkled with sugary charm and melt into such sticky certainty that Y/n has no choice but to nod and brace herself for welcoming her own personal satan into her home.
🍑
Y/n’s been dealing with the type of dread that gets so heavy it sinks her stomach inward, and though she tries her damndest to keep distracted - to watch some YouTube videos on how to perfectly sear salmon skin, to do the laundry, clean the kitchen – she still can’t stop the anxiety of expanding the unknown territory of her and Harry.
Oddest of all, it’s not even the bad type of anxiety - not that there’s a particularly good type - it's the type that flutters like little dandelions in the breeze, that gets you so tickled with anticipation that your body goes into overdrive and all of a sudden, your nerves are fizzled.
Nevertheless, she goes through the motions, murmuring the mantra, ‘it's just a normal dinner between two people’, has a shower, fluffs the sofa cushions, and starts prepping the chromatic array of fresh vegetables.
But timing isn’t Y/n’s strong suit when it comes to cooking… at all. And if you were to tease her about it, she’d simply and factually state, “Good food takes time,” which she does believe, along with the belief that rushing ruins the process.
Unlike his untimely neighbour, Harry Styles is always early. The type of guy who sets his watch to five minutes ahead and sometimes tells people the wrong time to ensure they arrive when expected. If you asked him, he’d probably shrug and say, “I like to make a good impression”, which he certainly does, along with priding himself on punctuality as a principle.
So, when he knocks on his neighbour's door at two minutes to six thirty, Y/n nearly jumps out of her skin, her arms raising as she turns her head to be greeted with a massive shiny blade that stares at her with the promise that this night will be anything by simple.
Carefully returning the knife to the chopping board, she quickly rinses her hands and rushes through the entrance hall. But she has to take a second before facing him, leaning back against the wall and inhaling a deep, desperate breath as if it might provide her with some relaxation-laced oxygen.
On the other side of the hardwood, Harry waits patiently, hand loosely tucked into the pocket of his black wide-length cotton slacks, before restlessly raising his arm to ruffle his fingers through his silky curls.
Exactly what he does when he’s feeling out of his element, and nothing could prepare him for a peace treaty in the self-proclaimed Versailles of his neighbour. Not all the time in the world, nor the full contents of the green wine bottle in his other hand.
Especially not after the door finally clicks unlocked and reveals a slightly flustered, parted-mouthed, wide-eyed host, who peers up at him with the type of look you get right before hopping on a rollercoaster.
“You're early.” Her remark works as a greeting.
“I hope you like white.” Harry’s shoulders dip into a noncommittal shrug as he holds up the chilled wine bottle as his own form of ‘hello’.
“Who doesn’t?”
The left side of Y/n’s lips curves into a soft smirk as she silently praises herself for the little callback from this morning, extending her arm to accept the bottle and stepping aside to invite him in. And that smile would have kept growing if it weren’t for the next words out of Harry’s lips,
“Good girl.”
Her eyes widen, and Harry has to stop himself from doing the same because, God, is he looking for trouble tonight? He hasn’t even properly entered the house, and he wants to cringe his way out the door and down the driveway.
Thankfully, Y/n lets it slide and walks on further into the room. Harry closes the door behind him and follows after her like a lost pup. He does such a good job that when she comes to a sudden halt and turns on her heels to face him, he stops mere inches short of slamming right into her.
Y/n lets that one slide too. With a little smile, she gestures to the living room and, right before walking off into the kitchen, she casually informs,
“You can… make yourself at home.”
Something about the clear uncertainty and doubt that Y/n can do nothing to hide actually calms Harry down. In fact, it evokes that pleasant anticipation that he always gets whenever the two of them are in the same vicinity.
“You’ll regret saying that.” He calls offhandedly, watching fondly as her shoulders tense and sink back to normal before she disappears into the kitchen.
And then Harry turns his attention to his surroundings. For so long, this was a place he pictured as a lava-spewing, boulder-crashing, cobweb-covered, bat-dwelling cave, and now, standing here, in the centre of a very cosy, and very colourful living room, he feels his certainty dwindling and his curiosity piquing.
There’s so much to look at – too much – that Harry’s temperature starts to rise. All these colours and furniture and decorations make it impossible for him to maintain that perfectly curated version of a vengeful neighbour.
It's… charming, and therefore jarring. The monster living in that haunted house he had spent so many hours perfecting each brush stroke until it was so vivid, was supposed to be someone icy, prickly – someone overly put-together and as reserved as the guard she keeps up around him.
And now he’s here, in the heart of her home, enveloped by memories in the form of trinkets and pictures, in a nest structured with care and curation – one that’s been lived in, that holds moments and feelings and houses a human, instead of a monster lurking beneath the shadows.
There’s an entire shelf dedicated to mismatched - yet somehow perfectly themed - trinkets that range so vastly, Harry’s mind is a cloud of curiosity, like a sudden puzzle has presented itself, and though he has zero hints, his thoughts fog up with all the possibilities of figuring out the intention behind each and every curated item.
“Didn’t take you for a collector.” He calls out, gold-ringed thumb reaching out to glide along the silky ceramic curves of a deep blue cat figurine.
“Didn’t take you for the punctual type.” Her amused voice bellows melodically down the narrow hallway.
Harry snorts with an edge of fondness as he follows the echo of her words along the hardwood passage until the floors turn to marbled kitchen tiles. The soft rhythm of a Marvin Gaye song is playing, getting louder as he walks, like a moment from a movie where the character first sees someone who’s about to turn their lives upside down.
Then his snarky neighbour comes into view – her back turned to him, dressed in a simple pair of straight-cut jeans and a graphic tee with a poster for some eighties film, focus fixed on the task at hand, and now Harry really feels like he just stumbled through a television screen, straight into the middle of a half-written scene.
“Where do you keep the glasses?” He ponders, expecting a snarky remark.
“Second cabinet.” She simply hums, tilting her head in the direction of the instruction.
And as she offers upon his arrival, Harry embraces comfortability with ease as he gathers two glasses and strolls over to the cutlery drawer, hip gently brushing against her own as she slightly shifts to give him space to find a bottle opener.
The cork departs with a soft pop as Y/n finishes off the last of her prepping and finally turns around to face him. His body - his whole vibe, actually - is at ease as he now leans back against the countertop and holds out a glass for her.
She accepts it gratefully but cautiously. “Cheers to…” She tilts the glass slightly inward in a gesture for him to clink his against hers.
And he does, with a gentle tap that kisses her glass and sweetly sings out like a sound stamp for how bizarre a situation these two have stumbled into, “To good salmon.”
“To good salmon, and questionable company.” Y/n concedes, the corner of her lip betraying her as it inches upward, and that causes Harry to ease into returning her smile, twice as wide, showing off those adorable dimples.
An intriguingly comfortable silence drapes between the two of them like a snuggly blanket as Y/n finalises the prep and opens the oven, overly-cautious as she slides the baking tray in.
“How are you preparing the salmon, dear neighbour?”
“Parchment paper.” She opens her mouth to grumble, ‘if that suits your petulant ass’, but Harry chimes in with a charismatic follow-up,
“With peppers?”
“That’s the best way.” Y/n hums with approval, quickly busying herself with a hefty sip of wine to avoid full-on smiling at his little burst of enthusiasm.
“Yum.” Harry sighs fondly. Bringing the glass up to his glossy lips, he takes a sip, a faint memory floating to the forefront, and he doesn’t even fully register he’s speaking aloud, “I used to order it at this small French place in my hometown.”
“Oh?”
“Mm. Can’t even remember the last time I went back there.” His rich voice laced with reminiscence.
There’s something about the way his answer trails off, distant and dreamlike, that tampers down Y/n's sarcasm and cranks up her curiosity. Suddenly, she’s inundated by the realisation that ‘this guy is a real person’, and ‘who would’ve thought’.
And then there’s the way his creamy features start to soften, as if he’s letting the heavy winds of nostalgia sweep him up into the silent serenity of the eye of the storm. His mischievous stare is whisked away in favour of gentle fondness. It’s unnerving... how much Y/n likes it.
So much so that she finds herself asking him where he grew up, and when he actually answers with casual candour, she doesn’t resist telling him about her hometown when he returns the question.
The salmon bakes peacefully as Harry tells her about the flowers that used to bloom in his mum's garden each spring, and Y/n sweetly recounts days of her youth picking sour ruby grapes off the rickety vines of her childhood home.
And it's nice. Peaceful, even. Talking about something other than accusations and non-vague threats. About life in the neighbourhood when the days aren’t filled with the overstimulation of pranks and long work days. And as the warm aroma of roasting peppers and red onion envelops the air with the type of comfort that comes from feeling at home, neither Harry nor Y/n feel like ruining it.
🍑
Sitting opposite one another, their plates, a vinaigrette, salt and pepper shakers, and the bottle of wine separating their uncharted territory like that hedge that separates their driveways, Y/n and Harry have an unpredictably peaceful meal.
They exchange small pleasantries, but mostly try not to argue about the ownership of Mac after his shameless ginger chunkiness struts into the room and practically prances straight over to affectionately pirouette around Harry's ankle.
It’s only after his final bite that Harry sighs with impressed content, leans back in his chair and revives that mischievous little smirk that always means he’s about to say something snarky or cheeky – or both.
“Wow, peaches, who knew you were a lil’ gold-star chef?”
“Don’t say that. Any of it.” Y/n almost chokes on a diced onion before chiding.
“Huh.” That stupid smile mixed with that stupidly righteous tone has Y/n’s fists clenching. Especially when he adds, “You take insults so well, never thought you’d be bad with compliments.”
“Because you aren’t complimenting me.” She grumbles.
“I’m trying to.” He mimics.
“And failing.”
After a soft snort of amusement and another bite of the tender salmon, Harry’s voice is far more sincere as he attempts a second round of praise,
“I mean it, though. This is delicious. Feels familiar… like, homely.”
Y/n’s mid-sip of wine when he speaks, and yes, compliments aimed at her are always foreign, but coming from Harry? They feel like stumbling upon a blue whale in the desert.
But that’d be kinda interesting, right? Not something you see every day. And what’s happening at this dining table is something you definitely don’t see every day. So, perhaps letting Harry’s words be that ‘desert-whale’ could be just as, if not more, interesting. Consider Y/n intrigued when she subconsciously licks her lips and responds,
“The wine is good too.” And she’s not lying. It’s like a simmer of fermented grapes heating her insides with soothing comfort.
“Perfect pairing.” It clearly does the same for Harry.
“Another glass?” She ponders, already reaching out for the bottle.
“I won’t say no to that.”
The glasses refilled, plates more empty than full, Harry has the urge to know more about the owner of this insanely cosy house and the chef of this insanely good dinner.
“What do you do?” He takes a slow sip. “Like, what’s your day job?”
“I correct people.” His neighbour shrugs through a bite, swallowing and enjoying the little furrow of his forehead before she elaborates. “Editor for an overrated newsroom.” Tilting her brow in a wordless prompt for him to provide his own answer.
“Corporate sellout.” The words are more like a rueful sigh than a full sentence. “Analytics department at a fancy-shmancy firm.”
“Sounds like you love it.” She softly snorts.
“It’s killing my soul.”
Harry is more surprised by his honesty than Y/n could ever be – and as surprised as she is, she’s well past being concerned about it. Now that he’s talking, she kinda doesn’t want him to stop. Not after each of his words adds a fragment of a contradiction to the blurry image of an irritating interference she was so used to interacting with.
“Is this what you always wanted to do?”
“No. I wanted the cute cottagecore life…”
Harry sighs, mossy stare stuck to the safety of the last of his supper, as he continues,
“Owning a bakery and riding my bike around town. Y’know, poetry by the creek, listening to crickets and watching sunsets from the porch.”
Hell, that sounds nice, Y/n thinks. The simple life... A life so simple that each moment ends up feeling more important than the last. One where time passes with purpose and lacks the taunt of inevitable endings.
“You can still do that, y’know.” Her tone is almost as soft as her words.
“I do…” His words trail off with underlying and undeniable doubt.
“But it’s complicated?” She finishes for him.
“Exactly.”
The relief that washes over Harry, like the first rain after a drought, is a downpour of gratefulness from being acknowledged with such ease and such a lack of snark or judgment.
And there’s no stopping his curiosity when Y/n’s lips lilt into a pretty smile that spreads with playfulness – the type that you reserve for friends and not enemies – and she teases,
“See, we can be on the same page about some things.”
Which, naturally, has the two of them wondering how many pages they could be on. Enough to write a few sentences? Perhaps, even a chapter – though that seems doubtful. Either way, Harry finds himself sharing the curiosity,
“Think there might be more we agree on?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Y/n shuts him down. As if she hadn’t just been pondering the same thing, and was a solid ten seconds from bringing up the possibility herself.
“Well, we both agree that Mac is a legend.”
Okay, he got lucky with that one. But it shouldn't count because there isn’t a person who has met Mac and hasn’t found him to be a polite, fluffy, ginger gentleman.
“Icon status.” She agrees with surety.
“And I’m pretty sure you like horrors.” Harry takes a fifty-fifty guess. And of course, he’s on the money.
“I’m gonna take it that you do too?”
“The scarier the better.”
In honesty, if Y/n had to consider what her neighbour might find entertaining, she certainly isn’t imagining him curled up in the dark watching the latest Jordan Peele release. But he nods so vehemently, there’s certainly no space to counter it.
And before she can nip this sudden bloom of commonality and salvage her portrait of him as Satan's firstborn, the tart wine and nagging intrigue to water that stem of similarity, and it's too late to do anything but encourage its growth, so she finds herself pursuing more.
“What about parking on the street?”
Harry’s gaze swells, wispy lashes almost long enough to brush the bottom of his brows, he’s looking like a man who just remembered a word stuck on the tip of his tongue, all sweet doe-eyes and plump grinning grape-glossed smile.
“Mrs Kremmons needs to get over herself and park that old wagon in the freaking garage where it belongs.”
“She’s gonna get uninvited from the Cambersons Christmas party if she keeps it up.” Y/n hums with a tone that promises inevitability.
“Like, just use your own driveway, lady.” Harry groans, pretty gaze rolling with dramaticism.
The most interesting thing to happen in the neighbourhood since last October’s ‘accidental home invasion’ scandal, which took two minutes to occur and almost a year to replace with something even marginally interesting… if two households fighting over parking spots can be deemed as entertaining.
“She’s making a ‘statement’.” Y/n’s tone drawl with emphasis on the exact word Mrs Kremmons used when recounting how important it is to double down.
“She’s always making a statement.” The little groan that accompanies Harry’s words sends an unwarranted tickle up Y/n’s spine.
“Mm. But this one’s about ‘the principle’.”
“At least she keeps it interesting.”
Still, Mrs Kremmons and her penchant for causing a commotion could never come close to the secret feud that stays consistent just across the street.
“Alright. So, we agree on Mac, horror movies, and using designated parking spaces. Anything else?”
Y/n's question comes from a place of genuine intrigue, but Harry's comes from a place of well-rehearsed chaos.
“We both have hot, nightmarish neighbours.”
“Oh, please.” The scoff that forms her words is fuelled by disbelief.
The teasing glimmer in Harry's eyes is like the silver moon bouncing along the seashore, his jade gaze swallowed by the shadows until they gloom as dark as the evening sea.
“Just admit it. You think I’m attractive.” He coos teasingly.
Y/n’s scoff is coated with amused disagreement, her lips glossy and unintentionally and hazily skiing along the slopes of his rosy cheekbones, his swooping jaw that creates the perfect ledge to leap from, landing rewardingly on the soft, snowy span of the crook of his neck.
Attractive? More than. Admitting it? Not in this lifetime. Y/n snorts with distasteful incredulity.
“So you can have another thing to hold over me? Yeah, right.”
“Well, I think you’re very pretty.” He says it so plainly. Like it’s as routine as ordering his coffee, as simple and mindless as tying his shoelaces.
“Thank you.” Her words are as soft as her tone, and for a brief moment, Harry believes she might actually mean it… Until her smile morphs into a sly simper that her stare mimics, “I’ll be using that to my advantage.”
“You’re literally the worst.” His body slumps back against the chair with bemused defeat, a glossy, charming grin at her ever-so predictable response.
“And you love me for it.”
With haste and a dire need to remain neutral about the words that slipped from her very own lips, she stops them from digging a trench too deep to return to the top of, bringing the bordeaux-brimming glass up to take a hefty gulp.
“Loathe you.” Harry corrects, but the conviction in his lilted, amused tone is nonexistent.
It shouldn't have Y/n's head swirling with newfound curiosity, and tipsily increasing interest in who exactly the man sitting opposite her, beaming absorbed by the cosy mustard side lamp, actually is.
“Are you sure about that, ‘Mister You’re Very Pretty’?” She coos tauntingly.
And that has Harry’s chest inflating with a sarcastic, but very amused huff, because there isn’t a world where he wouldn’t have teased the hell out of her for admitting she acknowledges him as more than the mortal enemy.
“Shut it before I shut you up myself.” And he will.
“Are you threatening me, Styles?” Her words are laced with far too much amusement for either of their liking.
“Warning you.” He corrects.
“Is there a difference?”
Her head tilts with challenging curiosity, and maybe it's because the moment Harry gets an inkling of a competition, he effortlessly regresses into their familiar defiance that has him doubling down. Or maybe he's just getting too caught up in the way his neighbour's gaze glimmers along with her damp, upturned lips.
“There is. If the idea of kissing me doesn’t terrify you.”
“Terrify me?” Now he has Y/n's attention – bewildered or not.
“Mm... Perhaps even send you into shock.”
He oozes confidence, balancing his elbows on the table, resting the curve of his stubble-scattered chin on his broad palm.
“The good or bad kind?”
Y/n knows she's stumbling right into his snare, and she also knows she doesn't have the restraint to let him think she's an unknowing, defenceless rabbit.
“Well, that depends on you… personally, I think the good kind.”
He talks a big game, and Y/n fears he might actually be telling the truth. Or, at least, what he believes to be.
“Confident, are we?” Y/n hopes he's all bravado and no substance.
“You should know this by now.”
Harry bats his pretty long lashes, actually bats them – like a flirtatious heroine from a rom-com – and fuck, it's almost enough for Y/n to ignore the arrogance he's projecting. Almost.
“Funny… I would’ve said cocky.”
“Both get the point across.”
His flippancy is maddening, but they're in too deep for Y/n to back down now. So, instead, she rests her elbows on the table, linking her fingers to create the perfect bench for her chin to rest on.
“So, you send me into shock… What then?”
“Then I say I told you so.”
He says it like it's a guarantee, and Y/n's skin flushes from more than the wine at the realisation that maybe he isn't joking.
“Do you always make a point of shutting people up by kissing them?”
Harry pretends to ponder, but the answer is simple: no. In fact, he’s never considered doing anything other than telling off whoever happens to be pissing him off – let alone kiss them.
“Only the ones that give me a hard time.”
“And does anyone give you as much of a hard time as me?” Y/n thinks that if anyone gives him a harder time, they must be the root of all evil.
“Nobody even comes close.” His nostrils flare cutely as he brazenly snorts.
“Aw, well now, that makes me feel special.” Her coos are facetious, but a foreign part of her chest still clenches with pride.
“Oh, you should. I don’t spend my free time scheming about pissing off just anyone.”
“I'll get a big head if you keep the compliments up.”
And it will – get bigger. She's had enough praise this week to inflate that pretty little head to at least twice its size.
“How could your head possibly get any bigger?”
“Wanna test that theory out, Styles?”
Well, at least they can say they made it to the end of dinner before a blatant challenge was placed on the table between them, like a dessert too rich and delicious to resist.
So, in true Harry Styles fashion, his stare is heavy as it drags her further into his orbit. So heavy that she can feel his smugness latching around her like a lasso, inching her nearer even as he leans back in his chair, casually crossing his flexed arms atop his proud chest and shrugging,
“Evidently, I have a lot of free time.”
“Give it your best go, then.”
Suddenly, the space in his head that Harry keeps reserved for schemes and pranks is replaced with idea after idea about how to get under his neighbour's skin in another, more subtle way.
And Y/n can see the cogs turning – can practically hear the ticking schemes that circle the green spheres. Harry doesn’t bother with responding. He’s gonna give it more than his best go; he’s gonna make sure there’s no doubt about his intentions to shower her in compliments until she has to shut her eyes, and if all goes to plan, her mouth.
He’s already looking at her with a teasing stare that Y/n’s never seen – it's lacking all mischief – and that unnerves the hell outta her. It’s so much softer and… fonder.
Dinner is long finished, and the last of the wine sits shallow in their glasses as they exchange tidbits about themselves – the type of lighthearted stuff that can’t be held against them if things inevitably revert to rivalry.
Harry’s pointer finger swirls around the rim of the glass, his pupils dark and dilated under the cosy yellow lights. He’s bordering on haziness, relishing in the toasty flush of wine that does nothing but erode the fence he usually hides behind. If anything, it makes him want to delve further into honesty. So, he does.
“You know… This isn’t so bad.”
Y/n’s forehead crinkles subtly with cute curiosity as she peers over at him through lashes thick and heavy from drinking, her gaze less discerning than ever.
“What?”
“This.” He gestures lazily between them. “Us”
Only then does Harry realise that he unintentionally gave the perfect opening for Y/n to disagree and start a bickering match, but to both of their surprise, the thought doesn’t flitter through her mind for even a moment as she easily agrees.
“Yeah… It's actually kinda nice.”
Harry knows he’s asking for an argument when a cheesy smile swells his cheeks into apples of cheeky amusement, folding his arms atop the table and leaning in. His tone is an adorably annoying coo as he teases.
“Are we becoming friends?”
“Don't push it.” Y/n grumbles, but makes zero attempts to put any fire into it.
“Oh, c'mon, we'd be such a good duo.” He stirs with sugary sweet conviction.
And though Harry really is mostly just playing, it's becoming undeniable that the two of them could have a decent ‘relationship’ if they were willing to lower their swords and wave the white flag. But what’s more dangerous than a deviously-minded person living in the neighbourhood? Two of them. On good terms.
“We’d be dangerous.” She snorts, entertaining the idea. “Total menaces to the neighbourhood.”
“That's what makes it so fun.” His grin is as pretty as it is infectious.
🍑
The evening wrapped up, back in his home, with his teeth brushed, skin moisturised, and black boxers slung low on his waist, Harry’s bare feet pad over to his bed where he promptly flops down and sighs contentedly.
With a full belly and a foggy head, he knows tonight's sleep will be nothing short of amazing. Maybe he should do this more often.
And he’s still thinking about it as he reaches his ridiculously long arm out to turn off the light.
Instead, his palm lands on his walkie-talkie, and before he can welcome sensibility into his orbit, Harry rolls over onto his side and holds down the button.
“Psst. Peaches.”
There’s a pause, but not long enough for Harry to doubt if his neighbour is still awake, because soon, his walkie-talkie crackles with static, shortly followed by the gruff, amused voice of his neighbour.
“Miss me already?”
Snuggled up in her own bed, lights already off, and a ginger cat curled at her ankles, Y/n doesn't hesitate to splay her arm about in search of her own walkie-talkie, and doesn't think twice before teasing him.
“Thanks for dinner. Over.”
He says it earnestly. And Y/n’s too sleepy and satiated to fret over how soft and snuggly he sounds when he’s not so busy being a sarcastic nuisance. If he’s gonna water this olive branch, who is she to snap the stem?
“Thanks for the company. Over.”
Her simple honesty is foreign, and maybe that's why Harry feels the divots of his dimples deepening as a sleepy smile forms; either way, he doesn’t stop it.
“My place next time. Over.”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, a lengthy and obnoxiously loud yawn follows. Back in her own bed, Y/n cradles the walkie-talkie like a precious gem as her limbs start to get heavy, her eyes shut and fluttering with overtiredness.
“We'll see about that…” She gathers the last of her alertness to respond and there’s another, shorter pause before the speaker hums with her voice, “Sweet dreams, moron. Over.”
It’s like her soft, yet stern words of departure are the final push Harry needs to let sleep take over, because as he reaches over and switches off the sidelamp, he has to hold back another yawn to get his final words out.
“Hope yours are even sweeter. Over.”
Y/n hums to herself, drifting off towards the soft repetitive echo of Harry’s words wishing her sweet dreams, the walkie-talkie still resting by her cheek when she comes to the next morning.
-
Omg omg better late than never?? :( I'm so sorry for the delay guys! I hope this semi-makes up for it! 🥺 thank you so much to everyone who checked up on me and waited so so patiently for this part! 💞💞
Do we have a little friendship blooming between the duo???
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